Page 8 of The Seventh Circle
"She didn't say much. Only that he had a scar on his face and dressed like he had money to spend." Mama's eyes held a question she wouldn't ask in front of the others.
A scar on his face. Vito. He'd wasted no time.
"Probably someone from the shipping office," I lied smoothly. "They sometimes need extra hands."
"With a fancy suit?" Mama raised an eyebrow but said nothing more.
After dinner, Enzo pulled out his schoolbooks, and I helped him with his arithmetic while Mama darned socks and Papa dozed in his chair. The normalcy of it felt like a dream—one I desperately wanted to protect.
When Enzo finally went to bed, I retreated to my corner of the room we shared, pulling out my most treasured possession from beneath the mattress—a worn copy of Marcus Aurelius' Meditations, purchased with three weeks' savings from a secondhand bookseller. The pages were dog-eared, some passages underlined in pencil, notes scribbled in margins where I'd struggled with meaning.
I lost myself in the words, in the journey through Hell's circles, finding echoes of my own life in the poet's vision of damnation. The violent boiled in rivers of blood, the fraudulentsuffered in pits of excrement—where would I end up when my time came?
"Still reading that book?" Papa's voice startled me. He stood in the doorway, leaning on his cane.
"I like the words," I admitted, closing it carefully. "The way they fit together."
He eased himself onto the edge of my bed with a grimace of pain. "You were meant for better things than this life, Tonio. You have a mind."
"I have what I have," I replied, tucking the book away. "And we need to eat."
"At what cost?" He looked down at his own twisted hands, once strong and capable. "I never wanted this for you."
"It's just work, Papa."
"Don't." His voice hardened. "Don't lie to an old man who knows better. I see the way you wash your hands when you come home, scrubbing too hard. I hear you sometimes, at night, when the dreams come."
I looked away, unable to meet his eyes. "I do what I must for my family."
"The man asking questions today—he means trouble, doesn't he?"
I considered lying again but couldn't. Not to him. "Possibly. I'll handle it."
"Like you handle everything." He sighed heavily. "Your mother believes you're some kind of clerk. Enzo thinks you're a hero. I know better."
"And what am I to you, Papa?"
His weathered hand found mine, squeezing with what strength remained. "My son. My good boy trapped in a bad world." His eyes filled with tears he wouldn't let fall. "I failed you by breaking my back. Made you carry a burden no young man should bear."
"You didn't fail," I insisted fiercely. "You worked until your body broke. I'm just doing what a son should."
"No." He shook his head. "A son should become better than his father, not sell his soul piece by piece to feed his family."
We sat in silence for a long moment, the weight of unsaid things heavy between us.
"The young Benedetto," Papa finally said. "What kind of man is he?"
The question surprised me. "Lorenzo? He's... different than I expected."
"Different how?"
I thought of Lorenzo's eyes when he'd spoken of violence being measured, not indulgent. The way he handled the vendors with genuine respect. His words about Dante.
"He thinks," I said finally. "Sees things others miss. Uses his head before his fists."
Papa's expression grew thoughtful. "Be careful of men who think too much in this business. They're either the best allies or the most dangerous enemies."
"And which is he?"
