Page 47 of The Seventh Circle
"As expected," my father replied. "My Lorenzo knows how to appreciate quality when he sees it."
I stood, offering my arm to Sophia. "Your daughter is exceptional company, Don Vitelli."
"She'll make you an excellent wife," he declared, as if Sophia weren't standing right there. "Educated enough to be interesting but sensible enough to know a woman's proper place."
I felt Sophia stiffen slightly beside me but her faceremained pleasantly neutral. "Father exaggerates my virtues," she demurred.
"Nonsense," my father interjected. "The Benedettos and Vitellis will make a formidable alliance. Your children will unite our families permanently."
Children. The word landed like a blow. In my focus on escape, I'd somehow avoided truly contemplating the full reality of what marriage to Sophia would mean. Not just a wife, but offspring. The continuation of the Benedetto line. More lives bound to this world of violence and control.
"Speaking of family matters," my father continued, "Lorenzo has had a brilliant idea regarding Isabella's old villa."
I tensed. Paolo had mentioned it after all.
"Lorenzo thinks to renovate it as a country home for the newlyweds," Father explained to Vitelli. "A thoughtful gesture, wouldn't you agree?"
"Most generous," Vitelli nodded approvingly. "Sophia adores the countryside. Don't you, my dear?"
"I've always found rural Tuscany charming," she agreed, though her questioning eyes slid briefly to mine.
"The property needs significant work," I interjected. "It may be premature to discuss it."
"Nonsense," Father waved dismissively. "I've already instructed Paolo to contact contractors. Consider it my contribution to your marital happiness."
My carefully constructed plan crumbled before my eyes. If Father took control of the villa renovation, I would lose access to my most valuable asset—and with it, a significant portion of the funds needed for our escape.
"That's unnecessary," I said, working to keep my voice level. "I'd prefer to oversee the project personally."
"Admirable initiative," Vitelli commented.
My father's eyes narrowed slightly. "You have more importantresponsibilities in the family business, Lorenzo. Paolo can manage this small matter."
The quartet began a new piece, saving me from having to respond immediately. "Sophia," I said, turning to her with manufactured enthusiasm, "would you honour me with a dance?"
She accepted gracefully, and as I led her to the small area where other couples swayed to the music, I fought to control my mounting panic. With each passing day, my path to freedom narrowed, while the façade I maintained grew more elaborate—and more painful.
"You're trembling," Sophia murmured as we moved to the gentle rhythm.
"The evening air," I lied.
"No," she said quietly. "There's something else. Something you're hiding."
I met her gaze, seeing in it a perception that terrified me. "We all have secrets, Sophia."
"Yes," she agreed, her voice barely audible over the music. "The question is whether our secrets will destroy us, or save us."
I had no answer for her. As we continued our dance under the watchful eyes of our families, I wondered which category my secret fell into—salvation or destruction—and whether the distinction even mattered anymore. In twelve days, I would either be free with Antonio or dead for trying. There was no middle ground, no compromise that would satisfy the competing demands of duty and desire.
The music swelled around us, and I held Sophia a fraction closer, using our performance to scan the perimeter of the garden. Paolo stood near the entrance, his attention fixed on me with the focus of a predator tracking woundedprey. Our eyes met briefly across the crowded garden, and the message in his was clear:
I'm watching you.
ANTONIO
The new way people looked at me turned my stomach. A week after Paolo's "message" to Torrino, and the neighbourhood had changed. As I walked down Via del Moro, Signor Belmonte who owned the grocery stepped back and nodded deeply. The Ricci brothers, who'd thrown punches with me since we were kids, suddenly found urgent business elsewhere. Even old Nonna Gallo, who'd swatted me with her cane for stealing apples when I was nine, offered a respectful "Buongiorno, Signor Romano."
I wasn't Tonio anymore. I wasBenedetto's man.
