Page 24 of The Seventh Circle (The Lost Cantos #1)

His eyes searched mine. "Paolo's watching me. I feel it constantly now."

"Has he said anything directly?"

"Nothing concrete. But at the Vitelli dinner last night..." Lorenzo shook his head. "His eyes never left me. And my father suddenly discussing wedding plans in specific detail, as if testing my reactions."

I pulled him closer. "Eight days. We just need to maintain the illusion for eight more days."

"Sophia suspects something too." His voice dropped. "She's perceptive. Said I was hiding something."

My hands tightened involuntarily. "Did you confirm it?"

"Of course not. But denying it only convinced her more." Lorenzo's laugh held no humor. "I'm surrounded by people who can sense my deception, while the one person I want to be honest with, I can barely see."

I led him to a dusty settee in the corner, pulling him down beside me. "Tell me about Milano. What you've arranged."

The change of subject eased some tension from his shoulders. "I've found a neighbourhood in the western part of the city. Working class but respectable. Far from any Benedetto connections. Three rooms above an old woodworking shop that's for sale."

"A real shop?" I couldn't help smiling at how perfectly it aligned with his dream.

"With tools included," he confirmed, a flicker of excitement breaking through his exhaustion. "The owner died, and his widow wants to sell quickly. I've arranged for a bank draft to be waiting at the Milano Commerciale. We can complete the purchase our first week there."

"And my family?"

"An apartment four streets away. Close enough for visits, far enough for..." He trailed off.

"Privacy," I finished. Neither of us needed to name what that privacy would enable.

Lorenzo nodded, then reached into his jacket, producing a folded newspaper. "For Enzo. To help convince him."

I opened it to find listings for Milano's scientific academy circled in pencil. Programs for young men with mathematical aptitude.

"Lorenzo..." I ran my finger over the careful circles. "This is perfect."

"I thought perhaps seeing something concrete might help your case with your parents."

The thoughtfulness of it—this man with his own precarious situation taking time to consider my brother's education—made my chest ache. I set the paper aside and pulled him to me, kissing him with all the words I couldn't form.

When we broke apart, I kept him close. "We need to be prepared for unexpected changes. If something happens and we can't meet as planned—"

"Father Giuseppe," he said immediately. "He can act as intermediary if necessary."

I nodded. "And if we need to leave earlier—"

"A message to my apartment. 'Your order from Firenze has arrived early.' I'll understand."

We'd rehearsed these contingencies before, but repetition felt like armor against uncertainty. We spoke of practical matters—clothes to pack, money to convert, routes to avoid. The mundane details of escape became a kind of prayer between us.

As afternoon light faded to dusk, our conversation gave way to silence. Lorenzo's head rested against my shoulder, his breathing steady. For perhaps the first time since I'd known him, his face looked peaceful.

"What are you thinking?" I asked softly.

"That this is the only place I feel real." He didn't open his eyes. "Everywhere else, I'm performing. The dutiful son. The future don. The attentive fiancé. Only here, with you, am I actually Lorenzo."

I understood completely. In the decaying villa, I wasn't Benedetto's enforcer or my family's provider—just Tonio, allowed to exist without expectation.

"When we're in Milano," I said, "every place will feel this way."

He turned to face me, sudden intensity in his gaze. "Promise me something."

"Anything."

"If something happens—if we're discovered before we leave—don't try to fight. Run. Take your family and go north immediately."

"Lorenzo—"

"Promise me, Tonio." His hands gripped mine with surprising strength. "My father would kill you to punish me. I couldn't bear—" He stopped, voice breaking.

"Nothing will happen," I insisted, even as fear coiled in my chest.

"Promise anyway."

I couldn't lie to him. "I can't promise to leave you behind."

Frustration flashed across his face. "This isn't about nobility or sacrifice. If they catch us, I might have a chance as the heir. You would have none."

"Then we won't get caught." I pulled him against me. "Eight days, Lorenzo. Eight days and then freedom."

I held him tighter, committing to memory the feel of his heartbeat against mine, steady and true in this abandoned villa where, for a few stolen hours, we could pretend the outside world didn't exist.

But the fear was a cold knot in my stomach. The dread pooling there was a certainty that leaving wouldn't be as simple as we hoped.

Yet as Lorenzo's lips found mine in the darkness, I knew I would pay any price for these stolen moments of truth in a world built on lies.

His kiss was different this time. It wasn't the frantic, desperate clash of our first meeting in this place, nor the gentle exploration of the one that followed.

This was a claiming. A slow, deep, deliberate sealing of the pact we had just made.

His tongue swept into my mouth, not asking, but taking, and I yielded completely, a low groan vibrating in my throat.

I could taste the faint remnants of his expensive coffee, the unique flavor that was simply him, and something else—a wild, desperate hope that mirrored my own.

My hands, which had been clutching at his jacket, slid underneath it, seeking the heat of his skin through the fine linen of his shirt. I felt him shudder against me.

He broke the kiss, his breath hot against my cheek. "I need to feel you, Antonio. Not through layers of lies and expectations. Just you."

His fingers went to the buttons of my worn shirt, his movements surprisingly deft despite their elegant slenderness.

I did the same for him, my calloused, scarred hands fumbling with the mother-of-pearl buttons of his waistcoat and shirt, a stark contrast to his refined world.

We were a tangle of pushing fabric and seeking hands, until our chests were bare, pressed together in the cool, dusty air.

The sensation was electric. The smooth, hot plane of his skin against mine, the dust motes dancing in the slivers of moonlight like gold glitter around us.

He was all lean muscle and sharp angles, a body built for command, not labor.

I was broader, harder, scarred from a life he’d only ever observed from a distance. Yet we fit together as if made for it.

He pushed me back gently until my shoulders met the cold, faded silk of the wall. His mouth found my neck, his teeth scraping lightly over the pulse hammering there before his tongue soothed the spot. My head fell back with a thud against the wall, my eyes squeezing shut. "Lorenzo..."

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice a rough whisper against my skin.

I forced my eyes open. His gaze was dark, intense, filled with a fire I had only ever seen glimpses of before. This was the real Lorenzo, the man he kept caged behind the heir's composed mask. The man who wanted, and took, and felt.

One of his hands slid down my chest, over the tense muscles of my abdomen, and into the waistband of my trousers. I sucked in a sharp breath as his fingers wrapped around my length. His touch was confident, sure, and so devastatingly good that my knees threatened to buckle.

"You are my freedom," he murmured, his thumb sweeping over the head of my cock, spreading the moisture beading there. "Not Milano, not a new name. This. You."

I could only gasp, my own hands gripping his hips, pulling him tighter against me.

I could feel his own hardness straining against the fine wool of his trousers, and I reached for him, fumbling with the fastenings until I could wrap my hand around him.

He was velvet over steel, and the choked moan that escaped his lips was the most beautiful sound I'd ever heard.

We stood there for a long moment, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other's air, hands moving on each other in a rhythm that was both frantic and reverent.

The world outside—the danger, the families, the bloodshed—all of it faded into a distant hum.

There was only this. The slide of skin on skin, the hitch of his breath, the way his elegant fingers tightened on me every time I stroked him just right.

"Inside me," I begged, the words torn from me. I couldn't wait, couldn't bear another moment of separation. "Please."

He didn't hesitate. He guided me to the dusty chaise lounge we'd sat on before. He laid me down on the worn velvet with a tenderness that belied the raw need in his eyes. He retrieved the small pot of salve from his pocket—a practical man, always prepared—and slicked his fingers.

His touch was careful, precise, as he prepared me, stretching me with a patience that made me ache. Every brush against that perfect, secret spot inside me sent jolts of pure lightning through my veins. I was panting, writhing beneath his hands, completely undone.

When he finally positioned himself at my entrance, he paused, his eyes locked on mine. "This is the only vow I will ever make that matters," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I am yours."

Then he pushed inside.

The stretch was exquisite, a burning fullness that erased every other thought from my mind.

I cried out, my nails digging into his shoulders as he sheathed himself completely within me.

For a moment, we were both still, connected in the most intimate way possible, breathing through the overwhelming sensation.

Then he began to move.

His thrusts were slow and deep at first, each one a deliberate claiming. I met every one, my hips rising to meet his, our bodies finding a rhythm as ancient as time itself. The chaise groaned beneath us, a counterpoint to our ragged breaths and the soft, wet sounds of our joining.

He bent his head, capturing my mouth in another searing kiss as his pace quickened. I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, wanting to erase any space between us. He was everywhere—his scent, his taste, the feel of him inside me, filling me, completing me.

"Mio," he gasped against my lips. "Solo mio." My own. Only mine.

"Yes," I choked out, my own climax coiling tight and desperate in my gut. "Always."

His hand found my cock again, stroking me in time with his thrusts, and it was too much. The world shattered behind my eyes. My release tore through me with a force that was almost painful, my body seizing as I spilled myself over his hand and my stomach with a wordless cry.

The feel of my body clenching around him was all it took for him. He buried his face in my neck with a guttural groan, his own body shuddering as he found his release deep inside me.

We collapsed together in a sweaty, trembling heap on the too-small chaise, limbs entangled, hearts hammering against each other's ribs. The air was thick with the scent of sex and dust and us.

For a long time, we just breathed. His fingers traced idle patterns on my damp skin.

"Eight days," he whispered again, but the words were no longer a countdown to fear. They were a promise.

I turned my head and kissed him, soft and slow. "Eight days," I agreed against his lips.

And for the first time, wrapped in his arms in our crumbling sanctuary, I truly believed it.

We stayed entwined until darkness made the villa's shadows too deep to navigate safely. When the time came to part, our goodbye felt different—heavier with both promise and fear.

I walked home through back streets, the newspaper for Enzo tucked safely inside my jacket. As I turned onto our street, I noticed a man leaning against the wall opposite our building. Though his hat was pulled low, I recognized Paolo's distinctive stance.

I approached directly, refusing to show hesitation. "Evening, Paolo."

He straightened, smiling thinly. "Antonio. Late night?"

"Errands for Lorenzo." I kept my voice neutral. "He mentioned you're overseeing renovations on a property for him."

"Did he?" Paolo lit a cigarette, the match briefly illuminating his calculating eyes. "Interesting he'd discuss family business with you."

"Just making conversation." I moved to pass him.

His hand shot out, gripping my arm. "You've risen quickly in the family's estimation, Antonio. Especially Lorenzo's."

I met his gaze steadily. "I do my job well."

"Indeed." He released me, smoke curling between us. "It would be a shame to jeopardize such a promising position with... misplaced loyalties."

My heart hammered, but I kept my expression impassive. "My loyalty to the Benedetto family is absolute."

"To the family," he repeated, emphasizing the last word. "Or to Lorenzo specifically?"

"Is there a difference?"

Paolo's smile never reached his eyes. "Sometimes. Good night, Antonio. Give my regards to your brother."

The mention of Enzo sent ice through my veins. I watched Paolo walk away, his message delivered with perfect clarity: he suspected something, and my family remained my vulnerability.

Eight days suddenly seemed an eternity.