Page 16 of The Seventh Circle (The Lost Cantos #1)

LORENZO

We rode back to the city in silence, Paolo humming contentedly behind the wheel, blood still drying on his cuffs.

The stench of it filled the car—metallic and raw—mingling with the lingering scent of leather and tobacco.

Antonio sat beside me, his body rigid, staring straight ahead through the windshield.

The space between us on the seat might as well have been an ocean.

"That'll keep Torrino in line for a while," Paolo chuckled, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. "Nothing like making an example, eh, cousin?"

I said nothing, feeling bile rise in my throat again. The image of the knife tearing through the man's hand played behind my eyes like a moving picture show I couldn't shut off.

"You two look like you're attending a funeral," Paolo continued, glancing at us in the rearview mirror. "Cheer up! We solved your problem, Romano. No one will be watching your family now."

Antonio's jaw tightened, a muscle pulsing beneath the skin. "Thank you," he said, the words mechanical, empty.

We pulled up to the Benedetto compound. Paolo clapped me on the shoulder as we exited the car, his palm leaving a tacky red print on my coat.

"I'll tell your father how we handled it," he said. "He'll be pleased."

And that was what sickened me most—my father would be pleased.

He would nod in approval at Paolo's butchery, seeing it as appropriate, necessary.

This was the family business, stripped of all pretense.

Not protection, not community service, but this: the power to destroy a human being and call it justice.

Antonio stood awkwardly by the gates. "I should get home," he said, not meeting my eyes. "Make sure my family is safe."

"Antonio," I started, but found I had nothing to say. What words could possibly bridge the chasm that had opened between us? The villa and its stolen moment of tenderness seemed to belong to another lifetime now, washed away in blood.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he said, then turned and walked away, his shoulders hunched as if bearing a great weight.

I watched him go, feeling something precious slipping through my fingers.

I stood under the scalding water, scrubbing my skin until it was raw. There was no blood on me—not physically—but I felt coated in it nonetheless. I scrubbed and scrubbed, but the filth wouldn't come off.

My father had indeed been pleased with our handling of Vito Torrino. "Good," he'd said when Paolo described the killing in loving detail over dinner. "Let them know the cost of crossing us." Uncle Federico had nodded sagely. Paolo had preened under the attention.

I'd excused myself before dessert was served.

Now, standing in my bedroom in a fresh shirt and trousers, I caught sight of myself in the mirror.

I looked the same—the same eyes, the same face that had gazed back at me yesterday.

But something fundamental had shifted. I'd always known what my family was capable of, had participated in violence myself.

But Paolo's casual sadism, his joy in another man's suffering—that was the unvarnished truth of what it meant to be a Benedetto.

And I was expected not only to accept it but to embrace it, to one day command it.

The thought made me want to tear off my own skin.

I walked to my desk and pulled out a sheet of paper. I began to write, needing to sort through the chaos in my mind.

Antonio—

I stared at his name on the page, then crumpled it up and threw it aside. What could I possibly say? I'm sorry you had to see that? I'm sorry my cousin is a monster? I'm sorry my family business involves dismembering people who displease us?

I poured myself a generous glass of brandy and walked to the window.

The grounds below were peaceful in the moonlight, the manicured gardens a testament to order and civilization.

Such a convincing facade. Like the polished floors of our home that hid the bloodstains beneath, like the respected Benedetto name that masked generations of brutality.

And what did I have to offer Antonio in this world?

A secret love conducted in shadows and abandoned villas?

A life where one misstep could mean ending up like Torrino's scout, throat slit in some forgotten corner of the city?

I had kissed him, had felt his heart beating against mine, had tasted the promise of something real.

But how could anything real grow in soil so poisoned?

A knock at my door startled me from my thoughts.

"Enter," I called, expecting a servant.

Instead, my father stepped into the room, still dressed for dinner though he'd removed his jacket. He rarely came to my private quarters. His presence filled the space, shrinking it.

"You left abruptly," he said, his eyes scanning the room, taking in the brandy in my hand, the crumpled paper by the desk.

"I wasn't feeling well," I replied, setting down my glass.

He moved to the window, standing beside me to look out at the gardens. "Paolo tells me you and Romano seemed... disturbed by today's business."

Of course Paolo would notice. Of course he would report it.

"It was necessary," I said, the words ashen in my mouth.

"Yes, it was," my father agreed. "But that doesn't answer my observation."

I chose my next words carefully. "I question whether such... excess... was required to make our point."

My father was silent for a long moment. "Excess," he finally repeated. "An interesting choice of word."

"The man was tortured before he was killed. It was..." I struggled to find a word that wouldn't betray the full extent of my revulsion. "...theatrical."

"Sometimes theatre has its place," my father said.

"Fear is a powerful motivator, Lorenzo. More powerful than respect, more reliable than love.

" He turned to face me fully. "When I am gone, you will need to command not just the loyalty of our men, but the fear of our enemies. Paolo understands this."

There it was—the implicit comparison, the subtle rebuke. Paolo had the stomach for what needed to be done. Did I?

"I understand the message needed to be clear," I said.

"But you disliked the method," he finished for me. "Your sensitivity does you credit in many ways, son. It makes you thoughtful, measured. But there will be times when a measured response is interpreted as weakness." He placed a hand on my shoulder. "You cannot afford to be weak. None of us can."

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

He squeezed my shoulder once, then stepped back. "Get some rest. We have business with the Vitelli family tomorrow. Sophia's father is eager to discuss the potential arrangement for a relationship between you two if things go well."

Sophia. Of course. Another reminder of the life laid out for me, another chain binding me to this world of blood and shadow.

"I'll be prepared," I said.

After he left, I returned to the window, staring out at the dark gardens until my eyes burned.

I tried to imagine Antonio's face, tried to recapture the feeling of his lips on mine, but all I could see was the scout's blood spraying across the cobblestones, all I could hear was Paolo's satisfied grunt as he tore the knife through flesh.

ANTONIO

I couldn't stop washing my hands. The water in our chipped basin had long gone cold, but I scrubbed until my knuckles were raw. There wasn't any blood on them—I hadn't been close enough to the scout when Paolo... when he...

My stomach heaved again. I gripped the edges of the basin and breathed through clenched teeth until the nausea passed.

It wasn't the first time I'd seen a man die.

Working for the Benedettos meant violence was inevitable, and I'd thrown my share of punches that left men bleeding on cobblestones.

I'd even seen killings before—quick, clean, necessary.

But what Paolo had done wasn't quick or clean or necessary.

The scout was already subdued. The message could have been sent with a bullet.

Instead, Paolo had carved into him slowly, methodically, like a butcher with a prized cut of meat.

And the look on his face—Christ help me—the satisfaction in his eyes as the man screamed and gurgled his last breaths.

I splashed cold water on my face, trying to wash away the memory.

"Tonio?" Mama's voice called from the kitchen. "You've been in there so long. Are you ill?"

"Just tired, Mama," I called back, forcing steadiness into my voice. "Be out in a minute."

I dried my hands and face on our threadbare towel and examined myself in the cracked mirror. I looked the same. How was that possible? Shouldn't there be some visible mark on me after what I'd witnessed?

In the kitchen, Mama was kneading dough, her strong hands working rhythmically. Papa sat at the table, reading yesterday's newspaper by the weak light of our lamp. The normalcy of the scene struck me like a physical blow.

"You look pale," she said, eyeing me with concern. "Did something happen today?"

"Just business," I said, the lie bitter on my tongue. "Nothing to worry about."

Papa lowered his newspaper, studying me with eyes that missed nothing. "Business that makes you wash your hands for twenty minutes?"

I looked away. "It's handled now. The men who were watching our building—they won't be back."

The silence that followed was heavy with unasked questions. Papa had worked the docks long enough to understand what "handled" meant.

"Your friend Lorenzo," Papa finally said. "He took care of this problem for us?"

"He helped," I said, not meeting his eyes.

"Then we owe him our thanks."

I nodded, unable to explain that Lorenzo had looked as sickened as I felt, that it was Paolo who had "handled" the situation with such brutal efficiency.

"I'm not hungry tonight," I said. "Think I'll go read for a bit."

Mama frowned. "You need to eat, Antonio. I made canneloni, your favourite."

"Save me some for later?"