Page 22 of The Seventh Circle (The Lost Cantos #1)

LORENZO

The portrait of my mother watched me from above the mantle as I unlocked the hidden drawer in Father's study. Her eyes—painted in the same shade of amber as my own—seemed to follow my movements, half in accusation, half in understanding.

"Forgive me," I whispered, though whether I was asking forgiveness for disturbing the sanctity of Father's private domain or for what I planned to do with her legacy remained unclear even to me.

The drawer slid open with barely a whisper.

Inside lay the documents I sought—the deed to my mother's family villa in Tuscany and the papers for her personal accounts.

Father had maintained them separately from the family finances, a rare concession that had always struck me as uncharacteristically sentimental.

Now, that sentimentality would fund my escape.

I traced the elegant script of her name: Isabella Maria Benedetto, née Ricci. She had been dead fifteen years, yet sometimes I still woke expecting to hear her laugh echoing through these cold halls.

"Would you understand, Mother?" I murmured to the empty room. "Would you have wanted more for me than this life?"

The soft click of approaching footsteps sent me scrambling. I quickly replaced the documents, leaving only the deed which I folded into my jacket pocket, and shut the drawer. When Paolo appeared in the doorway, I was casually examining a ledger from Father's desk.

"Working late?" he asked, his eyes narrowing slightly.

"Father wants a full accounting of our eastern interests before the meeting with the Sicilians," I replied smoothly, setting down the ledger. "What brings you here at this hour?"

Paolo stepped into the room, his gaze sweeping over the desk, lingering briefly on the drawer I'd just closed. "Don Salvatore sent me to find you. The Vitelli girl's family has invited you to their summer concert tomorrow evening."

I manufactured a pleased expression. "I'll write to accept immediately."

"Already done," Paolo replied. "Your father thought you'd be... eager."

The emphasis he placed on the word made my skin prickle. "He knows me well."

Paolo moved closer, coming to stand beside me at the desk. "Does he?" He picked up a paperweight, turning it in his hands. "Lately I wonder. You've been... distracted. Disappearing at odd hours."

I forced a laugh. "Am I under surveillance now, Paolo?"

"Your welfare is my concern." He set down the paperweight with deliberate care. "As is anything that might affect the family's interests."

"The family's interests are my own," I lied, meeting his gaze steadily.

"Are they?" Paolo's expression remained neutral, but his eyes were cold. "Then why are you asking about selling property? Specifically, your mother's villa in Tuscany?"

My blood froze. "Who told you that?"

"You visited Signor Bianchi's legal office yesterday. He mentioned you had questions about transferring a deed."

I silently cursed myself for the oversight. Of course Bianchi would report to Paolo—everyone did. I needed a plausible explanation, and quickly.

"I'm considering a wedding gift for Sophia," I improvised. "The villa has stood empty for years. I thought perhaps renovating it might make a suitable country residence for us after the wedding."

Paolo studied me, his face unreadable. "A thoughtful gesture. Though surprising, given your attachment to your mother's memory."

"Some memories are meant to be honored through use, not preservation," I replied, the words burning like acid on my tongue.

He nodded slowly. "I'll mention it to your father. I'm sure he'll be pleased by your forward thinking."

"No need to trouble him yet," I said quickly. "It's merely an idea at this stage. I'd prefer to have more concrete plans before discussing it with him."

Paolo's smile didn't reach his eyes. "As you wish. Though you know how he values being kept informed."

I gathered the ledger. "If there's nothing else, I should finish this before retiring."

"Of course." Paolo moved toward the door but paused at the threshold. "The Vitelli girl—she's quite beautiful, isn't she?"

"She is," I agreed cautiously.

"And intelligent too, from what I hear. You could do worse, Lorenzo." His voice softened slightly. "A good marriage can anchor a man, give him purpose beyond himself."

For a brief moment, I glimpsed something almost like concern in Paolo's eyes—a flicker of genuine feeling beneath his customary vigilance.

"I'm well aware of my responsibilities," I said quietly.

"Good." He nodded once. "Because responsibilities have a way of finding us, whether we embrace them or flee from them."

After he left, I remained motionless, the weight of the deed in my pocket suddenly heavy as lead. Paolo suspected something—not the full truth perhaps, but enough to watch me more closely. I would need to be more careful, more deliberate in my preparations.

I pulled out the deed again, studying the ornate calligraphy that marked my mother's legacy—and now, my pathway to freedom.

Tomorrow, I would find a more discreet solicitor to handle the transaction, someone with no connections to my father.

The risk was enormous, but so was the potential reward: a new life with Antonio, far from the blood and shadows of the Benedetto name.

I replaced the ledger and extinguished the lamp. As I left the study, I could still feel my mother's painted eyes following me, her expression eternally frozen between sorrow and hope—much like my own heart as it beat out the diminishing days until our escape.

"Tell me about your mother," Sophia said, her voice carrying just enough to reach me but not the clusters of society patrons milling around the Vitelli's lavish garden. The string quartet in the corner played something appropriately sophisticated while waiters circulated with champagne.

I looked at her, surprised by the question. We sat at a small table beneath a flowering trellis, the picture of courtship for all observing eyes. "Why do you ask?"

"You mentioned her villa yesterday," she replied, adjusting the silk shawl around her shoulders. "And there's a sadness in your eyes whenever her name arises."

I had underestimated Sophia's perceptiveness. "She died when I was eleven. Consumption."

"I'm sorry." Her hand briefly touched mine on the table—an acceptable public gesture between an engaged couple. "Was she very different from your father?"

I laughed softly, without humor. "In every way imaginable. She loved poetry and music. She taught me to appreciate beauty for its own sake, not as a possession to be acquired."

"She sounds remarkable."

"She was." I stared into my champagne glass. "She never quite... belonged in my father's world. Sometimes I wonder if that's what killed her, more than the disease. The constant compromise of herself."

Sophia's eyes—intelligent and clear—studied me. "And you fear the same fate?"

The question struck too close to the truth. I deflected. "Don't we all wonder if we'll repeat our parents' mistakes?"

"Some mistakes seem inevitable," she said quietly. "Especially when others make our choices for us."

The statement hung between us, laden with shared understanding. In that moment, I felt a genuine connection with Sophia Vitelli that transcended our arranged circumstances. We were both prisoners of our families' ambitions, playing roles assigned to us from birth.

"If you could choose differently," I found myself asking, "what would your life look like?"

She looked startled by the question, then thoughtful. "I'd study at university. Art history, perhaps." A faint smile touched her lips. "My father considers such education wasted on a daughter destined for marriage and bearing children."

"You deserve more than to be a decorative addition to someone's household," I said sincerely.

"As do you, Lorenzo." Her gaze was direct now, unsettlingly perceptive. "We both deserve lives of our own making."

Guilt twisted in my stomach. Here I was, planning my escape while this intelligent woman resigned herself to her fate.

I wondered briefly, madly, if I should tell her the truth—if she might even help us.

The thought vanished as quickly as it formed.

Involving Sophia would only endanger her alongside us.

"Perhaps we can create something worthwhile together," I offered instead, the platitude tasting false on my tongue.

Her smile turned sad. "Perhaps."

We were interrupted by her father approaching with mine, both men looking pleased at our apparent intimacy.

"The young couple seems to be getting along splendidly," Vitelli announced, clapping my shoulder.

"As expected," my father replied. "My Lorenzo knows how to appreciate quality when he sees it."

I stood, offering my arm to Sophia. "Your daughter is exceptional company, Don Vitelli."

"She'll make you an excellent wife," he declared, as if Sophia weren't standing right there. "Educated enough to be interesting but sensible enough to know a woman's proper place."

I felt Sophia stiffen slightly beside me but her face remained pleasantly neutral. "Father exaggerates my virtues," she demurred.

"Nonsense," my father interjected. "The Benedettos and Vitellis will make a formidable alliance. Your children will unite our families permanently."

Children. The word landed like a blow. In my focus on escape, I'd somehow avoided truly contemplating the full reality of what marriage to Sophia would mean. Not just a wife, but offspring. The continuation of the Benedetto line. More lives bound to this world of violence and control.

"Speaking of family matters," my father continued, "Lorenzo has had a brilliant idea regarding Isabella's old villa."

I tensed. Paolo had mentioned it after all.

"Lorenzo thinks to renovate it as a country home for the newlyweds," Father explained to Vitelli. "A thoughtful gesture, wouldn't you agree?"

"Most generous," Vitelli nodded approvingly. "Sophia adores the countryside. Don't you, my dear?"