Page 34 of The Seventh Circle
"Tonio?" Mama's voice called from the kitchen. "You've been in there so long. Are you ill?"
"Just tired, Mama," I called back, forcing steadiness into my voice. "Be out in a minute."
I dried my hands and face on our threadbare towel and examined myself in the cracked mirror. I looked the same. How was that possible? Shouldn't there be some visible mark on me after what I'd witnessed?
In the kitchen, Mama was kneading dough, her strong hands working rhythmically. Papa sat at the table, reading yesterday's newspaper by the weak light of our lamp. The normalcy of the scene struck me like a physical blow.
"You look pale," she said, eyeing me with concern. "Did something happen today?"
"Just business," I said, the lie bitter on my tongue. "Nothing to worry about."
Papa lowered his newspaper, studying me with eyes that missed nothing. "Business that makes you wash your hands for twenty minutes?"
I looked away. "It's handled now. The men who were watching our building—they won't be back."
The silence that followed was heavy with unasked questions. Papa had worked the docks long enough to understand what "handled" meant.
"Your friend Lorenzo," Papa finally said. "He took care of this problem for us?"
"He helped," I said, not meeting his eyes.
"Then we owe him our thanks."
I nodded, unable to explain that Lorenzo had looked as sickened as I felt, that it was Paolo who had "handled" the situation with such brutal efficiency.
"I'm not hungry tonight," I said. "Think I'll go read for a bit."
Mama frowned. "You need to eat, Antonio. I made canneloni, your favourite."
"Save me some for later?"
She nodded reluctantly, and I quietly retreated to the small room I shared with Enzo, where he was already sleeping. I took Marcus Aurelius from its hiding place beneath the loose floorboard, hoping the philosopher's words might settle my churning thoughts, but the pages blurred before my eyes.
All I could see was Paolo's knife slicing across the scout's neck, the man's desperate attempts to hold his blood back, Lorenzo's face frozen in a mask of controlled horror. I remembered Lorenzo's words at the villa earlier that day:"The world we move in, it's brutal. It has to be. But there's a difference between necessary violence and cruelty for its own sake."
Was there truly a difference, though? Or was it all just different shades of the same darkness? And if I continued down this path with Lorenzo, how long before that darkness claimed me too?
I must have dozed off, because the next thing I knew, there was a soft tapping at our apartment door. I glanced at thesmall clock by my bed—nearly midnight. Mama and Papa had gone to bed hours ago.
Moving silently, I retrieved my knife from beneath the mattress and crept to the door.
"Who's there?" I whispered.
"It's me." Lorenzo's voice, so low I almost missed it. "I need to speak with you."
I glanced back at my parents' door, then carefully unbolted ours, opening it just enough to see Lorenzo standing in the dim hallway. He wore simple clothes, his cap pulled low—clearly trying not to be recognized.
"Not here," I whispered. "My family's sleeping."
"The roof?" he suggested.
I nodded and slipped out, locking the door behind me. We climbed the narrow staircase to the building's flat roof in silence. The night air was cool, the city spread before us in a tapestry of scattered lights. From here, Rome looked peaceful, its violence and squalor softened by distance and darkness.
Lorenzo walked to the edge, his back to me. "I couldn't sleep," he said finally. "Every time I closed my eyes, I saw..."
"I know," I said. "Me too."
He turned, and in the moonlight I could see the haunted look in his eyes. "I came to... I don't know. To apologize? To explain? I'm not sure there are words for either."
