Page 7 of The Seventh Circle
The streets of Trastevere welcomed me home like an old friend—familiar in their narrowness, comforting in their poverty. Children played in gutters, women hung laundry from balconies, and old men smoked and played cards in doorways. These streets knew me before I became what I was, before my hands learned violence instead of honest labor.
I slipped the knife I'd taken from Vito beneath a loose floorboard on an abandoned home's porch three streets from our tenement. No weapons came home with me—that was my rule. The day's collection money, however, made the journey tucked safely inside my jacket, pressed against my heart like a secret.
Our building stood five stories tall, crumbling around the edges but still standing, much like its inhabitants. I climbed the worn stairs to the third floor, my body rememberingevery crack in the wood, every loose board that might creak and wake Papa during his afternoon rest.
The door opened before I reached it.
"Tonio!" Enzo flew at me, all gangly limbs and boundless energy. At fourteen, he was growing too quickly for our mother to keep his trousers properly hemmed. "Did you fight anyone today? Did you break any heads?"
I ruffled his hair, forcing a smile that didn't match the heaviness in my chest. "Nothing so exciting, piccolo. Just collected payments for the Benedettos."
"But you work for Don Salvatore himself! All the boys at school say he's the most powerful man in Rome and that his men are the toughest in the city." His eyes shone with admiration that made me sick with shame.
"What nonsense," Mama called from the kitchen. "Your brother is a business assistant, not some common thug."
I met Mama's eyes over Enzo's head. We both knew the comfortable lie we maintained, though neither acknowledged the bruises I sometimes came home with, or how my knuckles occasionally arrived split and raw from "business."
"Where's Papa?" I asked, following the smell of minestrone into our small kitchen.
"Resting," Mama answered, wiping her hands on her apron. "His back gave him trouble this morning when he tried to help Signor Bianchi with deliveries."
My father had once been strong, capable of loading crates at the docks from sunrise to sunset. Now his broken body betrayed him daily, leaving him dependent on what I earned. What I did.
I leaned down to kiss Mama's cheek, slipping the envelope of money into her apron pocket in the same motion. She pretended not to notice, but her shoulders relaxed slightly.
"Any letters today?" I asked, as I did every day, though I knew the answer.
"Why would the postman come here?" Enzo laughed. "Nobody we know can write fancy letters."
"Your brother can," Mama said proudly. "He taught himself from books."
"And I'll teach you too," I promised Enzo, "if you finish your schoolwork first."
"Why bother? I'm going to work for the Benedettos like you someday." He pantomimed throwing punches in the air. "Lorenzo Benedetto himself will ask for me by name, just like he asks for you."
The soup Mama had been stirring suddenly needed my full attention. I stared into its depths rather than meeting my brother's innocent eyes.
"There's more to life than working for the Benedettos," I said finally. "You're smart, Enzo. You could be something better with your life."
"Better than you?" He sounded genuinely confused. "All the neighbourhood respects you, Tonio. They move aside when you walk down the street. Even Signor Moretti gave us credit at his shop because of you."
Because Moretti feared what would happen if he didn't. Because he knew what I was capable of doing.
The bedroom door creaked open, and Papa emerged, leaning heavily on his cane. His face brightened when he saw me.
"There's my boy," he said, his voice still strong even as his body failed him. "Good day's work?"
I nodded, helping him to his chair at our small table. "Everything went smoothly."
"No trouble?" His eyes searched mine, asking the question he couldn't voice in front of Enzo.
"None." The lie came easily. "Just routine collections."
Mama ladled soup into bowls, and we gathered around the table, saying grace before eating. In these moments, I could almost pretend we were just another working family, that the money in Mama's apron came from honest labor.
"Signora Peretti asked about you today," Mama mentioned casually. "Said a man was looking for the Romano family, specifically asking about our Tonio."
My spoon paused halfway to my mouth. "What kind of man?"
