Page 6 of The Seventh Circle
I stepped back, allowing Vito to scramble to his feet, clutching at his falling trousers. His eyes burned with hatred as he looked between us.
"I remember faces," he spat, the threat naked in his voice. "Both of yours."
"Good," Lorenzo replied calmly. "Then you'll remember to avoid us in the future."
Vito gathered his wounded men, their departure lacking the strutting confidence of their arrival. The market remained silent until they disappeared from view, then erupted into nervous chatter. I noticed Lorenzo watching the vendors, something unreadable in his expression.
"You could have cut him deeper," he said quietly, for my ears only. "My father would have expected it."
I cleaned Vito's blade on my handkerchief before tucking it away—a trophy and a message. "Blood washes away. Humiliation festers." I met his gaze directly. "Besides, dead men can't carry warnings."
That almost-smile appeared again. "Practical as well as philosophical."
Old Signora Benedetti approached us, her lined facereflecting gratitude and fear in equal measure. "Thank you, young master," she said to Lorenzo, pressing a small package of fresh bread into his hands. "We were afraid—"
"No need for fear now," Lorenzo assured her, accepting the gift with surprising gentleness. "The Benedetto family protects its own."
The other vendors approached cautiously, offering similar thanks, small tokens of appreciation. I stepped back, watching Lorenzo handle each interaction with a natural grace that seemed at odds with the violence we'd just delivered. He remembered names, asked about children, accepted their gratitude without the condescension I'd seen from other family men.
When the crowd dispersed and we were relatively alone again, Lorenzo turned to me. "That was... efficient."
"You were expecting something else?"
He studied me for a moment. "My cousin Paolo would have left more blood. My father might have expected it."
"Is that what you wanted?" I asked, genuinely curious.
"No," he admitted. "Violence should be measured, not indulgent." His gaze traveled over me with new consideration. "You fight differently than the others. Precisely. Necessarily."
I shrugged, uncomfortable with his scrutiny. "I do what needs doing, no more."
"That's rarer than you might think." He glanced toward the direction Vito had disappeared. "He'll be back. With more men next time."
"Yes," I agreed. "He's the type to nurse grudges."
"Are you concerned?"
I met his eyes directly. "Are you?"
Something passed between us then—understanding, perhaps respect, possibly something more dangerous that neither of us could afford to name. I saw in Lorenzo not justthe heir to a criminal empire, but a man struggling against the confines of the role he'd been born to. And perhaps he saw in me something beyond the soldier, the enforcer, the street rat from Trastevere who'd risen through violence to support his family.
"We should report back to my father," he said finally, breaking the moment.
I nodded, falling into step beside him as we left the market. The morning's work was done—territory defended, message delivered, reputation maintained. But I felt the weight of Vito's promise hanging over us, the certainty that this wasn't an ending but a beginning.
And beneath it all, that indefinable current between Lorenzo and myself—something that made me both more and less than the enforcer I was supposed to be, something that threatened to complicate the already dangerous world we inhabited.
"Dante got it wrong, you know," Lorenzo said unexpectedly as we walked.
"How so?"
"The worst circle of hell isn't for betrayers or blasphemers," he said softly. "It's for those who recognize a different path but lack the courage to take it."
I said nothing, but let his words settle between us like a challenge, or perhaps a confession. We continued toward the Benedetto compound, side by side but separated by bloodlines and expectations, by the roles we'd been assigned in this particular circle of hell.
3
ANTONIO
