Page 19 of The Seventh Circle
I rubbed my eyes, which had grown unexpectedly damp. "So what do I do, Father? How do I stop this?"
"I cannot tell you how your heart should feel," he said carefully. "But I can advise caution for both your sakes. The world you inhabit is dangerous enough without adding this complication. Whatever exists between you and Lorenzo Benedetto, it must be approached with the utmost discretion."
"So you're not telling me to stay away from him?"
He paused. "Would you, if I did?"
I considered this honestly. "I don't know. I should. But when I'm with him, I feel... like myself. Not just the enforcer. He sees me."
"Then perhaps there is something valuable in this connection, regardless of its nature. Just be careful, Antonio. For both your sakes." He cleared his throat. "For your penance, three Hail Marys and reflection on the virtue of prudence. And perhaps... a visit to your family today. Remember why you chose this path."
"Yes, Father." I hesitated. "Thank you for... for not condemning me."
"God's mercy is greater than any of us can comprehend,"he replied. "Act with love and caution, my son. Now, make your Act of Contrition."
I mumbled through the familiar prayer, the words barely registering. When I finished, Father Giuseppe gave me absolution, his voice steady and kind.
I emerged from the confessional feeling both lighter and more confused. The priest had not reacted as I'd expected—had not told me my feelings were an abomination or that I was bound for hell. Instead, he'd spoken of caution and discretion, as if...
As if this thing between Lorenzo and me might actually be possible.
The thought was dizzying.
I moved deeper into the church, away from the confessional, and knelt before the altar. The morning light streamed through the stained glass, painting the stone floor in jewel colors. I withdrew my rosary—my mother's gift for my confirmation—and let the beads slide through my fingers.
"Hail Mary, full of grace..." I began, but my mind kept wandering from the prayer.
Lorenzo's voice echoed in my memory."What would you do, if you weren't working for my family?"The way he'd leaned forward when I'd mentioned books, genuinely interested in my answer. The way his eyes had lingered on my face, on my mouth.
The scarf in my pocket seemed to burn against my thigh.
I closed my eyes, trying to focus on the prayers, but instead saw Lorenzo's face. The careful mask he wore around his father. The rare, genuine smile when we'd discussed Marcus Aurelius. The vulnerability when he'd spoken of carpentry, of working with his hands to create rather than destroy.
We were both trapped—me by poverty and family obligation,him by birth and expectation. Both wearing masks, playing roles assigned to us rather than chosen.
"God," I whispered, abandoning the formal prayer, "if this is a test, it's a cruel one. Why show me something I can never have? Why make me feel this way about someone who should be nothing more than my boss?"
No answer came, just the distant murmur of old women praying and the soft footsteps of Father Giuseppe preparing for morning mass.
I fingered the scarf in my pocket, feeling the fine material. Lorenzo had money, position, a future mapped out for him. Yet he'd envied my freedom to read, to choose, not realizing I had almost no choices at all. The irony wasn't lost on me.
A shuffle of feet announced the arrival of more parishioners for morning mass. I'd been here longer than I'd realized. I should go—stop at home to check on Mama and Enzo, then report to the Benedetto house for today's collections.
I'd see Lorenzo today. The thought sent a thrill through me that was equal parts terror and anticipation.
Rising from my knees, I made the sign of the cross and slipped the rosary back into my pocket. Father Giuseppe caught my eye as I turned to leave, giving me a small, understanding nod. I ducked my head, both grateful and embarrassed.
Outside, the morning sun had risen fully, bathing Trastevere in golden light. The streets were alive now, vendors calling their wares, children running errands, women hanging laundry from windows.
Regular lives. Normal lives.
I touched the scarf in my pocket once more, then deliberately withdrew my hand. I couldn't wear it—not yet, maybe not ever. But I couldn't leave it behind either.
Whatever happened with Lorenzo, I would need to be careful. For both our sakes.
Taking a deep breath of the morning air, rich with the scents of bread and humanity, I turned toward home, preparing myself to be Antonio the provider, Antonio the enforcer, Antonio the good son.
But in my heart, for the first time, I allowed myself to wonder about another possibility: Antonio the lover, Antonio who might be loved in return.
