Page 14 of The Seventh Circle (The Lost Cantos #1)

The confession died on my lips as Antonio moved—decisive, purposeful—closing the final distance between us with unexpected grace.

His hands found my face, calloused palms cupping my jaw with a gentleness that belied their strength.

Before I could finish my thought, his mouth was on mine, warm and insistent, stealing the words I'd been struggling to form.

I stiffened at the contact, shock rippling through me despite all my secret longing. This was real. This was happening. Antonio Romano was kissing me in the abandoned villa, his body pressed against mine, his warmth seeping through layers of expensive fabric to reach my skin.

For one terrible moment, I remained frozen—years of careful restraint and fear paralyzing me even as everything I wanted was finally being offered. Antonio began to pull away, uncertainty flickering across his face.

That retreat shattered my hesitation. I surged forward, one hand grasping the back of his neck, the other clutching at his waist, dragging him back to me with a desperation that surprised us both.

I kissed him with the accumulated hunger of months of wanting, years of denial, a lifetime of hiding.

His lips parted under the force of my need, and I tasted him—coffee and tobacco and something uniquely, intoxicatingly Antonio.

We crashed backward against the wall, dust motes swirling around us in the shafts of filtered sunlight.

My body pressed his against the faded wallpaper, our chests heaving together as though we'd run for miles.

The kiss deepened, grew wilder—teeth grazing lips, tongues seeking, breaths mingling hot and urgent.

"Lorenzo," he gasped when we finally broke apart, my name a prayer and a question.

I answered by kissing him again, softer this time but no less intent. My hands traced the contours of his face, memorizing by touch what I'd only been allowed to observe from a respectful distance—the strong line of his jaw, the slight roughness of stubble, the surprising softness of his lower lip.

"I've wanted this," I confessed against his mouth, "for so long."

Antonio's hands slid from my face to my shoulders, then down my back, pulling me closer. "I thought I was alone in this madness."

"Not alone," I whispered, pressing my forehead to his. "Never alone in this."

His eyes searched mine, dark and serious. "You know what they would do to us."

"I know." The reality hovered around us even in this sanctuary—my father's rage, the family's retribution, the church's condemnation. Death would be the kindest outcome. "But here, now, I don't care."

"You should care," he said, even as his fingers curled possessively into the fabric of my jacket. "You have everything to lose."

I laughed softly, the sound bitter even to my own ears.

"Everything? A marriage to a woman I'll never love the way the world expects?

The inheritance of my father's cruelty? The weight of his empire crushing whatever's left of my soul?

" I traced the outline of Antonio's lips with my thumb.

"What I have to lose is nothing compared to what I might gain. "

His expression softened, vulnerability showing through the cracks of his usual guardedness. "And what might that be?"

"This." I kissed him again, gentle but deep. "You. A chance at something real."

Antonio's hands moved to frame my face, his touch reverent. "We can't have a life together. You know that."

"Perhaps not openly," I conceded. "Not now. But we can have moments. We can have truth between us, even if the rest of the world sees lies."

A shaft of sunlight caught the dust motes swirling around us, turning them into gold tinted dust in the afternoon light. The abandoned villa seemed to hold its breath, protecting our secret in its quiet rooms.

"I've never felt this way," Antonio admitted, his voice lower than I'd ever heard it. "Not for anyone."

"Nor I," I said, though the admission felt inadequate for the storm raging inside me.

"I've spent my life playing a part, Antonio. I’m the dutiful son.

The worthy heir. The virile man who will marry a suitable woman and continue the Benedetto line.

" I pressed my palm against his chest, feeling his heart hammer beneath my touch.

"You're the only person who's ever made me want to tear off the mask. "

His eyes darkened. "It's a dangerous time to be without your mask."

"I know. But I'm tired of hiding, at least from you." I took a shaky breath. "When Father Giuseppe spoke to me—"

Antonio tensed beneath my hands. "You spoke to Father Giuseppe? About this? About... us?"

"Not by name," I hastened to clarify. "But yes. He knew, Antonio. And he seemed to know about your feelings too."

A complicated expression crossed his face—fear, resignation, and something like relief. "I confessed to him. I never mentioned you specifically, but..."

"He understood anyway," I finished. "And he didn't condemn us. Not as I expected."

Antonio's thumb traced the line of my jaw, a gesture so tender it made my chest ache. "What happens now?"

The practical question penetrated the haze of desire.

What indeed? We stood in an abandoned villa, temporarily sheltered from the world that would destroy us for this transgression.

Beyond these walls waited my father, the impending marriage arrangement, Torrino's vendetta, and a hundred other threats.

"Now," I said, reclaiming his lips briefly, "we remember that we have unfinished business with Vito Torrino. Paolo will be waiting to meet us."

Antonio nodded, the enforcer's discipline reasserting itself. But he didn't step away immediately, his hands still holding me close. "And after that?"

I pressed my forehead to his, breathing him in. "After that, we find our way. Together. I don't have all the answers, Antonio, but I know I can't go back to pretending. Not with you."

He kissed me one more time, deep and thorough, as if sealing a pact between us. When we finally separated, his eyes held both wonder and determination.

"Together, then," he agreed. "God help us both."