Page 4 of The Seventh Circle
Something flickered across his face—surprise, perhaps appreciation. "And what does Vito see when he watches us?"
"Nothing yet," I said. "He hasn't been paying attention to the right things."
"And what are the right things, Romano?"
The question carried a weight I couldn't quite interpret. I met his gaze directly, allowing myself the dangerous luxury of really looking at him—the aristocratic features softened by something his father's face never showed, the intelligence behind eyes that noticed more than they should.
"Patterns," I said finally. "Motivations. Where the power actually flows, not where people think it does."
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "And where does it flow?"
"Not always where the Dons believe." A reckless statement, but something about Lorenzo had always pulled truth from me like water from a deep well.
Instead of offense, I saw interest sharpen his gaze. He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice. "My father believes a message needs sending today. Something memorable."
"How memorable?" I asked, needing to know the boundaries of what was expected.
"Enough to discourage further encroachment without starting a war." He traced the rim of his cup with one elegant finger. "I've been told Vito is seeking Sicilian backing. That changes the calculation."
I absorbed this new information, understanding immediately why Don Salvatore had paired his son with me rather than his nephew Paolo, who was known more for his creativity with pain than intelligence. This required precision, not just brutality.
"We'll need to be public enough for witnesses, controlled enough to avoid Sicilian intervention," I said, thinking aloud. "Humiliation more than damage."
Lorenzo nodded, and something passed between us—ashared understanding that violence was a language we both spoke but neither of us particularly enjoyed. I'd seen how he washed blood from his hands after our last job, the careful, almost ritualistic movements like a priest cleansing himself after communion.
"Vito makes his rounds at mid-morning," I said. "We should position ourselves now."
He finished his espresso in one smooth motion and stood. "Lead the way, Romano. You know the territory better than I do."
We walked together through streets still waking to the day, vendors pushing carts toward the market, women hanging laundry from balconies. Lorenzo matched my pace naturally, neither rushing ahead nor falling behind—a small thing that nonetheless set him apart from other family men who always needed to establish dominance through something as simple as walking.
"The book," Lorenzo said suddenly. "What were you reading?"
The question caught me off-guard. "Dante," I admitted. "The Inferno."
"A cheerful morning selection," he remarked, with that almost-smile again.
"We're about to descend into our own circle of hell," I said. "Seemed appropriate."
This time he did smile, brief but genuine. "Which circle awaits us, do you think?"
"Violence against neighbors," I replied. "Seventh circle, first ring."
His eyebrows lifted. "You know it well."
I shrugged, feeling suddenly self-conscious. "I read what I can find. My mother taught me letters before—" I stopped myself, not wanting to remind him of our differentbackgrounds. Before my father's back was broken in a dockyard accident. Before I became the family's sole provider at sixteen. Before I discovered my ability to hurt people could be converted into lire.
"My tutor made me memorize entire cantos," Lorenzo said, smoothly filling the awkward silence. "I always preferred Paradiso, though everyone expects a Benedetto to favour the Inferno."
The simple confession—a preference that contradicted expectations—hung between us like a small, significant gift. I tucked it away carefully, another piece of the puzzle that was Lorenzo Benedetto.
We reached the market as vendors were setting up their stalls. The air filled with the mingled scents of fresh bread, ripe produce, and fish packed in ice. I noticed how Lorenzo observed everything without seeming to—the layout, the sightlines, the potential escape routes. Not just the heir following orders, but a strategist planning for contingencies.
"There," I said quietly, nodding toward a narrow alley between stalls. "Vito always starts at the far corner with the fishmonger, works his way clockwise. That position gives us the advantage of surprise and control over his exit."
Lorenzo assessed the spot and nodded. "Good. We wait."
We positioned ourselves strategically—visible enough to seem like ordinary market-goers, concealed enough to surprise. The next hour passed in watchful silence. I observed Lorenzo from the corner of my eye, noting how he blended effortlessly despite his fine clothes, how the vendors who recognized him gave respectful nods without making a spectacle. The heir moved in his family's territory like a fish in familiar waters.
