Page 23 of The Seventh Circle (The Lost Cantos #1)

"I've always found rural Tuscany charming," she agreed, though her questioning eyes slid briefly to mine.

"The property needs significant work," I interjected. "It may be premature to discuss it."

"Nonsense," Father waved dismissively. "I've already instructed Paolo to contact contractors. Consider it my contribution to your marital happiness."

My carefully constructed plan crumbled before my eyes. If Father took control of the villa renovation, I would lose access to my most valuable asset—and with it, a significant portion of the funds needed for our escape.

"That's unnecessary," I said, working to keep my voice level. "I'd prefer to oversee the project personally."

"Admirable initiative," Vitelli commented.

My father's eyes narrowed slightly. "You have more important responsibilities in the family business, Lorenzo. Paolo can manage this small matter."

The quartet began a new piece, saving me from having to respond immediately. "Sophia," I said, turning to her with manufactured enthusiasm, "would you honour me with a dance?"

She accepted gracefully, and as I led her to the small area where other couples swayed to the music, I fought to control my mounting panic. With each passing day, my path to freedom narrowed, while the facade I maintained grew more elaborate—and more painful.

"You're trembling," Sophia murmured as we moved to the gentle rhythm.

"The evening air," I lied.

"No," she said quietly. "There's something else. Something you're hiding."

I met her gaze, seeing in it a perception that terrified me. "We all have secrets, Sophia."

"Yes," she agreed, her voice barely audible over the music. "The question is whether our secrets will destroy us, or save us."

I had no answer for her. As we continued our dance under the watchful eyes of our families, I wondered which category my secret fell into—salvation or destruction—and whether the distinction even mattered anymore.

In twelve days, I would either be free with Antonio or dead for trying.

There was no middle ground, no compromise that would satisfy the competing demands of duty and desire.

The music swelled around us, and I held Sophia a fraction closer, using our performance to scan the perimeter of the garden.

Paolo stood near the entrance, his attention fixed on me with the focus of a predator tracking wounded prey.

Our eyes met briefly across the crowded garden, and the message in his was clear:

I'm watching you.

ANTONIO

The new way people looked at me turned my stomach.

A week after Paolo's "message" to Torrino, and the neighbourhood had changed.

As I walked down Via del Moro, Signor Belmonte who owned the grocery stepped back and nodded deeply.

The Ricci brothers, who'd thrown punches with me since we were kids, suddenly found urgent business elsewhere.

Even old Nonna Gallo, who'd swatted me with her cane for stealing apples when I was nine, offered a respectful "Buongiorno, Signor Romano. "

I wasn't Tonio anymore. I was Benedetto's man.

The weight of their fear felt heavier than any burden I'd carried.

This wasn't respect—it was terror. They'd heard what happened to Torrino's scout, whispered over countertops and between neighbors' washing lines.

The story had grown with each telling until Paolo had apparently carved the man into pieces while I held him down.

I entered our building, climbing the narrow stairs two at a time, anxious to escape the streets where I was becoming someone I didn't recognize. When I pushed open our apartment door, the familiar scent of Mama's cooking wrapped around me like an embrace.

"Tonio! Look what I learned today!" Enzo bounced up from the kitchen table, algebra forgotten as he thrust a sketch at me. It showed the Duomo in Milano, remarkably detailed for a fourteen-year-old's hand.

I studied it, forcing my mind away from blood-soaked tannery floors. "This is excellent, Enzo. Where'd you learn about the Duomo?"

"Signor Moretti showed me a postcard from when he visited. He said it's the most beautiful church in all of Italy."

Mama smiled from the stove. "That boy talks of nothing but Milano since yesterday. As if Rome doesn't have fine churches of its own."

The opportunity appeared before me like a gift. "Milano is remarkable," I said, hanging my jacket. "And they say the schools there are excellent. Different from here—more opportunities."

Papa looked up from his newspaper, eyebrows raised. "And how would you know about Milano's schools?"

"Lorenzo mentioned it," I said, the lie slipping out easily. "He was educated in the north for a time. Says their approaches to mathematics and science are more modern."

Enzo's eyes widened. "Really? Could I study there someday?"

I ruffled his hair, heart pounding. "Why wait for someday? I've been thinking—with what I earn now, we could consider moving north."

The kitchen fell silent. Mama stopped stirring.

"Move?" Papa's voice carried a mixture of disbelief and suspicion. "This is our home. My father's home before me."

"And what has it given us?" I countered, careful to keep my voice gentle. "Damp walls that make your lungs worse every winter. Schools that teach Enzo half of what he could learn elsewhere." I nodded to the window. "Neighbours who now cross themselves when they see me coming."

"People respect you," Papa argued, but his voice lacked conviction.

"That's not respect, Papa." I pulled out a chair, sitting beside him. "You know the difference. And Milano has better hospitals. Doctors who might help with your injury."

Mama turned, wiping her hands on her apron. "Your uncle Vittorio did say his friend's cousin found good work in a Milano factory."

"Exactly," I seized the opening. "And I've connections now. The Benedettos have associates there who could help us get settled."

This wasn't entirely false. Lorenzo had contacts in Milano through legitimate business fronts. He'd already sent inquiries about housing in neighborhoods where no one would know us.

Enzo clutched his drawing. "Could I really go to a better school?"

"The best," I promised. "And think of winter without Papa coughing all night. No more charcoal brazier that barely heats one room."

"It would be leaving everything we know," Papa said, but I could see the idea taking root.

"Sometimes that's necessary." I leaned closer. "I've saved enough for the train fare and two months' rent while we find our feet. When was the last time we had such a cushion?"

"Never," Mama admitted quietly.

"I could meet new friends," Enzo mused. "Learn different things."

"And no one would know us there," I added, the true reason hanging unspoken between my words. No one would know what I'd done for the Benedettos. No one would step back in fear when I passed.

No one would hunt for the boss's son who ran away with another man.

Papa studied me, weathered hands folded on the table. "There's more to this than you're saying, Tonio."

My throat tightened. Papa had always seen through me.

"I want better for us," I said finally. "Better than what Rome offers."

"And this Benedetto boy? Your employer? He approves of his enforcer leaving?"

I met his gaze steadily. "Lorenzo understands. He... supports my decision."

Something in Papa's eyes shifted, a knowledge I wasn't ready to name passing between us. He nodded slowly. "I'll consider it. For Enzo's education and your mother's peace of mind."

It wasn't a yes, but it wasn't a refusal either. I released a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. "That's all I ask."

Mama served dinner, and conversation shifted to Enzo's studies, but the idea of Milano had been planted.

I caught Enzo sketching another cathedral in the margins of his notebook, and Mama asked casual questions about northern cooking.

Even Papa mentioned a cobbler from Milano who'd once shown him a different stitching technique.

Seeds taking root. Nine days left to make them flower.

The next afternoon, I slipped away to Villa San Michele, taking a circuitous route to ensure I wasn't followed.

The abandoned estate stood silent in the afternoon sun, plaster crumbling from its walls like dying skin sloughing off bone.

I climbed through our usual window, listening for Lorenzo's footsteps.

The villa felt different each time we met—sometimes a sanctuary, other times a tomb waiting to seal us in. Today, dust motes danced in sunbeams through broken shutters, giving the decaying grandeur an almost holy quality.

"Tonio?"

Lorenzo's voice echoed from the upper floor. I found him in what must have once been a lady's sitting room, where faded silk still clung to the walls in patches. He looked exhausted, dark circles shadowing his eyes.

"I was beginning to worry," he said, crossing to me.

His embrace felt desperate, hands clutching at my shoulders as if I might dissolve into the villa's ghosts. I held him tightly, breathing in the scent of him—expensive soap beneath sweat and anxiety.

"Problems at home?" I asked when we parted.

"My father's taken control of my mother's villa." Lorenzo paced to the window. "He's assigned Paolo to oversee renovations—supposedly as a wedding gift for Sophia and me."

Cold dread pooled in my stomach. "How bad?"

"It cuts our funds by nearly half." He ran a hand through his hair. "I've other resources, but they're harder to access without raising suspicion."

I absorbed this, mentally recalculating. "I've begun preparing my family. Suggested Milano for Enzo's education and Papa's health."

"And their response?"

"Not immediate rejection." I leaned against the wall. "Papa senses there's more to it, but Enzo's excited by the possibility."

Lorenzo nodded. "That's something, at least." He hesitated. "You could still take them and go without me. If my family's suspicions make it too dangerous—"

"Stop." I crossed to him, gripping his shoulders. "We go together or not at all."