Page 1 of The Seventh Circle (The Lost Cantos #1)

LORENZO

The study smelled of leather and old tobacco, scents that had permeated the mahogany walls since my childhood.

My father sat behind his massive desk like a judge preparing to deliver sentence, his fingers steepled as he studied me with those calculating eyes that had terrified grown men into submission.

The morning light filtered through heavy curtains, casting shadows that danced across the maps spread before him—our territory marked in red ink, the Torrino holdings in black.

"The Torrino dogs have been sniffing around the San Lorenzo market for three weeks now," Don Salvatore said, his voice carrying the weight of absolute authority. "Giovanni thinks he can muscle in on our protection routes while we sleep. Time to remind him why that's a mistake."

I stood perfectly still, hands clasped behind my back in the military posture he'd drilled into me since I could walk.

The uniform of respectful attention, even as my stomach churned at what was coming.

The market. Another territory dispute. Another day of breaking bones and spilling blood to maintain the delicate balance of fear that kept our world spinning.

"Vito Torrino has been collecting from the vendors," my father continued, tracing a finger along the market's boundaries on the map.

"Two of ours, three independents who've been paying us for years.

Yesterday he had the audacity to tell old Signora Benedetti that she didn't need our protection anymore. "

The insult hung in the air like incense in church—thick and demanding response.

My father's jaw tightened, and I recognised the cold fury that preceded bloodshed.

I'd seen that expression countless times growing up, usually followed by someone disappearing or turning up in the Tiber with their throat cut.

"What would you do, Lorenzo?"

The question I'd been dreading. My father's tests always came disguised as consultations, but I knew he was measuring my worthiness to inherit his empire. Every answer weighed against his vision of what a don should be—ruthless, decisive, willing to drown the world in blood to protect what was his.

"Cut off the head," I said, the words tasting like ash. "Make an example of Vito that Giovanni can't ignore. Show the market vendors what happens when they forget who protects them."

My father's smile was sharp as a blade. "Good. But not just Vito—too clean, too surgical. We need theatre. The vendors need to see the consequences of disloyalty, and the Torrinos need to understand that challenging us costs more than they're willing to pay."

He rose from his chair, moving to the window that overlooked our neighbourhood.

From here, he could see the bakery where Signora Benedetti made bread that had fed me as a child, the cobbler's shop where my first shoes had been crafted, the small church where I'd taken first communion with my mother's hand on my shoulder.

All of it his domain, all of it maintained through violence that stained everything it touched.

"You'll take Romano with you," he said without turning around. "The boy's got a good head on his shoulders, and he understands what's at stake. More importantly, he knows how to follow orders without asking uncomfortable questions."

Antonio. The name sent an unexpected flutter through my chest—equal parts relief and something I couldn't name.

I'd worked with him twice before, small jobs where I'd been impressed by his efficiency and unnerved by his intelligence.

There was something in his eyes, a gentleness that seemed impossible in our world, that made me wonder what he might have been in a different life.

"The market opens at dawn," my father continued. "Vito makes his collections around mid-morning when the vendors have had time to count their earnings. You'll be waiting for him."

"And if Giovanni retaliates?"

"Then we escalate until he remembers his place.

" My father's reflection in the window looked like a death mask, all sharp angles and cold determination.

"This family has held this territory for thirty years, Lorenzo.

We didn't build our reputation through compromise or half-measures, you know that. "

I nodded, though he couldn't see me. The weight of succession pressed down like a stone slab—every decision I made, every life I took, another step toward becoming the man he needed me to be. The man I wasn't sure I wanted to become.

"There's something else," he said, finally turning to face me. His eyes searched my face with the intensity of a confessor reading souls. "Word has reached me that you've been... distant lately. Distracted. This concerns me."

My blood turned to ice water. Had someone seen something? Said something? The careful walls I'd built around my private thoughts suddenly felt tissue-thin.

"I've been focused on the family business, nothing more."

"Have you?" He stepped closer, and I forced myself not to retreat. "Because leadership requires total commitment, Lorenzo. A don cannot afford divided loyalties or... questionable attachments. The men need to see strength, not weakness."

The words hung between us like an accusation. I kept my expression neutral, though my heart hammered against my ribs. How much did he know? How much did he suspect?

"I understand, Papa."

"Do you?" He reached out and straightened my collar with movements that could have been paternal or threatening.

"Because the alternative to understanding is replacement.

This family's survival comes before everything—before comfort, before personal desires, before individual conscience. Everything."

I met his gaze without flinching, though it cost me. "The family comes first. Always."

He studied me for another long moment, then nodded. "Good. Take care of the Torrino problem, and take care of it permanently. Show me that my son is ready to inherit what I've built."

Dismissed, I turned toward the door, but his voice stopped me at the threshold.

"Lorenzo." I looked back to find him watching me with something that might have been affection, if affection could coexist with the coldness in his eyes. "Your mother would have been proud to see the man you've become. Strong. Decisive. Willing to do what's necessary."

The mention of my mother hit like a physical blow.

She'd died when I was twelve, too young to understand the full scope of what my father was, old enough to remember her gentle hands and quiet prayers.

Would she truly have been proud to see me break men's bones for money?

To see me become another link in a chain of violence that stretched back generations?

"Thank you, Papa."

I left the study with my father's expectations weighing on my shoulders like a funeral shroud.

The hallway stretched ahead of me, lined with portraits of dead relatives who'd built this empire through blood and betrayal.

Their painted eyes seemed to follow my progress, judging whether I was worthy to join their ranks.

"There he is—the prince himself!"

The booming voice belonged to my uncle Federico, my father's younger brother and most trusted lieutenant.

He emerged from the drawing room with a half-empty glass of brandy in hand, though it wasn't yet noon.

His presence in the house meant something significant was brewing; Uncle Federico preferred to oversee our shipping interests at the docks rather than engage in family politics.

"Zio," I nodded respectfully. "I didn't know you were back from Naples."

He clapped my shoulder with a hand heavy enough to buckle lesser men's knees. "Your father called me back. The Torrinos are making moves we can't ignore." His eyes, the same calculating shade as my father's, studied my face. "You've been given the market situation, I hear."

"Just now. I'm meeting Romano to handle it."

"Romano." He swirled his brandy thoughtfully.

"Good choice. That boy understands loyalty in his bones.

Not like some of these new recruits who think this is all about money.

" He leaned closer, breath sharp with alcohol and secrets.

"Listen, nipote, this market business—it's not just about a few lire from vegetable vendors. "

I waited, knowing Uncle Federico's information was always worth the patience.

"The Benedettos have held the San Lorenzo market since your grandfather wrested it from the Calabrians in '79.

Three generations of blood spilled to keep it.

Your grandfather lost two brothers in that fight.

" His voice dropped further. "But more importantly, it's the gateway to the eastern neighbourhoods.

Whoever controls that market controls the flow of goods—legitimate and otherwise—to five thousand people. "

"And the Torrinos want more than just the protection money," I concluded.

"Exactly." He tapped his temple. "Always thinking, just like your father.

The Torrinos started as nothing—dock rats and thieves when we were already established.

Giovanni Torrino's father was a fishmonger who couldn't even write his name.

Now his son thinks he can challenge the family that's been Roman nobility since before Garibaldi's time. "

The Benedetto origin story—I'd heard it countless times.

We weren't just criminals; we were aristocracy who'd simply adapted to changing times.

Three generations of calculated violence had transformed our family from minor nobility with dwindling fortunes to the most powerful criminal organization in central Italy.