Page 3 of The Seventh Circle
As I turned the corner toward our rendezvous, I found myself wondering what it would be like to simply disappear. To walk away from the maps and the territories, the expectations and the violence, and find some quiet place where a man could work with his hands and sleep without blood on his conscience. But that was a fantasy, as impossible as wings or eternal youth.
I was Lorenzo Benedetto, heir to an empire built on fear. Today I would prove myself worthy of that inheritance, no matter what it cost my soul.
The meeting point came into view—a small café where Antonio would be waiting. My pulse quickened traitorously at the thought, memories of our previous work together surfacing unbidden.
The first time we'd worked together had been a simple message delivery to a shopkeeper behind on payments. I'd expected to do the talking while Antonio provided the intimidating presence my slender frame sometimes failed to project. Instead, I'd watched in quiet amazement as he'd handled the situation with unexpected eloquence—firm but not cruel, effective without excess. He'd noticed a book of poetry on the man's counter and referenced it casually, a small moment of connection that had somehow made the threat more potent for its humanity.
The second job had been uglier—an informant who'd sold information to the Calabrians. My father had ordered a proper beating, something memorable. I'd steeled myself to deliver violence while Antonio watched my back. But in the abandoned warehouse, roles had reversed. Antonio's fists had been surgical instruments, causing pain without permanent damage, each blow measured and precise. Afterward, when the man had been left sobbing on the floor, I'd seen Antoniowash blood from his hands with such gentle care, such obvious regret, that something in my chest had shifted.
"It doesn't get easier," he'd said quietly, mistaking my stare for judgment. "Nor should it."
Three simple words that had revealed a soul I hadn't expected to find in my father's world. I'd thought about that moment more often than I cared to admit, turning it over in my mind like a rare coin—valuable, dangerous to possess.
There was something about Antonio Romano that defied the crude categories my world allowed for men. His hands could break bones with frightening efficiency, yet I'd seen those same hands carefully straighten an old woman's market stall after a windstorm, seen them gently ruffle his younger brother's hair with undisguised affection. He moved through violence like it was a language he'd been forced to learn rather than his native tongue.
And then there were his eyes—warm brown, intelligent, observant in ways that made me feel simultaneously exposed and understood. More than once, I'd caught myself staring at him during planning sessions, watching how he listened with his entire body, how his mind worked through problems with a natural quickness that formal education might have refined but couldn't have created.
These thoughts were dangerous indulgences, desires that could get us both killed in a world where men were expected to be one thing only. I'd become adept at burying such feelings, at channeling inappropriate attraction into acceptable forms—admiration for his skills, appreciation for his loyalty, respect for his intelligence. But in unguarded moments, like walking toward him now, the truth bubbled dangerously close to the surface.
I wanted Antonio Romano in ways I couldn't name even to myself. In ways that would destroy everything my family hadbuilt if discovered. In ways that made the thought of becoming my father seem not just distasteful but impossible.
I straightened my shoulders and forced these thoughts back into their locked compartment. Today wasn't about forbidden desires or impossible futures. Today was about proving myself worthy of my inheritance, about protecting our territory from Torrino encroachment. About becoming the don my bloodline demanded, one broken bone at a time.
Antonio was waiting at a corner table, nursing an espresso and reading a battered paperback. He tucked it away as I approached, rising with that fluid grace that made him seem perpetually ready for whatever might come. Our eyes met briefly as I took the seat across from him, and I wondered, not for the first time, how much he could see behind my carefully constructed façade.
"Heir," he greeted me formally, though something in his voice softened the title.
"Romano," I responded, ignoring the small thrill that ran through me at his presence. "We have work to do."
2
ANTONIO
Itucked away my worn copy of Dante as the heir to the Benedetto empire approached. Lorenzo moved differently than the other family men—none of that strutting peacock walk the lieutenants affected. He carried his power like something uncomfortable but familiar, a well-tailored suit that pinched in places only he could feel.
"Heir," I greeted him, standing as he took the seat across from me. My tongue almost slipped on the word, wanting to form his actual name instead.
"Romano," he replied, his voice carrying that peculiar blend of authority and reluctance I'd noticed during our previous jobs together. "We have work to do."
I nodded, studying him as he signalled for his own espresso. The cafe owner practically sprinted to deliver it, bowing slightly—the expected response to a Benedetto in your establishment. Lorenzo barely seemed to notice, but I'dlearned to watch for the small twitch at the corner of his mouth whenever people performed their fear for him.
"The San Lorenzo market," he said after the owner retreated. "Vito Torrino's been collecting where he shouldn't."
"The Blade," I said, keeping my voice neutral though the name carried its own reputation. "Three men with him usually. Sometimes four."
Lorenzo's eyebrows lifted slightly. "You've seen them operating?"
"I know the market. My mother buys there twice weekly." I didn't add that I escorted her whenever possible, that I knew every vendor by name, that I'd helped old Signora Benedetti reorganize her bread stall after last month's windstorm. Better to let him assume I'd been watching for professional reasons.
"What else should I know about Torrino?"
I considered the question, weighing how much to reveal. With most Benedetto men, I'd offer the bare minimum—they wanted muscle, not thoughts. But Lorenzo had always been different. During our last job, he'd actually listened to my suggestion for handling the informant, had acknowledged when my approach worked better than his initial plan.
"He likes knives, hence the nickname," I said. "Carries at least three. Favours his right hand but can switch if pressed. Quick but showy—likes to leave scars that people will talk about." I sipped my espresso, organizing my thoughts. "Considers himself more important than he is. Struggles with the contradiction between his ambition and his position."
Lorenzo studied me with those intense dark eyes. "That's quite an assessment."
I shrugged. "People reveal themselves if you watch long enough."
