Page 10 of The Seventh Circle (The Lost Cantos #1)

No answer came, just the distant murmur of old women praying and the soft footsteps of Father Giuseppe preparing for morning mass.

I fingered the scarf in my pocket, feeling the fine material. Lorenzo had money, position, a future mapped out for him. Yet he'd envied my freedom to read, to choose, not realizing I had almost no choices at all. The irony wasn't lost on me.

A shuffle of feet announced the arrival of more parishioners for morning mass. I'd been here longer than I'd realized. I should go—stop at home to check on Mama and Enzo, then report to the Benedetto house for today's collections.

I'd see Lorenzo today. The thought sent a thrill through me that was equal parts terror and anticipation.

Rising from my knees, I made the sign of the cross and slipped the rosary back into my pocket. Father Giuseppe caught my eye as I turned to leave, giving me a small, understanding nod. I ducked my head, both grateful and embarrassed.

Outside, the morning sun had risen fully, bathing Trastevere in golden light. The streets were alive now, vendors calling their wares, children running errands, women hanging laundry from windows.

Regular lives. Normal lives.

I touched the scarf in my pocket once more, then deliberately withdrew my hand. I couldn't wear it—not yet, maybe not ever. But I couldn't leave it behind either.

Whatever happened with Lorenzo, I would need to be careful. For both our sakes.

Taking a deep breath of the morning air, rich with the scents of bread and humanity, I turned toward home, preparing myself to be Antonio the provider, Antonio the enforcer, Antonio the good son.

But in my heart, for the first time, I allowed myself to wonder about another possibility: Antonio the lover, Antonio who might be loved in return.

LORENZO

The grandfather clock in the hallway struck four, its sonorous chimes echoing through the Benedetto mansion. I hadn't slept. Hadn't even tried. Instead, I sat at my window seat, watching the darkness slowly surrender to dawn, a book of poetry abandoned beside me.

Antonio had consumed my thoughts all night—the quiet intelligence, the controlled power, and the unexpected gentleness with struggling shopkeepers. Most of all, the fleeting vulnerability when our fingers had touched as he accepted my scarf.

I pressed my forehead against the cool glass, watching my breath fog the pane. This obsession was becoming dangerous. Father had already remarked on my distraction at yesterday's family meeting. Paolo had questioned my unusual interest in collections. If others began to suspect...

The Benedetto heir couldn't desire a male enforcer. It was unthinkable. Impossible. A death sentence for us both.

Yet I couldn't stop.

As the first rays of sun gilded the rooftops of Rome, I made a decision. I dressed quickly, choosing clothes more modest than my usual attire—a simple suit, without the signifiers of wealth that separated me from common men. From him.

"Taking the motorcar, sir?" My father's driver asked as I emerged from the house.

"No. I'll walk."

His surprise was evident but he knew better than to question a Benedetto. I needed movement, needed to feel the city as it awakened rather than observe it from behind glass and privilege.

I cut through the private gardens, a shortcut known only to the family, emerging onto Via del Corso where shopkeepers were raising their shutters.

A newspaper boy shouted headlines about tensions in the Balkans.

Women with market baskets nodded respectfully as I passed, eyes downcast. Two policemen stiffened to attention, then deliberately looked elsewhere—my father's monthly payments ensuring their convenient blindness.

This was the Benedetto empire in microcosm: fear, respect, and strategic blindness, all maintained through carefully applied violence.

"Signor Benedetto!" A florist beckoned me with a nervous smile. "Please, a rose for your buttonhole today? On the house, of course."

I accepted the flower with practiced grace, though the gesture made me feel hollow. Another transaction built on fear rather than genuine goodwill. Did anyone in this city interact with me as a man rather than a symbol of power?

Antonio did. The thought surfaced unbidden.

I turned down an alley, seeking a less public route. Morning light slanted between buildings, illuminating crumbling Roman stonework alongside newer construction. The contrasts of Rome—ancient and modern, sacred and profane, beauty amid decay—reflected the contradictions within me.

The spire of Santa Maria degli Angeli appeared above the rooftops, drawing me forward. I hadn't planned this destination, yet found myself unsurprised. Where else would a sinner seek absolution?

I pushed through the heavy doors with the confidence of a man whose family had donated enough to purchase several gilded saints. The church interior enveloped me in cool shadow and ancient silence, the morning light filtering through stained glass to paint the stone floor in jewel colors.

No Benedetto man had made genuine confession in generations. We paid for indulgences instead, bought our way into heaven as we bought everything else. But today, I moved toward the confessional with purpose, drawn by a need deeper than family tradition or appearances.

What I wanted.

My hand trembled as I pulled the curtain closed behind me, kneeling in darkness. The screen slid open between myself and the unseen priest.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned." The childhood words emerged from some deep memory. "It has been... many years since my last confession."

"God welcomes all who return to Him," the priest replied softly. "Tell me what troubles your soul, my son."

I drew a breath. "I desire someone I cannot have. Someone forbidden."

"Another man's wife?" There was no judgment in the question, merely gentle inquiry.

"No." I swallowed hard. "Another man."

The silence that followed stretched between us like a chasm. I braced myself for condemnation, for disgust, for the fury of God's representative on earth.

"I see," the priest finally said, his voice unchanged. "And this troubles you?"

A harsh laugh escaped me before I could stop it. "Troubles me? Father, it consumes me. It's all I can think about. I dream of him. I ache for him. And I know—I know—it's impossible."

"Because of the Church's teaching?" he asked.

"Because of who I am." I pressed my forehead against the wooden partition. "I'm the heir to the Benedetto family. I'm expected to marry, to continue our line. To maintain our position."

A soft exhale from the other side. "Lorenzo Benedetto."

I stiffened, ready to flee. The priest knowing my identity changed everything.

"Yes," I admitted.

"And the man you desire—he works for your family?"

My blood turned to ice. "How did you—"

"I am Father Giuseppe Conti," he said simply. "I hear many confessions in this neighborhood."

Antonio. Antonio had been here. Had confessed the same torment.

"Has he—" I began, then stopped myself. "No, I can't ask that. The seal of confession."

"Indeed." I could hear the smile in his voice. "But I can say that God does not create feelings to torment us. All love comes from Him, even love that the world condemns."

"This isn't just about sin," I insisted. "If my father discovered such feelings—such actions—it would mean death. Not just for me. For him."

Father Giuseppe was silent for a long moment. "The world is cruel to those who love differently. But cruelty is not God's way."

"What are you saying, Father?"

"I'm saying that fear is a poor reason to deny love." His voice grew softer. "And I'm saying that discretion is wisdom, not cowardice."

I felt dizzy, as if the confessional were spinning around me. "You're not condemning me? Not telling me to pray away these feelings?"

"Would such prayers work?" he asked gently.

"No," I admitted. "I've tried."

"Then perhaps they aren't meant to." He paused. "Lorenzo, I cannot tell you what path to take. I can only remind you that God sees into hearts, not just actions. That love—true love that cares for the other's soul and well-being—is never a sin in God's eyes, whatever men may say."

"But the physical—"

"I'm not encouraging you to act on these feelings," he interrupted quickly. "Only suggesting that the feelings themselves may not be the evil you believe them to be. The circumstances—your family, your position—those create genuine danger that cannot be ignored."

I exhaled slowly. "So you're saying...what exactly?"

"I'm saying that whatever you decide, God will not abandon you." His voice was kind but firm. "And that perhaps there are ways to be true to your heart while keeping both yourself and this man safe."

"Is that really possible?" I whispered.

"With courage, discretion, and God's help—perhaps.

" He sighed. "For your penance, I ask you to reflect on the Gospel of John, chapter fifteen, verse thirteen: 'Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one's life for one's friends.

' Consider what true love means—placing the other's well-being above your desires. "

I nodded, though he couldn't see me. "Thank you, Father."

"Make your Act of Contrition, and I will grant absolution."

I stumbled through the prayer, the words feeling both foreign and achingly familiar on my tongue. When I finished, Father Giuseppe's voice washed over me with the ritual of absolution.

"Go in peace," he concluded.

"Thank you," I said again, rising unsteadily.

I emerged from the confessional feeling strangely light, as if some great weight had been lifted from my shoulders. Not completely—the dangers remained, the impossibility of my situation unchanged—but the crushing shame had receded.

I slipped into a pew and knelt, not praying so much as thinking. Antonio had been here. Had confessed the same struggle. The knowledge was like a flame kindled in my chest—dangerous, yes, but also warming, illuminating.

I wasn't alone in this.

Father Giuseppe's words echoed in my mind. "Discretion is wisdom, not cowardice." Was he actually suggesting that Antonio and I might find a way? The thought was so unexpected, so contrary to everything I'd been raised to believe, that I almost laughed aloud in the quiet church.

Yet I couldn't dismiss it. If Antonio felt as I did—and the priest's words suggested he might—then perhaps there was a path forward. A dangerous, narrow path, yes. One that would require constant vigilance and care. But a path nonetheless.

My father's voice intruded: "Weakness is death in our world." He'd say this feeling was weakness, vulnerability that enemies could exploit.

But perhaps there was strength in it too. The strength to reach for happiness despite the risks. The courage to be fully alive, not just a hollow vessel for the Benedetto legacy.

I rose from the pew, nodding respectfully toward the altar before turning to leave. Outside, the morning had brightened, the streets now bustling with activity. I would need to return home soon, resume my duties, maintain the facade of the dutiful heir.

But something had changed. A decision had crystallized within me, not fully formed but growing stronger with each breath.

I would see Antonio today. We would collect payments together, as had become our routine. And somehow, I would find a way to speak to him alone. To discover if what I sensed between us was real, if he felt it too.

The risk was enormous. One wrong word, one misinterpreted glance, and everything could collapse. My family would disown me at best, kill us both at worst. We would need to be careful, patient, strategic.

But for the first time since these feelings had awakened in me, I allowed myself to consider that they might not be my damnation.

They might, against all odds, be my salvation.

I walked more quickly now, purpose in my stride.

There would be no grand declarations, no reckless actions.

Just a careful testing of the waters, a subtle signal that I was open to.

.. something. If Antonio responded in kind, we would proceed with caution.

If not, I would retreat, protecting us both from any fallout.

The thought of seeing him again sent a flutter through my chest that was equal parts terror and anticipation, leaving me lightheaded.

Was this what it felt like to choose one's own path? This dizzying mixture of fear and exhilaration?

As I approached the Benedetto estate, I composed my features into the mask of the dutiful son. No one could suspect the rebellion brewing beneath my skin, the possibility I now dared to consider.

Antonio would arrive soon for our day's work. And I would take the first small, terrifying step toward claiming something for myself, something not dictated by my father or our family's bloody history.

For once in my life, I would risk not for the Benedetto name, but for Lorenzo—the man I might become if I dared to love and be loved in return.