Page 41 of The Seventh Circle
We drank together, the brandy burning a path down my throat. I wondered if they could see the betrayal in my eyes, if thename "Antonio" was somehow visible on my skin like a brand. But they saw only what they expected to see—Lorenzo Benedetto, heir to an empire built on blood, doing his duty as he always had.
ANTONIO
The dim yellow light cast shadows across Enzo's homework as I leaned over his shoulder, pointing at the mathematics problem that had stumped him for the past fifteen minutes.
"See here? You need to isolate the variable first," I said, tapping the paper. "Move everything else to the other side."
"I hate mathematics," Enzo grumbled, but he scratched out a new equation with determined strokes. "When will I ever use this?"
I ruffled his hair. "To count all your money when you're rich and successful."
"Like you?" He looked up at me with those admiring eyes that always twisted something in my chest.
"I'm hardly rich," I laughed, though the weight of bills in my pocket from today's collections said otherwise.
Three days had passed since Paolo's "message" to Vito Torrino. Three days since I'd watched Paolo murder Torrino's man while Lorenzo and I stood by. Three days of relative peace for my family, bought with another man's life.
"But you work for the Benedettos," Enzo continued, oblivious to my thoughts. "Everyone respects you now. Did you see how Signora Esposito gave Mama extra bread yesterday? For free!"
I swallowed hard. "That's because Mama is kind to her son."
"No, it's because of you," Enzo insisted. "And those men watching our building are gone too."
The men were gone because Torrino's people had received Paolo's message.
"Focus on your studies," I told Enzo, pushing the dark thoughts away. "That's what matters."
Mama entered from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. "Is he giving you trouble, Tonio?"
"No more than usual," I smiled. "He's smart. Just stubborn."
"Like his brother," she said, kissing the top of my head as she passed. "There's soup when you're finished. And Papa wants to talk to you after."
I nodded, my stomach tightening. Papa had been quiet since that night, watching me with troubled eyes when he thought I wouldn't notice. The proud man who'd once worked with his hands until injury made it impossible now looked at his eldest son with a mixture of gratitude and fear that broke my heart.
An hour later, with Enzo's homework complete and Mama busy mending clothes, Papa beckoned me to join him by the small window overlooking the street.
"Walk with me," he said, reaching for his cane. "The evening is mild."
We descended the narrow stairs in silence. Papa moved slowly, but refused my offer of help. His pride remained intact, even as his body betrayed him. Outside, the streets were alive with evening activity—children playing their last games before being called in, women chatting on stoops, men smoking and discussing the day's events.
But something had changed. Eyes followed us as we walked. People nodded respectfully to Papa, but their gazeslingered on me with something new—fear mingled with deference.
"They look at you differently now," Papa said quietly once we'd reached the small courtyard where neighborhood men sometimes played cards. Tonight it was empty. "After what happened to Torrino's man."
I kept my face neutral. "I had nothing to do with that."
"But you work for the people who did." He eased himself onto a stone bench. "The whole neighbourhood knows."
"Paolo Conti did that. Not me. Not Lorenzo."
Papa sighed, looking older than his forty-eight years. "It doesn't matter who held the knife, Tonio. You stand with them now."
I couldn't argue. The neighbourhood saw me differently because I was different—a Benedetto man fully now, marked by association with their violence, even if my own hands hadn't delivered it.
"I'm still your son," I said quietly.
"Yes." He reached out, patting my knee awkwardly. "That's what worries me. This work... it changes men. I've seen it before."
