Page 44 of The Seventh Circle
Antonio sat beside me, leaving careful space between us. "And what did you promise this woman you respect?"
The guilt rose like bile in my throat. "Six months of courtship. A June wedding." I finally looked at him. "Promises you and I both know I have no intention of keeping."
His eyes, warm brown in the candlelight, studied me. "This is your life, Lorenzo. The fine houses, the arranged marriages, the business talks disguised as dinners." He gestured to his simple clothes. "So different from mine."
"A life I'm leaving behind," I insisted.
"Are you?" He asked quietly. "Tonight you dined with the Vitellis in their estate. You drove there in your father's plush towncar. Your father discussed your future while servants poured wine worth more than what my family makes in a month."
"Don't," I whispered.
"I'm not judging," he said quickly. "I'm trying to understand what you're giving up. For me." He swallowed hard. "A soldier with scarred knuckles and a tenement apartment."
I closed the distance between us, taking his face in my hands. "I'm giving up a cage, Antonio. Gold-plated and comfortable, but a cage nonetheless."
His callused hands covered mine. "And you're certain?"
"I've never been more certain of anything," I whispered before kissing him with all the desperation that had built within me during that interminable dinner. His arms encircled me, strong and sure, pulling me against his solid chest.
When we broke apart, both breathless, I pressed my forehead to his. "Have you spoken to your family? About Milano?"
A shadow crossed his face. "Not yet. Enzo will be devastated."
"We could bring him," I suggested impulsively. "Later, when we're settled."
Antonio pulled back slightly. "And explain what? That his brother ran away with another man? The son of Don Benedetto, no less?" He shook his head. "He's fourteen, Lorenzo. Too young to understand and too old to not ask questions."
The reality of what we were planning crashed over me like cold water. Not just leaving my family, but asking Antonio to abandon his. "I'm sorry," I said, the inadequacy of the words burning my tongue. "I hadn't considered—"
"You wouldn't," he interrupted, not unkindly. "You've never had to think about supporting others. Your world and mine..."
"Can meet in the middle," I finished firmly. "I have money saved. Not my family's money—my own. Enough to get us to Milano, to rent rooms until we find work."
"What work?" Antonio's laugh held nohumor. "What skills do we have? I break bones for a living. You've never worked a day in your life."
"I'll learn carpentry," I insisted. "And you're educated, despite what you think. You read philosophy, Antonio. You could work in a bookshop, or—"
"A bookshop," he repeated softly, and something in his expression shifted. "You remember."
"Of course I remember." I took his hand, tracing the scars across his knuckles. "Everything you tell me, I remember."
He looked down at our joined hands. "I told Father Giuseppe about us."
My heart stumbled. "What did he say?"
"That love is a gift, even when it comes in unexpected forms." His voice had roughened. "That we should be discreet, but not reject what we've found."
I kissed his palm, then each scarred knuckle. "Wise advice."
"Lorenzo," he said seriously, "if we do this, there's no going back. Your father will search for you. He won't forgive this betrayal."
"I know."
"We might spend our lives looking over our shoulders."
"As long as you're by my side," I said, "I can face whatever comes."
Antonio pulled me to him, his embrace fierce. "Less than two weeks," he whispered against my hair. "Less than two weeks and we'll be free."
