Page 11 of The Seventh Circle
Father studied me, smoke curling around his face. "There's one matter we haven't discussed much lately. You're twenty-six now. Time to think about a wife, children. Our legacy needs heirs."
My chest tightened. "Business has occupied my thoughts."
"As it should. But a man needs balance." His gaze turned shrewd. "The Vitelli family has that daughter—what's her name? The one who studied in Florence."
"Sophia," I supplied automatically, remembering the dark-haired girl from social functions. Pleasant enough, intelligent. A woman I could never love as she deserved.
"I'll arrange to meet her and see if we can come to an agreement between our families. She comes from a good family. Strong bloodlines." He spoke as if discussing a prized horse.
I forced a laugh. "I'm hardly ready to settle down, Father."
"No one is asking for grandchildren tomorrow." His tone lightened, but the intent remained serious. "Simply consider your obligations. Twenty-six passes quickly. Thirty approaches faster than you think."
"I'll keep it in mind," I promised, desperate to end theconversation. "If you'll excuse me, I should retire. It's been a long day."
He nodded, allowing my retreat. "Good night, my son. I'm proud of the man you're becoming."
Each word was another bar in the cage surrounding me.
In my bedroom, I tore off my tie and collapsed into the chair by the window. My hands trembled slightly as I poured myself a generous measure of whiskey from the decanter.
Wife. Children. Heirs.
I'd known this moment would come, had delayed it through excuses of business focus and youth. But Father wouldn't be deterred much longer. The Benedetto line must continue. My preferences were irrelevant against the weight of dynasty.
I drained the glass, welcoming the burn. How many more years could I avoid the inevitable? How many polite dinners with suitable daughters before I was expected to choose one, to pretend desire I couldn't feel?
Antonio's face rose unbidden in my mind—the careful intelligence in his eyes, the controlled power in his movements. I closed my eyes, remembering the brush of his shoulder against mine as we'd walked from the market. The strange electricity of that casual contact.
"Damn it," I whispered, pouring another drink.
This wasn't just appreciation for a capable associate. I'd felt this before—this pull, this awareness. With Matteo when I studied at the University of Bologna, with Carlo at the gentleman's club. Moments quickly suppressed, desires never acknowledged aloud.
But with Antonio, it was stronger. Harder to ignore. Iadmired his mind as much as his form—the carpenter's son who read Dante, who chose precision over brutality, who seemed to understand the cost of our world without being consumed by it.
I moved to the window, staring out at the manicured grounds that represented generations of Benedetto power. All of it built to be handed down, father to son, in an unbroken line. All of it depending on my ability to perform the role I was born into—the ruthless leader, the faithful husband, the father of sons.
The whiskey burned in my stomach. What would Father do if he knew the truth? If he discovered his only son, his heir, preferred men? The thought chilled my blood. I'd seen what happened to men like me in our world. The beatings, the disappearances, the bodies that washed up in the harbour.
Even if I could somehow survive such a revelation, Antonio wouldn't. Father would assume he'd corrupted me, even though Antonio had given no indication he shared my inclinations. The carpenter's son would simply vanish, another body never found.
I pressed my forehead against the cool glass. I couldn't have what I wanted. I couldn't escape what was expected. The walls of duty closed around me like a mausoleum, sealing me in with the dying remains of my true self.
Tomorrow I would rise and don the mask again. I would be Lorenzo Benedetto, heir to the family empire, ruthless when necessary, restrained when prudent. I would begin considering suitable wives and plan for the dynasty's continuation.
But tonight, alone in the darkness, I mourned for the life I could never have. For the freedom to discover if Antonio's casual touches held meaning beyond professional camaraderie. For the simple right to be who I was, not who generations of blood and violence demanded I become.
I finished the whiskey and prepared for bed, each movement mechanical. As I lay in the darkness, Antonio's face hovered in my thoughts.
Sleep came reluctantly, bringing dreams of a different life. A simpler one, free from family legacy. One where I might reach for what I truly desired, where Antonio might reach back.
Dreams that would turn to ash with the morning light.
4
ANTONIO
The warehouse door closed behind the butcher with a hollow thud. I pocketed his payment—five hundred lire for another month of Benedetto protection—and marked the collection in my small notebook.
