Page 70 of The Seventh Circle
But the old Antonio died with his family.
I fired twice. The first shot took the speaker in the chest. The second caught his companion in the shoulder, spinning him against the wall. Before he could recover, I closed the distance between us and drove my knife up under his chin.
The door at the end of the hall burst open. Vito stood there, buttoning his shirt, face twisted with rage.
"You stupid bastard," he spat. "You think you can come here alone? Against all my men?"
"You killed my family." My voice sounded calm, detached.
A cruel smile spread across his face. "The little brother cried for you. Begged me to wait until you came home." He laughed.
Something broke inside me—the last thread of restraint, of humanity. I charged him with a roar that didn't sound human.
Vito was fast—they called him The Blade for a reason. The knife appeared in his hand like magic, slashing across my chest. Pain bloomed, hot and sharp, but I didn't slow. I crashed into him, driving us both back into the room.
We fell together, rolling across the floor in a tangle of limbs and blades. His knife found my shoulder, then my side. Each cut fueled my rage rather than weakening it.
I smashed my forehead into his face, feeling his nose shatter. Blood sprayed between us. He howled, slashing wildly. The knife sliced my cheek open to the bone, but I barely felt it.
My hands found his throat. I squeezed with every ounce of strength I possessed, watching his eyes bulge, his face purple. He stabbed me again, the blade sinking deep into my thigh. I didn't loosen my grip.
"My brother," I hissed, squeezing harder. "My mother. My father."
Vito's eyes rolled back. His knife hand went limp. But it wasn't enough. Death was too quick, too clean for what he'd done.
I released his throat, grabbed his knife from his slack fingers, and began my work. Each cut was deliberate, precise. I carved my family's names into his flesh. With each letter, I whispered their names.
"Enzo." Cut.
"Maria." Cut.
"Elio." Cut.
Blood soaked the floorboards beneath us, mine mingling with his. The room swam before my eyes, my own wounds finally making themselves known. I didn't stop until I'd finished, until Vito Torrino was a ruined canvas bearing myfamily's memorial.
He was still alive, barely. Conscious enough to understand.
"Remember their names in hell," I whispered, then drew my blade across his throat—the same killing stroke he'd used on Papa.
I slumped beside his body, suddenly aware of the shouting from downstairs, the pounding footsteps on the stairs. More of Torrino's men coming. Or maybe the police. It didn't matter. My task was complete.
I tried to stand but my legs wouldn't cooperate. Blood pooled around me—how much was mine, how much Vito's, I couldn't tell. The room tilted sideways. I thought of Enzo's face, peaceful in death. Of Lorenzo waiting at the church, not knowing I wouldn't come.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, though I wasn't sure to whom.
The door burst open. I raised my gun with a hand that suddenly felt weighted with lead, finger tightening on the trigger.
"Romano! Stop!"
Paolo stood in the doorway, his eyes widening as he took in the scene—Vito's mutilated body, the blood-soaked floor, me slumped against the wall leaving a crimson smear.
"You did this," I said, my voice barely audible. "You sent me away. You knew they'd be alone."
"Not like this," he said, stepping carefully through the blood. "This wasn't supposed to happen."
"Liar," I spat, struggling to my feet. Every movement sent pain shooting through my wounds, but rage gave me strength. "You wanted me gone. You wanted them vulnerable."
Paolo's face hardened. "Think about what you're saying, Antonio. Think about who you're accusing."
