Page 50 of The Seventh Circle
"A real shop?" I couldn't help smiling at how perfectly it aligned with his dream.
"With tools included," he confirmed, a flicker of excitement breaking through his exhaustion. "The owner died, and his widow wants to sell quickly. I've arranged for a bank draft to be waiting at the Milano Commerciale. We can complete the purchase our first week there."
"And my family?"
"An apartment four streets away. Close enough for visits, far enough for..." He trailed off.
"Privacy," I finished. Neither of us needed to name what that privacy would enable.
Lorenzo nodded, then reached into his jacket, producing a folded newspaper. "For Enzo. To help convince him."
I opened it to find listings for Milano's scientificacademy circled in pencil. Programs for young men with mathematical aptitude.
"Lorenzo..." I ran my finger over the careful circles. "This is perfect."
"I thought perhaps seeing something concrete might help your case with your parents."
The thoughtfulness of it—this man with his own precarious situation taking time to consider my brother's education—made my chest ache. I set the paper aside and pulled him to me, kissing him with all the words I couldn't form.
When we broke apart, I kept him close. "We need to be prepared for unexpected changes. If something happens and we can't meet as planned—"
"Father Giuseppe," he said immediately. "He can act as intermediary if necessary."
I nodded. "And if we need to leave earlier—"
"A message to my apartment. 'Your order from Firenze has arrived early.' I'll understand."
We'd rehearsed these contingencies before, but repetition felt like armor against uncertainty. We spoke of practical matters—clothes to pack, money to convert, routes to avoid. The mundane details of escape became a kind of prayer between us.
As afternoon light faded to dusk, our conversation gave way to silence. Lorenzo's head rested against my shoulder, his breathing steady. For perhaps the first time since I'd known him, his face looked peaceful.
"What are you thinking?" I asked softly.
"That this is the only place I feel real." He didn't open his eyes. "Everywhere else, I'm performing. The dutiful son. The future don. The attentive fiancé. Only here, with you, am I actually Lorenzo."
I understood completely. In the decaying villa, I wasn'tBenedetto's enforcer or my family's provider—just Tonio, allowed to exist without expectation.
"When we're in Milano," I said, "every place will feel this way."
He turned to face me, sudden intensity in his gaze. "Promise me something."
"Anything."
"If something happens—if we're discovered before we leave—don't try to fight. Run. Take your family and go north immediately."
"Lorenzo—"
"Promise me, Tonio." His hands gripped mine with surprising strength. "My father would kill you to punish me. I couldn't bear—" He stopped, voice breaking.
"Nothing will happen," I insisted, even as fear coiled in my chest.
"Promise anyway."
I couldn't lie to him. "I can't promise to leave you behind."
Frustration flashed across his face. "This isn't about nobility or sacrifice. If they catch us, I might have a chance as the heir. You would have none."
"Then we won't get caught." I pulled him against me. "Eight days, Lorenzo. Eight days and then freedom."
