Page 42 of The Seventh Circle
"I'm careful."
"Not about your safety." His eyes, so like my own, searched my face. "About your soul."
The word hung between us, heavy with meaning. My soul. Already compromised by violence, by my complicity, by the love I now carried for Lorenzo—a love the church condemned, that society reviled, that would get us both killed if discovered.
"I go to confession," I offered weakly.
Papa snorted. "And what does Father Giuseppe say about your work?"
I thought of my last confession—not about violence but about Lorenzo. About the press of his lips against mine in theabandoned villa, about the promises whispered between us. Father Giuseppe's surprising compassion.
"He understands that sometimes we must make impossible choices," I said carefully.
"Hmm." Papa looked away, watching a group of children playing with a ball in the gathering dusk. "When I was young, before you were born, I was offered work with the Albani family. Good money, respect. All I had to do was break a few fingers when asked." He rubbed his own gnarled hands. "I said no. We went hungry some months, but I slept at night with my conscience clean."
The unspoken accusation stung. "We nearly lost the apartment last winter," I reminded him. "Enzo needs school books. Mama needs her medicine."
"I know, I know." He waved a hand dismissively. "I'm not judging you, son. God knows I'm grateful for the food on our table." He paused. "But this Benedetto heir you work with. What kind of man is he truly? The seed never falls far from the tree."
The question caught me off guard. I thought of Lorenzo's gentle hands, his passionate kisses, his inner conflict over his father's business. The way he'd winced when Paolo slid the knife across the man's throat.
"He's... different from his father," I said carefully. "More thoughtful. Less cruel."
"They say the son is soft."
"Not soft," I corrected quickly, defensively. "Just... sees beyond immediate fear to longer-term loyalty."
Papa studied me. "You respect him."
More than respect. But I merely nodded.
"Be careful there too," he said unexpectedly. "Respecting the man you work for can be more dangerous than fearing him. Makes you forget what he truly is."
I looked away, afraid my face would betray me. "I know exactly what he is, Papa."
We walked back slowly, Papa leaning on his cane. Near our building, little Marcella Rossi ran up to me with a flower clutched in her tiny fist.
"For you, Signor Romano!" she said, offering the daisy with solemn importance.
I knelt to accept it. "Grazie, piccola. What's this for?"
Her mother appeared behind her, smiling nervously. "For helping keep the neighbourhood safe," she explained, glancing around. "Those men who were watching you and your family... they frightened Marcella. But they're gone now."
I forced a smile, twirling the daisy between my fingers. "You're welcome, Signora Rossi."
As they walked away, Papa sighed. "And so it begins."
"What?"
"The neighbourhood seeing you as protection rather than neighbour." He shook his head. "Be careful with that too, Tonio. Such gratitude comes with expectations."
Later that night, I slipped out after everyone was asleep. Father Giuseppe had agreed to meet me at the church for a nighttime confession. I found him lighting candles near the altar, his young face solemn in the flickering light.
"Antonio," he greeted me quietly. "You seem troubled."
"I need guidance," I admitted, sitting heavily in the front pew. "After what Paolo did to Torrino's man..."
"I heard." His voice carried no judgment. "And your family is safer now."
