Page 20 of The Seventh Circle (The Lost Cantos #1)

LORENZO

The Vitelli estate sprawled across the hillside like a sleeping giant, its white stone gleaming against the purple dusk.

Each window blazed with light, as if the family had set fire to a hundred thousand lire just to impress us.

Father sat beside me in the Isotta Fraschini, his silence heavier than any lecture.

Paolo drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on the window frame, as if we were heading to a tavern rather than a marriage negotiation disguised as dinner.

"The Vitellis control three shipping companies and half the customs officials in the port," Father finally said, his voice cutting through the engine's purr. "Their daughter comes with connections that would secure our position for generations."

I nodded, my face a mask I'd perfected over years of similar conversations. "I understand the strategic importance, Father."

"Do you?" His eyes, so like mine in color but nothing else, fixed on my profile. "Because your enthusiasm seems... lacking."

"I'm simply focused on making the correct impression," I replied, adjusting my cufflinks—silver squares engraved with the family crest that had belonged to my grandfather. "First meetings require a certain restraint."

Paolo caught my eye in the rearview mirror, a smirk playing at his mouth. "Don't be too restrained, cousin. I've heard the Vitelli girl has quite the figure beneath those modest dresses."

"That's enough, Paolo," Father said, but without heat. Men discussing women like merchandise was the natural order in his world. "Lorenzo knows his responsibilities."

The car crunched over the gravel drive, and a servant materialized to open our doors.

I stepped out, straightening my jacket, feeling the weight of the evening settle across my shoulders.

Somewhere across the city, Antonio was with his family, perhaps reading to his brother or helping his mother with dishes.

The thought of him—those capable hands, the warmth in his eyes when he looked at me—was a secret flame I carried inside my chest.

I would perform tonight. I would smile and charm and play the perfect heir. But my mind would remain in a ruined villa where I had known true freedom in Antonio's arms.

"Lorenzo, your reputation doesn't do you justice," Sophia Vitelli said, her voice soft but not simpering as we walked through her family's conservatory after dinner. "Father said you were well-read, but he failed to mention you've actually thought about what you've read."

I smiled, genuinely surprised by her quickness.

Sophia was not what I had expected. Rather than the docile, decorative creature I'd anticipated, she possessed a lively intelligence that sparked in her hazel eyes.

Her dark hair was arranged in an elegant twist that emphasized her long neck, and she moved with quiet confidence.

"Most people assume that those in our position have books only for decoration," I replied, pausing before a massive palm tree stretching toward the glass ceiling. "It's easier to be underestimated."

"Isn't it?" She raised an eyebrow. "Though I prefer being underestimated for being a woman rather than for being perceived as a brute. You suffer the opposite assumption."

I laughed despite myself. "That's remarkably perceptive."

"I observe," she said simply. "It's the only power permitted to someone in my position."

From across the conservatory, our fathers watched our interaction like gamblers eyeing racehorses before placing bets. Sophia was aware of their scrutiny; a subtle tension in her shoulders betrayed her. For all her composure, she was as much a prisoner of expectations as I was.

"Do you enjoy being paraded for inspection?" I asked quietly, turning so my back was to our audience.

Something flickered in her eyes—surprise, then a cautious recognition. "About as much as you enjoy doing the inspecting, I imagine."

I studied her face, seeing the intelligence, the resignation, and something else—a deep sadness carefully concealed beneath social graces. "We're both pieces being moved across a board."

"Yes," she agreed, her gaze direct now. "Though you'll eventually become the player, while I'll remain a piece to be sacrificed for advantage."

The truth of her words stung. In that moment, I felt the cruelty of what I was doing—letting this woman believe she might have a future with me when I planned to disappear in less than two weeks. She deserved better than to be a pawn in my escape.

"Shall we rejoin the others?" she suggested, offering her arm with perfect propriety. "Our fathers appear to be getting impatient."

I took her arm, noticing how she held herself slightly apart from me despite the contact.

It was a small kindness I hadn't expected—physical proximity without presumption.

As we walked back toward the main salon, I felt a twist of regret for the deception I was perpetrating against someone who, in another life, might have been a friend.

"What did you think of Sophia?" Father asked as we sat in his study later that night, crystal tumblers of brandy catching the firelight. Uncle Federico lounged in the leather chair opposite, while Paolo remained standing, examining the books on the shelf with casual disinterest.

I took a measured sip before answering. "She's intelligent. Well-mannered. Not without charm."

"High praise indeed," Uncle Federico said with a chuckle. "From you, at least."

Father's eyes narrowed slightly. "Vittorio was quite pleased with your conversation. He mentioned you discussed literature?"

"Yes," I nodded. "She has unconventional taste for a woman of her position. Machiavelli rather than romantic poetry."

"A practical mind," Father mused. "Good. You need a wife who understands the realities of our business, not some delicate flower who'll wilt at the first sight of blood."

Paolo turned from the bookshelf. "She's certainly pleasant to look at. Those eyes... and that mouth." He made a crude gesture with his hand that set my teeth on edge.

"Remember your place, Paolo," Father said sharply. "That's your future cousin by marriage you're speaking of."

The possessive declaration hung in the air between us. The decision had already been made. I was expected to court Sophia Vitelli, to marry her, to bind our families together in a union sealed with blood and business. My future, mapped out in neat, inescapable lines.

I thought of Antonio waiting for me at the villa tomorrow. Of our plans whispered against sweat-slicked skin. Of the life we had promised each other—a life of our own choosing.

"I believe an arrangement could be beneficial," I said carefully, meeting my father's gaze over the rim of my glass. "With the appropriate courtship period, of course."

Father nodded, satisfied. "Vittorio suggested three months. I pushed for six—let the anticipation build, make him sweeter on the deal."

"Six months," I repeated, relief flooding through me. Six months was an eternity. By then, Antonio and I would be far away, perhaps as far as America. "That seems reasonable."

"You'll escort her to the Contessa's ball next week," Father continued. "Make it clear to everyone that she's spoken for."

I inclined my head in agreement, the perfect obedient son. The lie came easily, wrapped in the truth of my actual plans. "I'll make our intentions known."

Uncle Federico raised his glass. "To new alliances."

We drank together, the brandy burning a path down my throat.

I wondered if they could see the betrayal in my eyes, if the name "Antonio" was somehow visible on my skin like a brand.

But they saw only what they expected to see—Lorenzo Benedetto, heir to an empire built on blood, doing his duty as he always had.

ANTONIO

The dim yellow light cast shadows across Enzo's homework as I leaned over his shoulder, pointing at the mathematics problem that had stumped him for the past fifteen minutes.

"See here? You need to isolate the variable first," I said, tapping the paper. "Move everything else to the other side."

"I hate mathematics," Enzo grumbled, but he scratched out a new equation with determined strokes. "When will I ever use this?"

I ruffled his hair. "To count all your money when you're rich and successful."

"Like you?" He looked up at me with those admiring eyes that always twisted something in my chest.

"I'm hardly rich," I laughed, though the weight of bills in my pocket from today's collections said otherwise.

Three days had passed since Paolo's "message" to Vito Torrino. Three days since I'd watched Paolo murder Torrino's man while Lorenzo and I stood by. Three days of relative peace for my family, bought with another man's life.

"But you work for the Benedettos," Enzo continued, oblivious to my thoughts. "Everyone respects you now. Did you see how Signora Esposito gave Mama extra bread yesterday? For free!"

I swallowed hard. "That's because Mama is kind to her son."

"No, it's because of you," Enzo insisted. "And those men watching our building are gone too."

The men were gone because Torrino's people had received Paolo's message.

"Focus on your studies," I told Enzo, pushing the dark thoughts away. "That's what matters."

Mama entered from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. "Is he giving you trouble, Tonio?"

"No more than usual," I smiled. "He's smart. Just stubborn."

"Like his brother," she said, kissing the top of my head as she passed. "There's soup when you're finished. And Papa wants to talk to you after."

I nodded, my stomach tightening. Papa had been quiet since that night, watching me with troubled eyes when he thought I wouldn't notice.

The proud man who'd once worked with his hands until injury made it impossible now looked at his eldest son with a mixture of gratitude and fear that broke my heart.

An hour later, with Enzo's homework complete and Mama busy mending clothes, Papa beckoned me to join him by the small window overlooking the street.