Page 39 of The Seventh Circle
"And I love you," I answered, feeling the words unlock something final inside me—the last door closing on the life I'd been born to, and opening to the one I was choosing.
The decision made, we surrendered to the desire that had been building between us since I'd walked through the door.
I kissed him again, but this was no gentle expression. It was a raw, bruising conquest of his mouth, a desperate attempt to say everything with my body that my voice could not. His teeth scraped my lip, and I welcomed the sting. His tongue plunged, hot and demanding, and I met it with a hunger that bordered on violence. I tasted him—sweat, salt, the faint metallic tang of a life lived by the blade—and it was the most honest flavour I had ever known. His arms were iron shackles around me, crushing me against the solid wall of his chest until the frantic beat of my heart was indistinguishable from the thunder of his.
On our makeshift bed of blankets, the last barriers fellaway. His scarred palms, which could wield a knife with such deadly precision, explored me with a jarring reverence. They traced the dip of my spine, the curve of my waist, then gripped my hips, pulling me tight against him. I felt the tell-tale hardness of his desire pressing into my stomach, and a guttural groan escaped my lips. He lowered his head, his mouth finding the sensitive skin of my neck, and I arched into him, my fingers tangling in his dark, dishevelled hair.
He nudged my legs apart with his knee, positioning himself between my thighs. For a moment, he paused, reaching for the small pot of Vaseline in his trouser pocket. There was a quiet efficiency in the way he prepared me, his touch slick and cool against my skin—a practical necessity before the storm. He settled over me again, his brown eyes, so often warm, now dark with an intensity that held me captive. I gasped as he entered me, a slow, deliberate pressure that was a sharp union of pain and profound pleasure. For a moment, the world narrowed to that single point of connection—the feeling of him filling me, stretching me, claiming a part of me very few had touched before.
Then the rhythm began. There was no practised grace, only the brutal, honest tempo of our mutual desperation. He drove into me with a force that knocked the breath from my lungs, and I met his every thrust, my hips rising from the dusty blankets to meet his. Our bodies, slick with sweat, slammed together, the sound echoing in the ruined villa. It was a sacrament and a sin, a violent prayer offered up in the half-light. I bit down on his shoulder to stifle a cry, tasting the salt of his skin, my nails digging into the hard muscle of his back.
The pressure built in my gut, a tight, hot coil of feeling that was about to break. I felt his pace quicken, his breathing become a series of ragged pants against my ear. "Lorenzo," he gasped, the word both a plea and a curse. That was all it took.My climax tore through me, a raw, shuddering release that ripped a shout from my throat. His name was a ragged prayer on my lips as I stiffened in his arms. He followed a moment later, his own release announced with a deep groan as he collapsed against me, his body trembling.
Afterward, we lay tangled in sweat-dampened limbs, the scent of sex and dust thick in the air. Antonio's head rested on my chest, the heavy, comforting weight of him an anchor in the chaos. The afternoon sun slanted through the broken slats of the roof, striping his back with bars of light and shadow, making him look like a captured saint.
"Two weeks," Antonio murmured against my chest. "Two weeks and we'll be free."
I tightened my arms around him, not voicing the fear that whispered at the edges of my mind—that my father would never truly let me go, that the price of our freedom might be higher than we could imagine.
For now, in this sanctuary of broken stone and stolen time, I allowed myself to believe in the future we'd pledged to build. A future where Antonio was my truth, my home, my deliverance from the blood-soaked legacy of my name.
"Two weeks," I agreed, pressing a kiss to his temple. "And then a lifetime."
At the door, I caught his hand one last time. "Meditations," I said softly. "Remember."
He squeezed my hand, his eyes holding mine. "Tomorrow after collections?"
I nodded. "Tomorrow."
He slipped away through the gap in the villa's wall, and I watched until he disappeared from sight. Only then did I allow the weight of our reality to settle back onto my shoulders.
I had a meeting with the Vitellis to endure. A performanceto give. A future to pretend I wanted while secretly plotting another.
But for the first time, I had something worth fighting for beyond mere survival. I had Antonio. I had love. I had truth.
And I would burn down my father's empire before I let anyone take that from me.
11
LORENZO
The Vitelli estate sprawled across the hillside like a sleeping giant, its white stone gleaming against the purple dusk. Each window blazed with light, as if the family had set fire to a hundred thousand lire just to impress us. Father sat beside me in the Isotta Fraschini, his silence heavier than any lecture. Paolo drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on the window frame, as if we were heading to a tavern rather than a marriage negotiation disguised as dinner.
"The Vitellis control three shipping companies and half the customs officials in the port," Father finally said, his voice cutting through the engine's purr. "Their daughter comes with connections that would secure our position for generations."
I nodded, my face a mask I'd perfected over years of similar conversations. "I understand the strategic importance, Father."
"Do you?" His eyes, so like mine in color but nothing else,fixed on my profile. "Because your enthusiasm seems... lacking."
"I'm simply focused on making the correct impression," I replied, adjusting my cufflinks—silver squares engraved with the family crest that had belonged to my grandfather. "First meetings require a certain restraint."
Paolo caught my eye in the rearview mirror, a smirk playing at his mouth. "Don't be too restrained, cousin. I've heard the Vitelli girl has quite the figure beneath those modest dresses."
"That's enough, Paolo," Father said, but without heat. Men discussing women like merchandise was the natural order in his world. "Lorenzo knows his responsibilities."
The car crunched over the gravel drive, and a servant materialized to open our doors. I stepped out, straightening my jacket, feeling the weight of the evening settle across my shoulders. Somewhere across the city, Antonio was with his family, perhaps reading to his brother or helping his mother with dishes. The thought of him—those capable hands, the warmth in his eyes when he looked at me—was a secret flame I carried inside my chest.
I would perform tonight. I would smile and charm and play the perfect heir. But my mind would remain in a ruined villa where I had known true freedom in Antonio's arms.
