Page 5 of The Seventh Circle
Then I spotted them—Vito and three menentering from the east side. "There," I murmured. "With the blue cap and fancy shoes."
Lorenzo followed my gaze to Vito Torrino, who was strutting more than walking between stalls. Even from this distance, I could see the flash of his rings as he gestured, the slight bulge of a shoulder holster beneath his expensive jacket. His men spread out behind him, creating a small procession designed to intimidate.
"I see what you mean about the show," Lorenzo said quietly.
We watched as Vito approached the first stall, leaning over to speak with the fishmonger, whose face tightened with fear. Money changed hands—too much, from the vendor's expression. Then they moved to the next stall, repeating the performance.
"Four stalls to go," I said. "Then they'll reach the alley."
Lorenzo nodded. "Follow my lead."
We separated slightly, moving into position. I felt the familiar pre-fight stillness settle over me—senses sharpening, movements becoming more deliberate. I carried no gun today, just the knife in my boot and the one at my belt. Guns made too much noise, attracted too much attention. This needed to be personal.
Vito reached the alley entrance, still laughing at something one of his men had said. Then Lorenzo stepped out directly in front of him, cutting off his path. I positioned myself behind, trapping them in the narrow space.
"Torrino," Lorenzo said, his voice carrying just enough to attract attention without shouting. "You seem to be collecting from the wrong vendors."
Vito's face shifted from surprise to anger to a calculated smirk in the space of seconds. "Benedetto's puppy," hesneered, glancing at his men who were already reaching inside their jackets. "Come to yap at me about territory?"
"Not yap," Lorenzo said calmly. "Remind."
The market had gone silent around us, vendors and shoppers freezing in place, sensing the violence about to erupt. I kept my focus on the three men behind Vito, marking which was likely to move first. The tallest one had his hand already on what was undoubtedly a pistol.
"Your father should have taught you better manners," Vito said, his hand dropping to his waistband where I knew he kept his favourite blade. "But I'm happy to provide the lesson."
Everything happened at once. The tall man drew his pistol, but I was already moving, my fist connecting with his throat before he could aim. Lorenzo ducked as the second man lunged, using his momentum to slam him face-first into the brick wall. The third man managed to throw a punch that grazed Lorenzo's jaw before I caught his arm, twisting until something cracked.
Vito had drawn his knife—a wicked, curved blade that caught the morning light. He slashed at Lorenzo with surprising speed, forcing him back a step. I moved to intercept, but Lorenzo handled himself with unexpected grace, evading the blade like a dancer.
"You fight your own battles?" Vito taunted, circling. "I thought Benedettos just sent dogs to do their dirty work."
The insult was meant for me, but I felt no sting. I'd been called worse by better men. Instead, I used his distraction to position myself precisely where I needed to be.
When Vito lunged again, Lorenzo sidestepped perfectly—directly into the space I'd created. The momentum carried Vito forward, off-balance, and I struck with the precision my reputation was built on. My hand caught his wrist at exactly theright angle, applying pressure to the nerves that controlled his grip. The knife clattered to the cobblestones.
Before he could recover, I swept his legs from under him, driving him to his knees with a force that made the impact echo through the alley. In one fluid motion, I retrieved his fallen knife, pressing the tip against his throat just firmly enough to break the skin.
Lorenzo stepped forward, looking entirely unruffled despite the violence. His men were down—one clutching his throat, one bleeding from a broken nose, one cradling a fractured arm.
"The San Lorenzo market has been Benedetto territory for three generations," Lorenzo said, his voice pitched to carry to the gathered crowd. "The vendors here enjoy our protection, which means they enjoy peace." He crouched to meet Vito's eyes. "Your father knows this. He's apparently forgotten to teach you proper respect."
Vito's face contorted with hatred. "The Sicilians—"
"The Sicilians won't be interested in a fool who can't hold a knife," Lorenzo cut him off. "Nor in someone who can't recognize the boundaries of power in Rome."
I maintained pressure on the blade, careful not to cut deeper than necessary. This wasn't about killing—it was about the memory of humiliation, the public display of weakness.
"Perhaps a reminder of those boundaries would help," Lorenzo continued. He looked at me, a silent communication passing between us, and I understood exactly what he wanted.
With deliberate movements, I cut—not Vito's throat, but the expensive jacket he wore, slicing through the material to expose the shoulder holster and the pistol it contained. Then I cut again, severing the straps so the gun fell to the ground. A third cut removed his belt, sending his trousers sagging indecently.
The crowd that had gathered tittered nervously. Vito's face flushed deep red, humiliation replacing fear in his eyes. I moved the blade back to his throat.
"The traditional penalty for theft is the removal of the offending hand," Lorenzo said conversationally. "Collecting from our vendors is theft, Vito. But today, I'm feeling merciful."
I saw the moment Vito realized he wasn't going to die—relief followed immediately by a different kind of fear. The fear of returning to his father as a failure, publicly humiliated.
"Take your men and go," Lorenzo said. "Tell Giovanni that the Benedettos send their regards and their expectations of proper respect in the future."
