Page 33 of The Seventh Circle
Antonio—
I stared at his name on the page, then crumpled it up and threw it aside. What could I possibly say?I'm sorry you had to see that? I'm sorry my cousin is a monster? I'm sorry my family business involves dismembering people who displease us?
I poured myself a generous glass of brandy and walked to the window. The grounds below were peaceful in the moonlight, the manicured gardens a testament to order and civilization. Such a convincing facade. Like the polished floors of our home that hid the bloodstains beneath, like the respected Benedetto name that masked generations of brutality.
And what did I have to offer Antonio in this world? A secret love conducted in shadows and abandoned villas? A life where one misstep could mean ending up like Torrino's scout, throat slit in some forgotten corner of the city? I had kissed him, hadfelt his heart beating against mine, had tasted the promise of something real. But how could anything real grow in soil so poisoned?
A knock at my door startled me from my thoughts.
"Enter," I called, expecting a servant.
Instead, my father stepped into the room, still dressed for dinner though he'd removed his jacket. He rarely came to my private quarters. His presence filled the space, shrinking it.
"You left abruptly," he said, his eyes scanning the room, taking in the brandy in my hand, the crumpled paper by the desk.
"I wasn't feeling well," I replied, setting down my glass.
He moved to the window, standing beside me to look out at the gardens. "Paolo tells me you and Romano seemed... disturbed by today's business."
Of course Paolo would notice. Of course he would report it.
"It was necessary," I said, the words ashen in my mouth.
"Yes, it was," my father agreed. "But that doesn't answer my observation."
I chose my next words carefully. "I question whether such... excess... was required to make our point."
My father was silent for a long moment. "Excess," he finally repeated. "An interesting choice of word."
"The man was tortured before he was killed. It was..." I struggled to find a word that wouldn't betray the full extent of my revulsion. "...theatrical."
"Sometimes theatre has its place," my father said. "Fear is a powerful motivator, Lorenzo. More powerful than respect, more reliable than love." He turned to face me fully. "When I am gone, you will need to command not just the loyalty of our men, but the fear of our enemies. Paolo understands this."
There it was—the implicit comparison, the subtle rebuke. Paolo had the stomach for what needed to be done. Did I?
"I understand the message needed to be clear," I said.
"But you disliked the method," he finished for me. "Your sensitivity does you credit in many ways, son. It makes you thoughtful, measured. But there will be times when a measured response is interpreted as weakness." He placed a hand on my shoulder. "You cannot afford to be weak. None of us can."
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
He squeezed my shoulder once, then stepped back. "Get some rest. We have business with the Vitelli family tomorrow. Sophia's father is eager to discuss the potential arrangement for a relationship between you two if things go well."
Sophia. Of course. Another reminder of the life laid out for me, another chain binding me to this world of blood and shadow.
"I'll be prepared," I said.
After he left, I returned to the window, staring out at the dark gardens until my eyes burned. I tried to imagine Antonio's face, tried to recapture the feeling of his lips on mine, but all I could see was the scout's blood spraying across the cobblestones, all I could hear was Paolo's satisfied grunt as he tore the knife through flesh.
ANTONIO
I couldn't stop washing my hands. The water in our chipped basin had long gone cold, but I scrubbed until my knuckles were raw. There wasn't any blood on them—I hadn't been close enough to the scout when Paolo... when he...
My stomach heaved again. I gripped the edges of the basin and breathed through clenched teeth until the nausea passed.It wasn't the first time I'd seen a man die. Working for the Benedettos meant violence was inevitable, and I'd thrown my share of punches that left men bleeding on cobblestones. I'd even seen killings before—quick, clean, necessary.
But what Paolo had done wasn't quick or clean or necessary. The scout was already subdued. The message could have been sent with a bullet. Instead, Paolo had carved into him slowly, methodically, like a butcher with a prized cut of meat. And the look on his face—Christ help me—the satisfaction in his eyes as the man screamed and gurgled his last breaths.
I splashed cold water on my face, trying to wash away the memory.
