Page 69 of The Seventh Circle
Then I stood, a coldness settling over me like winter frost.
I knew what I had to do.
From beneath the loose floorboard under my bed, I retrieved my knife—the good one, not the everyday blade I carried. This one had a weighted handle, a steel edge that could split hairs. I'd used it only twice before, both times for the Benedettos. Both times I'd felt sick afterward.
Now I felt nothing but ice in my veins.
I found Papa's old work shirt, the one he'd worn in the mines before his injury. I tore it into strips, binding my knuckles the way boxers did before a fight. I tucked the knife into my belt, then took the small pistol I'd hidden inside the kitchen wall—a gift from Papa months ago that I'd never wanted to use.
Tonight, I would use it. All thoughts of leaving with Lorenzo fled my mind, the need for vengeance consumed me.
I knew where Vito would be. Thursday nights he collected from the gambling dens near the river, always ending at La Rosa tavern where he kept a room upstairs. He'd be surrounded by his men, protected.
It didn't matter. Nothing mattered except making him pay.
I paused at the door, looking back at our small apartment one last time. This place that had been home. The worn table where we'd shared meals. The cracked window Papa had patched with newspaper. The corner where Mama hung herbs to dry.
My family wouldn't have a proper burial. By the time anyone found them, I'd likely be dead too. I wouldn't get to say goodbye to Lorenzo either. The thought should have troubled me, but it felt distant, academic. Like something happening to someone else.
"I'll see you soon," I whispered, then closed the door behind me.
The night air hit my face, cool against skin that felt fevered. Paolo's men were watching the building—I knew thatnow. Let them watch. Let them follow. It didn't matter anymore.
I moved through the streets like a ghost, all my enforcer's training focused on one purpose. Where normally I'd check corners, avoid patterns, tonight I walked directly, openly. The knife at my belt and the gun in my waistband gave me a terrible confidence.
"Antonio!"
A voice called from behind me—Marcella Rossi, the flower seller's daughter who'd thanked me just days ago.
"Antonio, what's wrong? You're covered in—" She broke off, eyes widening at the blood staining my clothes.
I kept walking, deaf to her calls. The world had narrowed to a single point—Vito Torrino's throat beneath my blade.
La Rosa tavern glowed at the end of the street, yellow light spilling from its windows, raucous laughter floating on the night air. Two men lounged outside—Torrino's guards, their posture casual but eyes alert. They straightened as I approached, hands moving toward hidden weapons.
The first guard never had time to draw. My knife opened his throat in a clean, practiced motion—the same wound Vito had given Papa. He dropped with a gurgle, eyes wide with surprise.
The second man managed to pull his pistol, but my momentum carried me forward. I slammed into him, driving my knife between his ribs with such force the handle hit his chest. He fired wild, the shot going high above my head, before slumping against the tavern wall.
Inside, heads turned at the gunshot. I stepped through the door, blood dripping from my knife, Papa's torn shirt wrapped around my knuckles now soaked crimson with the man's pistol in one hand and my knife in the other.
"Where is he?" My voice sounded strange in my ears—flat, hollow.
The tavern fell silent. A dozen faces stared, frozen in shock. None of them mattered. Only Vito.
A burly man—another of Torrino's guards—recovered first, lunging toward me. I sidestepped, letting his momentum carry him past, then brought the butt of the gun down on the back of his skull with a sickening crack.
"Vito Torrino," I said again, louder. "Where is he?"
A serving girl pointed shakily toward the stairs. I moved past her, stepping over the fallen guard.
The tavern erupted behind me. Shouts, breaking glass, a woman's scream. I ignored it all, taking the stairs two at a time.
At the top landing, two more guards waited. They'd heard the commotion and stood ready, guns drawn.
"That's far enough, Romano," one said, his aim steady.
Time slowed. I saw their fingers on triggers, calculated distances, angles. The old Antonio would have stopped, raised his hands, found another way.
