Page 48 of The Seventh Circle
The weight of their fear felt heavier than any burden I'd carried. This wasn't respect—it was terror. They'd heard what happened to Torrino's scout, whispered over countertops and between neighbors' washing lines. The story had grown with each telling until Paolo had apparently carved the man into pieces while I held him down.
I entered our building, climbing the narrow stairs two at a time, anxious to escape the streets where I was becoming someone I didn't recognize. When I pushed open our apartment door, the familiar scent of Mama's cooking wrapped around me like an embrace.
"Tonio! Look what I learned today!" Enzo bounced up from the kitchen table, algebra forgotten as he thrust a sketch at me. It showed the Duomo in Milano, remarkably detailed for a fourteen-year-old's hand.
I studied it, forcing my mind away from blood-soaked tannery floors. "This is excellent, Enzo. Where'd you learn about the Duomo?"
"Signor Moretti showed me a postcard from when he visited. He said it's the most beautiful church in all of Italy."
Mama smiled from the stove. "That boy talks of nothing but Milano since yesterday. As if Rome doesn't have fine churches of its own."
The opportunity appeared before me like a gift. "Milano is remarkable," I said, hanging my jacket. "And they say the schools there are excellent. Different from here—more opportunities."
Papa looked up from his newspaper, eyebrows raised. "And how would you know about Milano's schools?"
"Lorenzo mentioned it," I said, the lie slipping out easily. "He was educated in the north for a time. Says their approaches to mathematics and science are more modern."
Enzo's eyes widened. "Really? Could I study there someday?"
I ruffled his hair, heart pounding. "Why wait for someday? I've been thinking—with what I earn now, we could consider moving north."
The kitchen fell silent. Mama stopped stirring.
"Move?" Papa's voice carried a mixture of disbelief and suspicion. "This is our home. My father's home before me."
"And what has it given us?" I countered, careful to keep my voice gentle. "Damp walls that make your lungs worse every winter. Schools that teach Enzo half of what he could learn elsewhere." I nodded to the window. "Neighbours who now cross themselves when they see me coming."
"People respect you," Papa argued, but his voice lacked conviction.
"That's not respect, Papa." I pulled out a chair, sittingbeside him. "You know the difference. And Milano has better hospitals. Doctors who might help with your injury."
Mama turned, wiping her hands on her apron. "Your uncle Vittorio did say his friend's cousin found good work in a Milano factory."
"Exactly," I seized the opening. "And I've connections now. The Benedettos have associates there who could help us get settled."
This wasn't entirely false. Lorenzo had contacts in Milano through legitimate business fronts. He'd already sent inquiries about housing in neighborhoods where no one would know us.
Enzo clutched his drawing. "Could I really go to a better school?"
"The best," I promised. "And think of winter without Papa coughing all night. No more charcoal brazier that barely heats one room."
"It would be leaving everything we know," Papa said, but I could see the idea taking root.
"Sometimes that's necessary." I leaned closer. "I've saved enough for the train fare and two months' rent while we find our feet. When was the last time we had such a cushion?"
"Never," Mama admitted quietly.
"I could meet new friends," Enzo mused. "Learn different things."
"And no one would know us there," I added, the true reason hanging unspoken between my words. No one would know what I'd done for the Benedettos. No one would step back in fear when I passed.
No one would hunt for the boss's son who ran away with another man.
Papa studied me, weathered hands folded on the table. "There's more to this than you're saying, Tonio."
My throat tightened. Papa had always seen through me.
"I want better for us," I said finally. "Better than what Rome offers."
