Page 30 of The Seventh Circle
A shaft of sunlight caught the dust motes swirling around us, turning them into gold tinted dust in the afternoon light. The abandoned villa seemed to hold its breath, protecting our secret in its quiet rooms.
"I've never felt this way," Antonio admitted, his voice lower than I'd ever heard it. "Not for anyone."
"Nor I," I said, though the admission felt inadequate for the storm raging inside me. "I've spent my life playing a part, Antonio. I’m the dutiful son. The worthy heir. The virile man who will marry a suitable woman and continue the Benedetto line." I pressed my palm against his chest, feeling his heart hammer beneath my touch. "You're the only person who's ever made me want to tear off the mask."
His eyes darkened. "It's a dangerous time to be without your mask."
"I know. But I'm tired of hiding, at least from you." I took a shaky breath. "When Father Giuseppe spoke to me—"
Antonio tensed beneath my hands. "You spoke to Father Giuseppe? About this? About... us?"
"Not by name," I hastened to clarify. "But yes. He knew, Antonio. And he seemed to know about your feelings too."
A complicated expression crossed his face—fear, resignation, and something like relief. "I confessed to him. I never mentioned you specifically, but..."
"He understood anyway," I finished. "And he didn't condemn us. Not as I expected."
Antonio's thumb traced the line of my jaw, a gesture so tender it made my chest ache. "What happens now?"
The practical question penetrated the haze of desire. What indeed? We stood in an abandoned villa, temporarily sheltered from the world that would destroy us for this transgression. Beyond these walls waited my father, the impending marriage arrangement, Torrino's vendetta, and a hundred other threats.
"Now," I said, reclaiming his lips briefly, "we remember that we have unfinished business with Vito Torrino. Paolo will be waiting to meet us."
Antonio nodded, the enforcer's discipline reasserting itself. But he didn't step away immediately, his hands still holding me close. "And after that?"
I pressed my forehead to his, breathing him in. "After that, we find our way. Together. I don't have all the answers, Antonio, but I know I can't go back to pretending. Not with you."
He kissed me one more time, deep and thorough, as if sealing a pact between us. When we finally separated, his eyes held both wonder and determination.
"Together, then," he agreed. "God help us both."
8
LORENZO
"Together, then," he agreed, the words a low prayer between us. "God help us both."
We left the villa's dusty sanctuary, stepping back into a world that did not know or care for such fragile things as the pact we had just made. The afternoon sun felt harsh, unforgiving. The spell was broken. Paolo waited for us at the end of the cobblestone lane leading to the Benedetto family villa, leaning against the side of my father’s black automobile, a thick cheroot clamped between his teeth. His presence was a block of granite, solid and unmovable, a stark reminder of the world we were re-entering.
"Took your time."
"We were ensuring we weren't followed," I lied, the words tasting like ash.
Paolo grunted, unconvinced. He pushed himself off the car. "Torrino's dogs are holing up near the old tannery. Smells likepiss and rotten hides. Suits them." He climbed into the driver's seat without another word.
Antonio met my gaze for a fraction of a second before getting into the back. I saw the same feeling mirrored there: the warmth of our moment in the villa extinguished by the cold reality of duty. I followed him, the scent of his wool coat a stark contrast to the cloying sweetness of the cheroot smoke that already filled the car’s interior.
The journey was short and silent. Paolo drove with an aggressive certainty, muscling the automobile through narrow streets where startled cart drivers cursed and pulled their mules aside. We left Benedetto territory and entered the decaying industrial fringe that the Torrinos claimed. The buildings grew meaner, their stone faces stained black with coal dust. The air grew thick with the acrid stench of the tanneries. This was a place of work and misery, not of power and respectable fear like my family's domain.
Paolo killed the engine in a narrow alley overlooking a derelict courtyard. "Down there," he said, his voice a low rumble. "They've been using the old foreman's office."
We got out. The smell was overpowering, a mixture of chemicals, wet animal skin, and filth. From our vantage point, we could see them. Vito Torrino, his posture a study in forced arrogance, stood with four other men. One leaned against the wall, his face vaguely familiar from the marketplace. Another, taller and with a nervous energy, kept glancing up and down the alley. I recognized him instantly. He was the one Antonio described, the one whose face was now etched into my memory from Paolo’s report. The man who watched Antonio’s family.
"The one on the right," Antonio murmured, his voice tight. "That's him."
My hands curled into fists. The violation feltpersonal, a direct strike not just at a Benedetto soldier, but at Antonio. At his home. At Enzo.
"Let's not keep them waiting," I said.
