Page 68 of The Seventh Circle
17
ANTONIO
Ileft the church with Father Giuseppe's instructions burning in my mind. The streets of Roma passed in a blur as I hurried home, rehearsing what to tell my family. The truth—but not all of it. They needed to know we were in danger, that we had to leave tonight. The details of Lorenzo and me could wait until we were safe in Genoa.
Night had fallen by the time I reached our building, the familiar stone steps worn smooth by generations. I took them two at a time, eager to begin our preparations despite the heaviness in my heart. We would leave almost everything behind—Mama's cooking pots, Papa's chair, the few books I'd collected. But we would have each other, and that was enough.
I knocked our family's pattern—two quick raps, pause, then three more—before using my key. "Mama? Papa? I'm home. We need to talk."
The apartment was silent. No warm yellow light spilled from the kitchen, no rustling from behind the curtain thatdivided the bedroom. Perhaps they'd already gone to bed. I struck a match and lit the small lamp by the door, my eyes adjusting to the dim glow.
"Enzo? You still awake, little mathematician?"
The silence felt wrong. Heavy. I moved toward the kitchen, the lamp casting long shadows across the worn floorboards.
The coppery scent hit me first.
Blood has a smell like nothing else—metallic, primal, unmistakable. I'd smelled it before, in alleyways and warehouses where the Benedettos conducted their "business." But never here. Never in my home.
"Mama?" My voice cracked. "Papa?"
I pushed the curtain aside.
The lamp slipped from my fingers, glass shattering as it hit the floor. The flame guttered but didn't die, casting wild, dancing shadows over the scene before me.
They lay in their bed, still under the blankets as though sleeping. But the dark stain spreading across the worn linen told a different story. Papa's throat was cut so deeply his head lolled at an unnatural angle. Mama beside him, her chest a mess of stab wounds, her eyes open and fixed in a final moment of terror.
A sound tore from my throat—animal, broken.
I stumbled backward, colliding with the small table where we ate our meals, where Enzo spread his books to study.
Enzo.
"No. No, no, no." I whirled around, searching. "Enzo!"
I found him in our shared room, curled on his thin mattress. From the doorway, he might have been sleeping, one arm flung across his eyes as always. But the stillness was wrong. The dark pool beneath him was wrong.
My legs gave out. I crawled to him, gathering his small body in my arms. He was still warm. If I closed my eyes, I couldpretend he was sleeping, that he'd wake any moment asking about Milano again, eyes bright with dreams of university.
But blood soaked through my shirt where I held him, and his head rolled lifelessly against my shoulder.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, rocking him. "I'm so sorry. I was supposed to protect you."
The wooden boat I'd carved him lay shattered beside his bed. Next to it, scratched into the wall with what must have been a knife point:Benedetto's dog has been put down.
Vito Torrino. The Blade. His signature was everywhere—the throats cut with precision, the message, the broken toy. This was his revenge for the humiliation in the market, for Paolo's brutal message.
But why now? Why—
Realization struck with sickening clarity. Torrino's men had been watching us, waiting for a time when I wasn't here. When my family was alone and vulnerable.
Because Paolo had sent me to Ostia.
Paolo, who knew about Lorenzo and me. Who'd been playing his own game.
I don't know how long I sat there, holding Enzo's body, my mind cycling through a nightmare loop of grief and rage. My little brother, who'd wanted to study mathematics. Mama, who'd worked her fingers raw for us. Papa, who'd carried coal until his back gave out. All dead because of me. Because I'd dared to love Lorenzo. Because I'd challenged Vito. Because I'd believed Paolo's "assignment" in Ostia was legitimate.
I laid Enzo gently back on his bed, arranging his limbs, smoothing his hair. I wiped blood from his face with my sleeve, unable to bear the sight of it staining his skin. My hands shook violently, but I forced them steady for this final act of care.
