Page 20 of The Seventh Circle
LORENZO
The grandfather clock in the hallway struck four, its sonorous chimes echoing through the Benedetto mansion. I hadn't slept. Hadn't even tried. Instead, I sat at my window seat, watching the darkness slowly surrender to dawn, a book of poetry abandoned beside me.
Antonio had consumed my thoughts all night—the quiet intelligence, the controlled power, and the unexpected gentleness with struggling shopkeepers. Most of all, the fleeting vulnerability when our fingers had touched as he accepted my scarf.
I pressed my forehead against the cool glass, watching my breath fog the pane. This obsession was becoming dangerous. Father had already remarked on my distraction at yesterday's family meeting. Paolo had questioned my unusual interest in collections. If others began to suspect...
The Benedetto heir couldn't desire a male enforcer. It was unthinkable. Impossible. A death sentence for us both.
Yet I couldn't stop.
As the first rays of sun gilded the rooftops of Rome, Imade a decision. I dressed quickly, choosing clothes more modest than my usual attire—a simple suit, without the signifiers of wealth that separated me from common men. From him.
"Taking the motorcar, sir?" My father's driver asked as I emerged from the house.
"No. I'll walk."
His surprise was evident but he knew better than to question a Benedetto. I needed movement, needed to feel the city as it awakened rather than observe it from behind glass and privilege.
I cut through the private gardens, a shortcut known only to the family, emerging onto Via del Corso where shopkeepers were raising their shutters. A newspaper boy shouted headlines about tensions in the Balkans. Women with market baskets nodded respectfully as I passed, eyes downcast. Two policemen stiffened to attention, then deliberately looked elsewhere—my father's monthly payments ensuring their convenient blindness.
This was the Benedetto empire in microcosm: fear, respect, and strategic blindness, all maintained through carefully applied violence.
"Signor Benedetto!" A florist beckoned me with a nervous smile. "Please, a rose for your buttonhole today? On the house, of course."
I accepted the flower with practiced grace, though the gesture made me feel hollow. Another transaction built on fear rather than genuine goodwill. Did anyone in this city interact with me as a man rather than a symbol of power?
Antonio did. The thought surfaced unbidden.
I turned down an alley, seeking a less public route. Morning light slanted between buildings, illuminating crumbling Roman stonework alongside newer construction. Thecontrasts of Rome—ancient and modern, sacred and profane, beauty amid decay—reflected the contradictions within me.
The spire of Santa Maria degli Angeli appeared above the rooftops, drawing me forward. I hadn't planned this destination, yet found myself unsurprised. Where else would a sinner seek absolution?
I pushed through the heavy doors with the confidence of a man whose family had donated enough to purchase several gilded saints. The church interior enveloped me in cool shadow and ancient silence, the morning light filtering through stained glass to paint the stone floor in jewel colors.
No Benedetto man had made genuine confession in generations. We paid for indulgences instead, bought our way into heaven as we bought everything else. But today, I moved toward the confessional with purpose, drawn by a need deeper than family tradition or appearances.
What I wanted.
My hand trembled as I pulled the curtain closed behind me, kneeling in darkness. The screen slid open between myself and the unseen priest.
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned." The childhood words emerged from some deep memory. "It has been... many years since my last confession."
"God welcomes all who return to Him," the priest replied softly. "Tell me what troubles your soul, my son."
I drew a breath. "I desire someone I cannot have. Someone forbidden."
"Another man's wife?" There was no judgment in the question, merely gentle inquiry.
"No." I swallowed hard. "Another man."
The silence that followed stretched between us like a chasm. I braced myself for condemnation, for disgust, for the fury of God's representative on earth.
"I see," the priest finally said, his voice unchanged. "And this troubles you?"
A harsh laugh escaped me before I could stop it. "Troubles me? Father, it consumes me. It's all I can think about. I dream of him. I ache for him. And I know—I know—it's impossible."
"Because of the Church's teaching?" he asked.
