Page 11 of The Seventh Circle (The Lost Cantos #1)

ANTONIO

The church bells rang out noon as I stepped into the sunlight, blinking against its sudden brightness.

The weight of my confession still lingered, but differently now—no longer crushing my chest but sitting alongside me like an unexpected companion.

Father Giuseppe's words echoed in my mind.

"Love itself is not the sin." Could that be true?

Or was it merely what I desperately wanted to believe?

I walked through the market, barely registering the vendors calling their wares. The scarf Lorenzo had given me was tucked inside my jacket, close to my skin. A dangerous token, perhaps, but I couldn't bear to leave it behind.

A familiar voice jolted me from my thoughts. "Romano! Tonio Romano!"

I turned to see Matteo Russo, whose fruit stand sat at the corner of our street. He hurried toward me, wiping his hands on his apron.

"Been looking for you," he said, glancing nervously over his shoulder. "Those men came back this morning. Three of them this time."

My stomach tightened. "What men?"

"The ones asking questions." He lowered his voice. "About you and your family. One had a scar across his jaw—"

"Vito," I muttered.

"They were watching your building. Said they were friends of yours, but the way they watched..." Matteo shook his head. "My Lucia heard them asking the Widow Moretti which window was yours, which room your brother sleeps in."

Ice flooded my veins. "When?"

"Two hours ago, maybe three. They left when Signor Bianchi threatened to call the carabinieri."

I gripped his shoulder. "Thank you."

"Your father helped mine when times were bad. We don't forget." Matteo pressed an apple into my hand. "Be careful, Tonio."

I cut through back alleys, moving quickly but watching for followers. The apple remained untouched in my pocket, my appetite gone. Vito was escalating—asking about Enzo, mapping our home. This wasn't just about me anymore.

When I reached our tenement, I took the stairs two at a time. Inside, Mama was hanging laundry while Enzo practiced letters at the table.

"Tonio!" Enzo jumped up, his face brightening. "Can we go to the fountain today? You promised to show me how to skip stones."

I ruffled his hair, forcing a smile. "Soon, piccolo. Where's Papa?"

"He's taking a nap, keep it down or you'll wake him." Mama turned from the laundry, her eyes narrowing as she studied my face. "What's happened?"

I couldn't hide anything from her. Never could. "Nothing to worry about."

"Antonio." She crossed her arms.

I sighed. "Just some trouble with another family. Work business."

"The scarred man?" she asked.

I nodded, keeping my voice light for Enzo's benefit. "It's being handled. But maybe Enzo should stay with Aunt Teresa for a few days."

Enzo's face fell. "But you promised—"

"I know, and we'll go to the fountain soon," I knelt to his level. "Think of it as an adventure. Aunt Teresa has that cat you like, and those almond cookies."

Mama touched my cheek, her callused fingers gentle. "This man, he knows where we live?"

"He's asking questions, that's all."

Her eyes held mine. "The Benedettos will protect you? It is their fight, after all."

"Yes," I said, though the truth was more complicated. The Benedettos protected their interests, and I was useful to them. Lorenzo might want to help—Lorenzo might feel something for me beyond utility—but sentiment didn't dictate family business.

"I'll speak to your father when he wakes," she said. "Now eat something before you disappear again. You're too thin."

I forced down bread and cheese, checked our small apartment's locks and windows, then pressed the apple from Matteo into Enzo's hands before leaving.

As I descended the stairs, I ran through my options.

I could handle Vito myself, away from my family, but that risked escalation without the Benedetto name behind me.

I could also ask Lorenzo for help, but that meant admitting I couldn't protect my own family.

And seeing Lorenzo meant facing feelings I'd only just confessed to Father Giuseppe—feelings that might ruin everything if acted upon them.

The walk to the Benedetto compound took longer than usual. I circled blocks, doubled back, watched reflections in shop windows for followers. By the time I arrived, the afternoon was half gone.

Paolo met me at the gate, eyebrows raised. "You're late, Romano."

"Had some business to attend to," I said, matching his tone.

He studied me, then nodded toward the house. "Lorenzo's waiting in the study. Said you two have collections in the eastern quarter."

My heart quickened at Lorenzo's name. I kept my face neutral. "Any special instructions today?"

"Just the usual. Don't make a mess unless it's necessary." Paolo's eyes lingered on me. "Lorenzo seems to think you have a way with words. Cleaner than broken fingers, he says."

"I can break fingers if needed."

"I know." A thin smile crossed his face. "That's why you're still breathing."

I moved past him into the courtyard, refusing to rise to the bait. Paolo had never approved of Lorenzo's interest in me—professional or otherwise. He sensed something, perhaps, some shift in the dynamic between us that threatened the natural order of things.

The Benedetto home always felt like stepping into another world—marble floors, tapestries, spaces designed for comfort rather than mere survival. I moved through it like a ghost, aware of my ill-fitting presence.

I found Lorenzo in his father's study, bent over account books. He looked up as I entered, and something flashed across his face—relief? Pleasure? It was gone too quickly to read.

"Antonio," he said, standing. "I was beginning to worry."

"Had some matters to attend to," I replied, suddenly acutely aware of the distance between us, the careful positioning of furniture, the propriety of our greeting. Had Father Giuseppe spoken to him? Did he know I'd confessed my feelings, or was I imagining the new tension in the air?

"Nothing serious, I hope." His eyes searched mine.

I hesitated, weighing vulnerability against pride. "Vito's men have been watching my family's building. Asking questions about my brother."

Lorenzo's expression hardened. "When?"

"This morning. And before."

He closed the ledger with a snap. "You should have told me sooner."

"I can handle Vito."

"I don't doubt it." Lorenzo moved toward me, stopping at a respectable distance. "But you shouldn't have to handle him alone. That's not how this works."

"How does it work, then?" The question came out sharper than intended.

Something shifted in Lorenzo's gaze—a softening, a question. "We protect our own, Antonio."

Our own. The words hung between us, carrying weight beyond their surface meaning. I was his father's employee, not family. Not "their own" in any real sense. Yet Lorenzo had said it with such conviction.

"I was going to send Enzo to my aunt's," I said, looking away from the intensity in his eyes. "Until things cool down."

"A wise precaution." Lorenzo moved to his desk, opening a drawer. "But perhaps unnecessary. I've spoken with Paolo about your concerns."

My pride bristled. "I didn't ask—"

"You didn't have to." He removed a small pistol, checking its chamber before tucking it into his jacket. "We'll complete today's collections, then address Vito directly."

"Your father approved this?"

A shadow crossed Lorenzo's face. "My father trusts my judgment in such matters."

I doubted that was true, but didn't press. "And Paolo?"

"Will ensure your family remains undisturbed while we work." Lorenzo gathered the ledger, tucking it into a leather satchel. "I've assigned two men to watch your building."

I should have felt relieved. Instead, complicated emotions swirled in my chest—gratitude, yes, but also shame at needing help, and beneath it all, that constant hum of awareness whenever Lorenzo was near.

The way his hands moved as he prepared for our day, the line of his jaw, the careful way he spoke—all of it registered with painful clarity.

"Thank you," I managed.

Lorenzo paused, looking up at me. For a moment, something unguarded passed between us—something that made my confession to Father Giuseppe seem less like madness and more like recognition of what had been building all along.

"Your family's safety matters to me, Antonio," he said quietly. "You matter."

The words were simple, could be interpreted innocently enough by anyone overhearing. But the way he said them, the way his eyes held mine, suggested layers of meaning I barely dared acknowledge.

"We should go," I said, my voice rougher than intended. "The day's getting away from us."

Lorenzo nodded, but hesitated. "There's something I've been wanting to discuss with you. After our collections, perhaps we could—"

The door opened, and Paolo stepped in. "Lorenzo, your father wants a word before you leave."

The moment shattered. Lorenzo's expression closed, returning to the professional mask of the Benedetto heir.

"Of course," he said. "Antonio, wait for me by the gate. This won't take long."

As I walked back through the grand house, I wondered what Lorenzo had been about to suggest. And I wondered, with equal parts hope and terror, whether the feelings I'd confessed in the sanctity of the church might actually be returned.

LORENZO

Father stood at his window, hands clasped behind his back as he studied the estate grounds with the same calculating gaze he used to assess potential threats. His reflection in the glass revealed nothing of his thoughts—a skill I'd spent a lifetime trying to master.

"You wanted to see me, Father?" I kept my voice neutral, professional.

He turned, his eyes flickering over me with practiced assessment. "The collections from the eastern quarter are down this month."

Not a question. An accusation wrapped in observation. I maintained a steady expression, though my mind raced to the ledgers I'd been keeping. I'd known this conversation was inevitable.