Page 52 of The Seventh Circle
"Eight days," he whispered again, but the words were no longer a countdown to fear. They were a promise.
I turned my head and kissed him, soft and slow. "Eight days," I agreed against his lips.
And for the first time, wrapped in his arms in our crumbling sanctuary, I truly believed it.
We stayed entwined until darkness made the villa's shadows too deep to navigate safely. When the time came to part, our goodbye felt different—heavier with both promise and fear.
I walked home through back streets, the newspaper for Enzo tucked safely inside my jacket. As I turned onto our street, I noticed a man leaning against the wall opposite our building. Though his hat was pulled low, I recognized Paolo's distinctive stance.
I approached directly, refusing to show hesitation. "Evening, Paolo."
He straightened, smiling thinly. "Antonio. Late night?"
"Errands for Lorenzo." I kept my voice neutral. "He mentioned you're overseeing renovations on a property for him."
"Did he?" Paolo lit a cigarette, the match briefly illuminating his calculating eyes. "Interesting he'd discuss family business with you."
"Just making conversation." I moved to pass him.
His hand shot out, gripping my arm. "You've risen quickly in the family's estimation, Antonio. Especially Lorenzo's."
I met his gaze steadily. "I do my job well."
"Indeed." He released me, smoke curling between us. "It would be a shame to jeopardize such a promising position with... misplaced loyalties."
My heart hammered, but I kept my expression impassive. "My loyalty to the Benedetto family is absolute."
"To the family," he repeated, emphasizing the last word. "Or to Lorenzo specifically?"
"Is there a difference?"
Paolo's smile never reached his eyes. "Sometimes. Good night, Antonio. Give my regards to your brother."
The mention of Enzo sent ice through my veins. I watched Paolo walk away, his message delivered with perfect clarity: he suspected something, and my family remained my vulnerability.
Eight days suddenly seemed an eternity.
13
PAOLO
After a lifetime working for my uncle, I'd developed an eye for deception. Men who skimmed profits, lieutenants planning betrayals, enemies crafting schemes—they all moved differently, spoke differently when hiding something. A certain tension around the eyes, pauses in conversation that stretched a half-second too long, manufactured routines that felt rehearsed.
Lorenzo carried all these tells like a second skin.
I watched him across the breakfast table as he scanned the newspaper with too-careful nonchalance. His movements were measured, as if performing normalcy rather than living it. Less than a week ago, he'd returned from the Torrino incident changed—not by the violence, which he'd seen before, but by something else entirely.
"Any business requiring attention today, cousin?" I asked, breaking the silence.
His eyes flicked up, then back down. "Collections on the eastern routes. Nothing requiring your... particular talents."
The pause before "particular talents" spoke volumes. Since I'd dispatched Torrino's man, Lorenzo had developed a newfound delicacy around violence. This from a man who'd broken bones since adolescence.
"Your father mentioned the Vitelli girl will attend the opera Friday evening. You'll escort her?"
"Of course." He turned a page. "The arrangement proceeds as planned."
As planned. Such a peculiar phrase for a man discussing his impending marriage. I'd known Lorenzo my entire life—we'd fought together, bled together, built Uncle Salvatore's empire side by side. While never enthusiastic about family business, he'd always been dutiful. Until now.
