Page 65 of The Seventh Circle
"The point, nephew, is that duty and happiness aren't always opposed." He turned back to me. "But sometimes they are. And when that happens, a man must decide what kind of life he wishes to lead."
My breath caught. "What are you saying, Uncle?"
"I'm saying I've watched you since you were a boy. You have your mother's heart—too gentle for the world we've built." A sadness crossed his face. "Your father believes he can shape you into his image through force of will. Paolo believes he can use your nature against you."
"And what do you believe?"
"I believe a trapped animal will eventually chew off its own leg to escape." He approached, lowering his voice. "Whatever you're planning, Lorenzo, do it before the celebration. Afterward will be too late."
I stared at him, stunned. "You know?"
"I know enough to recognize a man preparing to run." He placed a hand on my shoulder. "I won't help you—my loyalty to your father is absolute. But neither will I stop you, if you're clever about it."
"Why tell me this?"
"Because you remind me of your mother, and I couldn'tsave her from this life." His hand fell away. "Write your speech, nephew. Be prepared for either path you choose."
He left as silently as he'd arrived, leaving me breathless with the realization that I had more allies than I'd imagined—and that the window for action was closing faster than I'd feared.
The celebration was less than seventy-two hours away. By then, I needed to either secure my escape with Antonio or resign myself to the life my father had chosen for me.
Sophia's words echoed in my mind: Choose freedom over duty.
The hardest choice of all.
16
ANTONIO
Ireturned from Ostia with the taste of bile in my mouth. Three days of Paolo's company had taught me new definitions of cruelty. Not toward me—he'd been careful there, keeping me visible and unharmed—but I'd watched him extract a debt from a fisherman who'd fallen behind, leaving the man with three broken fingers and the understanding that next time would be worse.
"A reminder of consequences," Paolo had explained afterward, wiping blood from his knuckles with a handkerchief. "Something to consider, Romano."
The implied threat hung between us. My family. Enzo.
Now, walking through Trastevere's familiar streets toward home, every shadow seemed hostile. The neighborhood had changed—or perhaps I had. Eyes followed me, some fearful, others calculating. I'd become something dangerous by association, marked by my connection to the Benedettos.
"Tonio!" Enzo burst through our door before I'd even reached it, throwing himself against me. "You're back!"
I crushed him to my chest, breathing in the scent of soap and pencil lead that clung to him. "Miss me, piccolo?"
"Every day." He pulled back, eyes bright. "Did you bring me anything from the sea?"
I produced a small parcel from my pocket—a carved wooden boat I'd bought from an old man on the docks. "Made by a sailor who's seen all the way to America."
Enzo took it reverently. "Tell me everything."
"Let your brother come inside first," Mama called from the doorway, her smile tight with worry. "He looks half-starved."
The apartment smelled of garlic and basil, Mama's sauce simmering on the stove. Papa sat at the table, newspaper forgotten as I entered. The familiar crease between his brows deepened.
"Antonio."
"Papa."
For three days, I'd dreamed of this moment—returning to the safety of our small rooms, the uncomplicated love of my family. But now that I was here, everything felt fragile, as if made of spun glass that might shatter with a careless word.
Over dinner, I avoided their questions about Ostia, spinning tales for Enzo about fishing boats and seagulls while exchanging careful glances with my parents. They knew enough not to press. The wounds on my knuckles told their own story.
