Page 40 of The Seventh Circle
"Lorenzo, your reputation doesn't do you justice," Sophia Vitelli said, her voice soft but not simpering as we walked through her family's conservatory after dinner. "Father said you were well-read, but he failed to mention you've actually thought about what you've read."
I smiled, genuinely surprised by her quickness. Sophia wasnot what I had expected. Rather than the docile, decorative creature I'd anticipated, she possessed a lively intelligence that sparked in her hazel eyes. Her dark hair was arranged in an elegant twist that emphasized her long neck, and she moved with quiet confidence.
"Most people assume that those in our position have books only for decoration," I replied, pausing before a massive palm tree stretching toward the glass ceiling. "It's easier to be underestimated."
"Isn't it?" She raised an eyebrow. "Though I prefer being underestimated for being a woman rather than for being perceived as a brute. You suffer the opposite assumption."
I laughed despite myself. "That's remarkably perceptive."
"I observe," she said simply. "It's the only power permitted to someone in my position."
From across the conservatory, our fathers watched our interaction like gamblers eyeing racehorses before placing bets. Sophia was aware of their scrutiny; a subtle tension in her shoulders betrayed her. For all her composure, she was as much a prisoner of expectations as I was.
"Do you enjoy being paraded for inspection?" I asked quietly, turning so my back was to our audience.
Something flickered in her eyes—surprise, then a cautious recognition. "About as much as you enjoy doing the inspecting, I imagine."
I studied her face, seeing the intelligence, the resignation, and something else—a deep sadness carefully concealed beneath social graces. "We're both pieces being moved across a board."
"Yes," she agreed, her gaze direct now. "Though you'll eventually become the player, while I'll remain a piece to be sacrificed for advantage."
The truth of her words stung. In that moment,I felt the cruelty of what I was doing—letting this woman believe she might have a future with me when I planned to disappear in less than two weeks. She deserved better than to be a pawn in my escape.
"Shall we rejoin the others?" she suggested, offering her arm with perfect propriety. "Our fathers appear to be getting impatient."
I took her arm, noticing how she held herself slightly apart from me despite the contact. It was a small kindness I hadn't expected—physical proximity without presumption. As we walked back toward the main salon, I felt a twist of regret for the deception I was perpetrating against someone who, in another life, might have been a friend.
"What did you think of Sophia?" Father asked as we sat in his study later that night, crystal tumblers of brandy catching the firelight. Uncle Federico lounged in the leather chair opposite, while Paolo remained standing, examining the books on the shelf with casual disinterest.
I took a measured sip before answering. "She's intelligent. Well-mannered. Not without charm."
"High praise indeed," Uncle Federico said with a chuckle. "From you, at least."
Father's eyes narrowed slightly. "Vittorio was quite pleased with your conversation. He mentioned you discussed literature?"
"Yes," I nodded. "She has unconventional taste for a woman of her position. Machiavelli rather than romantic poetry."
"A practical mind," Father mused. "Good. You need a wifewho understands the realities of our business, not some delicate flower who'll wilt at the first sight of blood."
Paolo turned from the bookshelf. "She's certainly pleasant to look at. Those eyes... and that mouth." He made a crude gesture with his hand that set my teeth on edge.
"Remember your place, Paolo," Father said sharply. "That's your future cousin by marriage you're speaking of."
The possessive declaration hung in the air between us. The decision had already been made. I was expected to court Sophia Vitelli, to marry her, to bind our families together in a union sealed with blood and business. My future, mapped out in neat, inescapable lines.
I thought of Antonio waiting for me at the villa tomorrow. Of our plans whispered against sweat-slicked skin. Of the life we had promised each other—a life of our own choosing.
"I believe an arrangement could be beneficial," I said carefully, meeting my father's gaze over the rim of my glass. "With the appropriate courtship period, of course."
Father nodded, satisfied. "Vittorio suggested three months. I pushed for six—let the anticipation build, make him sweeter on the deal."
"Six months," I repeated, relief flooding through me. Six months was an eternity. By then, Antonio and I would be far away, perhaps as far as America. "That seems reasonable."
"You'll escort her to the Contessa's ball next week," Father continued. "Make it clear to everyone that she's spoken for."
I inclined my head in agreement, the perfect obedient son. The lie came easily, wrapped in the truth of my actual plans. "I'll make our intentions known."
Uncle Federico raised his glass. "To new alliances."
