Page 46 of The Seventh Circle
"Of course." Paolo moved toward the door but paused at the threshold. "The Vitelli girl—she's quite beautiful, isn't she?"
"She is," I agreed cautiously.
"And intelligent too, from what I hear. You could do worse, Lorenzo." His voice softened slightly. "A good marriage can anchor a man, give him purpose beyond himself."
For a brief moment, I glimpsed something almost like concern in Paolo's eyes—a flicker of genuine feeling beneath his customary vigilance.
"I'm well aware of my responsibilities," I said quietly.
"Good." He nodded once. "Because responsibilities have a way of finding us, whether we embrace them or flee from them."
After he left, I remained motionless, the weight of the deed in my pocket suddenly heavy as lead. Paolo suspected something—not the full truth perhaps, but enough to watch me more closely. I would need to be more careful, more deliberate in my preparations.
I pulled out the deed again, studying the ornate calligraphy that marked my mother's legacy—and now, my pathway to freedom. Tomorrow, I would find a more discreet solicitor to handle the transaction, someone with no connections to my father. The risk was enormous, but so was the potential reward: a new life with Antonio, far from the blood and shadows of the Benedetto name.
I replaced the ledger and extinguished the lamp. As I left the study, I could still feel my mother's painted eyes following me, her expression eternally frozen between sorrow and hope—much like my own heart as it beat out the diminishing days until our escape.
"Tell me about your mother," Sophia said, her voice carrying just enough to reach me but not the clusters of society patronsmilling around the Vitelli's lavish garden. The string quartet in the corner played something appropriately sophisticated while waiters circulated with champagne.
I looked at her, surprised by the question. We sat at a small table beneath a flowering trellis, the picture of courtship for all observing eyes. "Why do you ask?"
"You mentioned her villa yesterday," she replied, adjusting the silk shawl around her shoulders. "And there's a sadness in your eyes whenever her name arises."
I had underestimated Sophia's perceptiveness. "She died when I was eleven. Consumption."
"I'm sorry." Her hand briefly touched mine on the table—an acceptable public gesture between an engaged couple. "Was she very different from your father?"
I laughed softly, without humor. "In every way imaginable. She loved poetry and music. She taught me to appreciate beauty for its own sake, not as a possession to be acquired."
"She sounds remarkable."
"She was." I stared into my champagne glass. "She never quite... belonged in my father's world. Sometimes I wonder if that's what killed her, more than the disease. The constant compromise of herself."
Sophia's eyes—intelligent and clear—studied me. "And you fear the same fate?"
The question struck too close to the truth. I deflected. "Don't we all wonder if we'll repeat our parents' mistakes?"
"Some mistakes seem inevitable," she said quietly. "Especially when others make our choices for us."
The statement hung between us, laden with shared understanding. In that moment, I felt a genuine connection with Sophia Vitelli that transcended our arranged circumstances. We were both prisoners of our families' ambitions, playing roles assigned to us from birth.
"If you could choose differently," I found myself asking, "what would your life look like?"
She looked startled by the question, then thoughtful. "I'd study at university. Art history, perhaps." A faint smile touched her lips. "My father considers such education wasted on a daughter destined for marriage and bearing children."
"You deserve more than to be a decorative addition to someone's household," I said sincerely.
"As do you, Lorenzo." Her gaze was direct now, unsettlingly perceptive. "We both deserve lives of our own making."
Guilt twisted in my stomach. Here I was, planning my escape while this intelligent woman resigned herself to her fate. I wondered briefly, madly, if I should tell her the truth—if she might even help us. The thought vanished as quickly as it formed. Involving Sophia would only endanger her alongside us.
"Perhaps we can create something worthwhile together," I offered instead, the platitude tasting false on my tongue.
Her smile turned sad. "Perhaps."
We were interrupted by her father approaching with mine, both men looking pleased at our apparent intimacy.
"The young couple seems to be getting along splendidly," Vitelli announced, clapping my shoulder.
