Page 13 of The Seventh Circle (The Lost Cantos #1)

LORENZO

We walked in silence for several minutes, the quiet between us heavier than usual.

I found myself stealing glances at Antonio, searching for signs of the shared secret Father Giuseppe had implied.

Had the priest truly heard Antonio confess similar feelings, or was that merely what I desperately wanted to believe?

The morning sun slanted across the cobblestones as we made our first collection at Signor Bianchi's bakery. The smell of fresh bread enveloped us, a momentary respite from the weight of unspoken words.

"Signor Benedetto," Bianchi greeted me with a respectful nod, his flour-dusted hands already reaching beneath the counter for the envelope. "Right on time as always."

I accepted the payment with a practiced smile. "Business looks good."

"Can't complain." He glanced nervously at Antonio, who stood examining a tray of cornetti with unusual interest. "We had some men around yesterday. Not your people."

My spine stiffened. "Torrino's men?"

"Didn't say, but they weren't from around here. Asked about neighborhood protection, who collects, what days."

Antonio's attention snapped back to our conversation, his gaze meeting mine. A silent communication passed between us—this wasn't just about Antonio's family anymore.

"Thank you for the information, Signor Bianchi," I said, sliding a cornetto across the counter. "Consider this one paid for."

Outside, Antonio fell into step beside me. "They're mapping our routes."

"It seems so." I weighed the envelope in my hand, mind racing. "Vito's more ambitious than I gave him credit for."

"Or more desperate. Men with something to prove make mistakes."

The next three collections proceeded without incident, but I felt a prickling awareness of eyes following our movements.

Whether Torrino's men or my own family's surveillance, I couldn't be certain.

Paolo would join us later for the confrontation with Vito, but until then, we had a small window of freedom—freedom I desperately needed to test the waters with Antonio.

At Signora Moretti's dress shop, Antonio stood by the door while I accepted her payment. Unlike our usual easy conversation, a strange tension hummed between us. He seemed more guarded today, yet paradoxically more aware of me—his gaze following my movements when he thought I wouldn't notice.

It was in his posture too—the careful distance he maintained, as if afraid to stand too close. The same restraint I'd been practicing since our meeting in the café. We were orbiting each other, neither daring to close the gap.

After collecting from the cobbler's shop, I paused in the narrow alley that led to our next stop. "We should vary our routes," I said, watching Antonio's face carefully. "If Torrino's men are tracking our movements, predictability becomes a liability."

He nodded, professional and detached. "Smart. Where to next?"

"We should check some of the abandoned properties on the outskirts. If Torrino's looking to establish a base in our territory, those would be ideal locations."

"You think he's planning something more permanent than intimidation?"

"I think we should leave nothing to chance." I ran a hand through my hair, a casual gesture to mask my nerves. "There's the old tannery by the river, the abandoned flour mill..."

Antonio made a thoughtful sound. "The mill would be too obvious. The tannery still has workers nearby who would notice new faces."

"There's also Villa San Michele," I suggested, my heart accelerating slightly. "It's been empty since the count's family moved north five years ago. Isolated enough for privacy, but close enough to access the market district quickly."

"I know of it," Antonio said, "but I've never been inside the grounds."

I hesitated, then took the plunge. "It's worth investigating. We can cut through the cypress grove and approach from the east. There's a gap in the wall that few know about."

Antonio raised an eyebrow. "You seem familiar with the property."

"I used to go there as a boy," I admitted, offering him a sliver of truth. "It was... somewhere I could be alone."

Something shifted in his expression—recognition, perhaps, of what I was really offering: not just a tactical detour but a piece of myself, a glimpse into my private world.

"Lead the way," he said quietly.

We finished our remaining collections in record time, my mind already racing ahead to the villa. This was madness, of course—using a security concern as pretense to show Antonio a place no one in my family knew I frequented. Yet after Father Giuseppe's words, I felt emboldened by possibility.

The villa lay a kilometer outside the main district, once the summer home of nobility now fallen on harder times.

As we approached through a stand of cypress trees, the familiar scent of pine and dry earth transported me back to my adolescence.

How many afternoons had I spent here, escaping my father's expectations and the suffocating weight of my predetermined future?

"The wall's just ahead," I said, slowing my pace. "The eastern side has partially collapsed—the count's heirs never bothered with repairs after they inherited."

Antonio scanned our surroundings with professional vigilance. "Doesn't look like anyone's been through here recently."

"That's good," I replied, though part of me was disappointed we wouldn't have a legitimate security concern to justify our detour.

We reached the crumbling section of wall, ivy claiming most of the weathered stones. I navigated the familiar opening with practiced ease, Antonio following close behind.

The gardens had grown wild in the years since I'd last visited, nature reclaiming what had once been meticulously tended grounds. Marble statues peered from beneath climbing roses, their faces half-obscured by untrimmed growth. The fountain at the center stood dry, leaves collected in its basin.

"Beautiful," Antonio murmured, his usual alertness momentarily softened by appreciation.

I watched him taking in the overgrown splendor, seeing it anew through his eyes. "It was more manicured when I used to come here, but I think I prefer it this way. There's something honest about it."

"Like watching something return to its true nature," he agreed, then caught himself. "But we should check the main house. If anyone's using this place, that's where they'd be."

We crossed the garden, our footsteps muffled by the carpet of soft grass and fallen leaves. The villa itself stood three stories tall, its pale yellow facade faded to the color of aged parchment. Shuttered windows stared out like closed eyes.

"There's a servant's entrance on the south side," I said. "Less conspicuous than the main doors."

Antonio gave me another questioning look but followed without comment. The door was unlocked as it had always been—the caretaker had stopped bothering years ago when there was nothing left worth stealing.

We stepped into the cool dimness of the kitchen, dust motes dancing in the shafts of light that penetrated the shutters.

The silence held a quality I'd always loved—not the tense quiet of my father's study or the performative hush of church, but a patient stillness, as if the house were merely waiting.

"No signs of recent entry," Antonio observed, noting the undisturbed dust on the floor. "No footprints but ours."

"We should check the upper floors to be thorough," I suggested, though we both knew by now this was no Torrino hideout.

I led him through the servants' staircase to the main floor, where sheet-covered furniture stood like ghosts in the grand salon. Watching Antonio move through these rooms—my secret refuge—created a strange intimacy that made my chest tighten.

"You really did know this place well," he said as I navigated a particular corridor without hesitation.

"I used to bring books here," I admitted. "Novels my father would have considered frivolous. Poetry. Sometimes just a journal."

Antonio paused, studying a faded fresco on the ceiling. "Why here?"

The question carried more weight than its simplicity suggested. Why here, and not the vast Benedetto estate with its libraries and gardens? Why sneak away to an abandoned villa?

"Because nothing was expected of me here," I said, the truth spilling out before I could reconsider. "I wasn't Lorenzo Benedetto, heir to my father's empire. I was just... me. Whoever that might be."

Antonio's eyes met mine, dark and unreadable in the half-light. "And who is that? The real Lorenzo?"

My heart hammered against my ribs. We were no longer talking about security concerns or Torrino's men. This moment, this question, balanced on a knife's edge.

"Someone who wants things he cannot have," I said softly. "Someone who dreams of a different life than the one chosen for him."

A floorboard creaked as Antonio shifted his weight, closing the distance between us by half a step. "What things does he want?"

The air between us seemed to crackle with electricity. Father Giuseppe's words echoed in my mind: Love itself is not the sin. It is what we do with that love that matters.

"Freedom," I whispered. "Honesty. The courage to reach for what he desires instead of accepting what duty demands."

Antonio's expression changed subtly—his careful mask slipping to reveal something vulnerable and fierce. "Dangerous things to want in your position."

"The most precious things often are." I took a deliberate step closer, close enough to see the flecks of amber in his brown eyes. "But here, in this place... I've always felt braver than I am."

"You are brave, Lorenzo," he said, my name sounding different on his lips—tender, almost reverent. "Braver than you know."

The confession rose to my lips, demanding release after so long contained. "Antonio, I—"