Page 74 of The Seventh Circle
"You must," he insisted. "Live. For both of us."
I took the gun from my father's hand, feeling its weight—the weight of my family legacy, of expectation, of violence.
"Look at me," Antonio said softly. "Only at me."
I raised the gun, my vision blurring with tears. Antonio stood tall despite his wounds, his gaze steady on mine.
"I love you," he mouthed silently.
I pulled the trigger.
The gunshot echoed through the small room. Antonio jerked backwards, a bloom of red spreading across his chest. He crumpled to the floor, his eyes still open, still fixed on mine as the light began to fade from them.
Father Giuseppe rushed forward, kneeling beside Antonio. I stood frozen, the gun still extended, smoke curling from the barrel.
"You've done well, son," Father said, his hand heavy on my shoulder. "Now we can put this... unfortunate business behind us."
Father Giuseppe bent over Antonio, murmuring the last rites. His hand moved in the sign of the cross. Then he looked up, his face grave.
"He's gone."
My father nodded, satisfied. "Paolo, have the body removed. Lorenzo, come with me. We have much to discuss before tomorrow's celebration."
I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. The world had narrowed to Antonio's still form, to the blood pooling beneath him, to the eyes that would never again look at me with love.
"Lorenzo," Father's voice hardened. "Now."
Somehow, I followed him from the room, leaving Antoniobehind. Each step felt like walking through deep water, like moving against an impossible current.
In the hallway, Father placed both hands on my shoulders. "You've proven yourself tonight. I know that wasn't easy, but it was necessary. Some weaknesses must be cut away, like diseased limbs."
I looked at him—this man I had feared and respected my entire life—and felt nothing but hollowness.
"Yes, Father," I said, my voice flat.
"Good. Go clean yourself up. We'll speak more in the morning."
He walked away, Paolo following after a last smug glance in my direction. I stood alone in the hallway, the ghost of the gun's recoil still vibrating through my arm.
Antonio was gone. My love, my future, my hope for something beyond this life of violence and control—all gone with a single bullet. My bullet.
I made my way to my room, moving like a sleepwalker. Once inside, I locked the door and sank to the floor, back against the wall. Only then did I allow the tears to come, silent and wrenching, tearing through me like knives.
I had killed the only person who had ever truly known me, ever truly loved me. I had chosen family over love, duty over freedom. I had become exactly what my father always wanted me to be—a true Benedetto.
And in doing so, I had killed myself as surely as I had killed Antonio.
The gun was still in my hand. I looked down at it, considering. One more bullet. One quick end to the emptiness stretching before me. It would be easy. Easier than facing tomorrow, and all the tomorrows after, without Antonio.
I raised the gun slowly, feeling its weight for the secondtime that night. This time, I pressed the barrel against my own temple, finger curling around the trigger.
"I'm sorry," I whispered to the empty room. To Antonio. To the man I might have been, in another life.
I closed my eyes.
19
LORENZO
