Page 2 of The Seventh Circle (The Lost Cantos #1)
"There's something else," Uncle Federico said, glancing down the hallway to ensure we were alone.
"Giovanni's son Vito—the one they call 'The Blade'—he's pushing his father to expand.
Word is, he's been making promises to the Sicilians about new smuggling routes if they back a push against us.
If they get the market, they'll have a foothold to challenge us throughout the east side. "
This was new information—and it changed the stakes considerably. A turf war with Sicilian backing would mean bloodshed beyond anything we'd seen in years.
"Does Father know about the Sicilians?"
Uncle Federico's smile was thin. "Why do you think I'm back from Naples? Your father doesn't just want you to deliver a message today, Lorenzo. He wants you to cut off this problem before it grows teeth."
My cousin Paolo appeared at the end of the hallway, nodding at me with the distant respect our fathers had instilled in us since childhood.
Though only two years younger than me, Paolo had already earned a reputation for creative cruelty that made even hardened soldiers uncomfortable.
Where I approached violence as a necessary business transaction, Paolo seemed to savour it like fine wine.
"Cousin," he acknowledged. "Uncle needs me to go with you today?"
"No," I said firmly, perhaps too quickly. "Father specifically assigned Romano."
Something flickered in Paolo's eyes—annoyance, perhaps jealousy. "Antonio Romano? The street rat from Trastevere? Interesting choice."
I kept my expression neutral, though something protective flared in my chest. "Father's orders."
Paolo shrugged with exaggerated indifference. "Well, if you need real muscle instead of a bookworm playing at soldier, you know where to find me." He disappeared back down the hallway, the threat in his words lingering like cigarette smoke.
Uncle Federico watched him go with an expression I couldn't quite read.
"Your cousin is eager. Perhaps too eager sometimes.
" He finished his brandy in one swallow.
"Be careful today, Lorenzo. Show strength, but be smart about it.
The Benedetto name wasn't built on mindless violence—it was built on calculated fear. "
"I understand, Uncle."
"I hope so." He squeezed my shoulder once more. "Your father sees himself in you, you know. More than he ever admits. Don't disappoint him."
The weight of those words followed me as I finally escaped the house's oppressive atmosphere.
The morning air outside was crisp with the promise of autumn, carrying the scents of fresh bread and wood smoke from the neighbourhood hearths.
Normal people beginning normal days, unaware that their peace depended on the violence men like me did in the shadows.
Children played in the narrow streets while their mothers hung washing from upper-story windows, the picture of innocence that my father's world existed to protect—or control.
I walked toward the meeting point, my mind churning with the weight of what lay ahead. Another territory dispute. Another lesson in dominance written in blood. Another step toward becoming the don my father needed me to be, regardless of what my conscience whispered in the dark hours before dawn.
The irony wasn't lost on me that the man I was walking to meet—Antonio Romano—represented everything I yearned for and everything I could never have.
Intelligence without formal education, strength without cruelty, loyalty without the burden of succession.
He did his job because he had to, not because he'd been bred for it since birth.
As I turned the corner toward our rendezvous, I found myself wondering what it would be like to simply disappear.
To walk away from the maps and the territories, the expectations and the violence, and find some quiet place where a man could work with his hands and sleep without blood on his conscience.
But that was a fantasy, as impossible as wings or eternal youth.
I was Lorenzo Benedetto, heir to an empire built on fear. Today I would prove myself worthy of that inheritance, no matter what it cost my soul.
The meeting point came into view—a small café where Antonio would be waiting. My pulse quickened traitorously at the thought, memories of our previous work together surfacing unbidden.
The first time we'd worked together had been a simple message delivery to a shopkeeper behind on payments.
I'd expected to do the talking while Antonio provided the intimidating presence my slender frame sometimes failed to project.
Instead, I'd watched in quiet amazement as he'd handled the situation with unexpected eloquence—firm but not cruel, effective without excess.
He'd noticed a book of poetry on the man's counter and referenced it casually, a small moment of connection that had somehow made the threat more potent for its humanity.
The second job had been uglier—an informant who'd sold information to the Calabrians.
My father had ordered a proper beating, something memorable.
I'd steeled myself to deliver violence while Antonio watched my back.
But in the abandoned warehouse, roles had reversed.
Antonio's fists had been surgical instruments, causing pain without permanent damage, each blow measured and precise.
Afterward, when the man had been left sobbing on the floor, I'd seen Antonio wash blood from his hands with such gentle care, such obvious regret, that something in my chest had shifted.
"It doesn't get easier," he'd said quietly, mistaking my stare for judgment. "Nor should it."
Three simple words that had revealed a soul I hadn't expected to find in my father's world. I'd thought about that moment more often than I cared to admit, turning it over in my mind like a rare coin—valuable, dangerous to possess.
There was something about Antonio Romano that defied the crude categories my world allowed for men.
His hands could break bones with frightening efficiency, yet I'd seen those same hands carefully straighten an old woman's market stall after a windstorm, seen them gently ruffle his younger brother's hair with undisguised affection.
He moved through violence like it was a language he'd been forced to learn rather than his native tongue.
And then there were his eyes—warm brown, intelligent, observant in ways that made me feel simultaneously exposed and understood.
More than once, I'd caught myself staring at him during planning sessions, watching how he listened with his entire body, how his mind worked through problems with a natural quickness that formal education might have refined but couldn't have created.
These thoughts were dangerous indulgences, desires that could get us both killed in a world where men were expected to be one thing only.
I'd become adept at burying such feelings, at channeling inappropriate attraction into acceptable forms—admiration for his skills, appreciation for his loyalty, respect for his intelligence.
But in unguarded moments, like walking toward him now, the truth bubbled dangerously close to the surface.
I wanted Antonio Romano in ways I couldn't name even to myself. In ways that would destroy everything my family had built if discovered. In ways that made the thought of becoming my father seem not just distasteful but impossible.
I straightened my shoulders and forced these thoughts back into their locked compartment.
Today wasn't about forbidden desires or impossible futures.
Today was about proving myself worthy of my inheritance, about protecting our territory from Torrino encroachment.
About becoming the don my bloodline demanded, one broken bone at a time.
Antonio was waiting at a corner table, nursing an espresso and reading a battered paperback.
He tucked it away as I approached, rising with that fluid grace that made him seem perpetually ready for whatever might come.
Our eyes met briefly as I took the seat across from him, and I wondered, not for the first time, how much he could see behind my carefully constructed facade.
"Heir," he greeted me formally, though something in his voice softened the title.
"Romano," I responded, ignoring the small thrill that ran through me at his presence. "We have work to do."