Page 25 of The Seventh Circle (The Lost Cantos #1)

PAOLO

After a lifetime working for my uncle, I'd developed an eye for deception.

Men who skimmed profits, lieutenants planning betrayals, enemies crafting schemes—they all moved differently, spoke differently when hiding something.

A certain tension around the eyes, pauses in conversation that stretched a half-second too long, manufactured routines that felt rehearsed.

Lorenzo carried all these tells like a second skin.

I watched him across the breakfast table as he scanned the newspaper with too-careful nonchalance.

His movements were measured, as if performing normalcy rather than living it.

Less than a week ago, he'd returned from the Torrino incident changed—not by the violence, which he'd seen before, but by something else entirely.

"Any business requiring attention today, cousin?" I asked, breaking the silence.

His eyes flicked up, then back down. "Collections on the eastern routes. Nothing requiring your... particular talents."

The pause before "particular talents" spoke volumes. Since I'd dispatched Torrino's man, Lorenzo had developed a newfound delicacy around violence. This from a man who'd broken bones since adolescence.

"Your father mentioned the Vitelli girl will attend the opera Friday evening. You'll escort her?"

"Of course." He turned a page. "The arrangement proceeds as planned."

As planned. Such a peculiar phrase for a man discussing his impending marriage. I'd known Lorenzo my entire life—we'd fought together, bled together, built Uncle Salvatore's empire side by side. While never enthusiastic about family business, he'd always been dutiful. Until now.

"And Romano? He'll be handling collections with you?"

Lorenzo's fingers tightened imperceptibly on the newspaper. "Yes. He's been effective with the shopkeepers."

"Indeed. Quite the friendship you two have developed."

His expression remained neutral, but a vein pulsed once at his temple. "He's useful."

I smiled. "Certainly. Uncle Salvatore appreciates men who know their use."

After Lorenzo departed, I lingered over coffee, considering my next move. I'd spent years protecting my uncle's interests, anticipating threats before they materialized. This situation with Lorenzo felt increasingly like a threat, though its exact nature remained unclear.

I found Luca smoking in the courtyard. A discreet man with sharp eyes, he'd served our family for fifteen years without ambition or complaint—the perfect shadow.

"The heir," I said without preamble. "I want to know where he goes when he's not on family business."

Luca nodded once. "And Romano?"

My estimation of Luca increased. "Him too. Separately and together. Every movement, every meeting. Especially anything unusual."

"Consider it done."

I handed him an envelope of cash. "Discretion above all. Not even Don Salvatore hears of this until I decide otherwise."

Three days later, Luca delivered his first report.

Lorenzo had maintained his usual schedule—collections, meetings with shopkeepers, dinner with the Vitelli girl—but with one significant deviation.

Twice he'd slipped away to an abandoned property on the city's edge, a run-down villa that had once belonged to a minor noble family.

"And Romano?" I asked.

"Joins him there. They remain for hours, then leave separately."

I tapped my fingers against my desk. "Anyone else? Women, perhaps?"

Matteo shook his head. "Just the two of them."

A business arrangement would require additional parties—suppliers, potential partners, new territories. Two men repeatedly meeting alone in seclusion suggested something else entirely.

"Has Romano been acting differently with his family?"

"His mother mentioned Milano several times. The brother seems excited about it."

"Milano." The word carried weight. Far enough from Rome to escape family influence, close enough to the northern borders if escape became necessary. "And have they made any unusual purchases? Train tickets, perhaps?"

"Not yet. But Romano visited a bank yesterday. Withdrew a significant sum."

The pieces were assembling themselves. Lorenzo's questions about his mother's villa, Antonio's interest in Milano, their secretive meetings, the changed demeanor. My cousin was planning something foolish—perhaps catastrophically so.

"Continue watching them. I want to know the moment either makes arrangements to travel."

After Luca left, I poured myself a generous measure of whisky and considered my options.

If Lorenzo was merely planning to flee his responsibilities—abandoning the family and his engagement—Uncle Salvatore would be furious but could recover.

The Vitelli arrangement would be salvaged, a different successor groomed.

But if there was more to his relationship with Romano—the kind of relationship that would destroy our family's standing if discovered—the damage would be irreparable.

I needed confirmation before approaching Uncle Salvatore. Accusations of that nature against his only son would require absolute certainty.

The opportunity came sooner than expected. Two days later, I followed Lorenzo myself when he slipped away after dinner, claiming a headache. Rather than returning to his rooms, he exited through the garden, moving with the confidence of a man who had traveled this path before.

The villa sat like a crumbling sentinel on abandoned grounds. I positioned myself at a broken section of wall with clear sightlines to the entrance. Romano arrived shortly after, glancing around before entering—another telling sign. Men with nothing to hide don't check for watchers.

I circled the property, finding a side entrance that allowed me to slip inside unnoticed. The building's dilapidated state worked to my advantage; broken floorboards and crumbling plaster forced me to move slowly, silently.

Their voices drifted from a room ahead—not the formal tones of business discussion but the intimate cadence of private conversation. I edged closer, staying in shadow.

"—documentation is almost ready," Lorenzo was saying. "How's your father handling the idea of moving? Is he still hesitant?"

"Papa worries about his health," Romano replied, his voice tinged with frustration. "He doesn't believe he can manage the journey, let alone start fresh in a new city."

"I can arrange a private compartment on the train, the most comfortable passage possible," Lorenzo said. "And I've been researching doctors in Milano who specialize in cases like his."

"It's not just the travel. He's proud, Lorenzo. The idea of his son supporting the family already wounds him. Moving north on your charity..."

"It's not charity," Lorenzo insisted. "The workshop would be his—yours together. I'm merely providing the initial investment."

I frowned. Workshop? What kind of establishment could Lorenzo possibly be planning? He had no practical skills beyond those required for our business.

"Have you spoken with Enzo about Milano's mathematics academy?" Lorenzo asked.

"I've mentioned it. He's intrigued but skeptical. Says it sounds too good to be true."

"We have seven days to convince them all," Lorenzo said, urgency in his voice. "The lease begins at month's end, and I've arranged for funds to be transferred to northern banks. My father would never think to look there."

My blood chilled. This wasn't merely an escape—it was a carefully orchestrated defection, planned with meticulous attention to detail.

Lorenzo wasn't just abandoning his responsibilities; he was creating an entirely new life, one that deliberately excluded his family.

And he was still working to bring Romano's family into his scheme.

I shifted position to see them more clearly and froze at the sight.

They stood near a broken window, moonlight casting their profiles in silver.

Lorenzo's hand rested against Romano's face with unmistakable tenderness, their foreheads nearly touching as they spoke.

I'd seen many things in my years of service to the Benedetto family, but never had I witnessed Lorenzo—proud, reserved Lorenzo—looking at anyone with such naked vulnerability.

"Seven more days," Lorenzo murmured. "Seven days and we'll be free, if we can just convince your father."

Romano's response was to close the distance between them, their lips meeting in a kiss that confirmed my worst suspicions.

I withdrew silently, rage and disgust warring with practical consideration. The heir to the Benedetto family was not only planning to abandon his position but was involved in a perversion that would destroy our family's standing if discovered.

Outside, I leaned against the garden wall, organizing my thoughts.

Uncle Salvatore needed to know—but timing was critical.

Handled incorrectly, this could become public knowledge, damaging the family irreparably.

If Lorenzo fled before we could contain the situation, rumors would follow.

Questions would be asked about why the heir had abandoned his position and his engagement.

The Vitelli alliance would collapse. Rivals would sense weakness. Everything Uncle Salvatore had built would be jeopardized by his son's selfish deviancy.

I lit a cigarette, watching smoke curl into the night air. Lorenzo had always been soft in ways that worried Uncle Salvatore—too thoughtful, too hesitant with necessary violence. I'd defended my cousin over the years, arguing that his intelligence compensated for these weaknesses.

I'd been wrong. Lorenzo wasn't merely soft; he was fundamentally flawed.

As I walked back toward the Benedetto compound, my course became clear. I would not immediately tell Uncle Salvatore what I'd witnessed. The shock might prompt hasty, public action—precisely what we needed to avoid.