Page 3 of The Seventh Circle (The Lost Cantos #1)

ANTONIO

Itucked away my worn copy of Dante as the heir to the Benedetto empire approached.

Lorenzo moved differently than the other family men—none of that strutting peacock walk the lieutenants affected.

He carried his power like something uncomfortable but familiar, a well-tailored suit that pinched in places only he could feel.

"Heir," I greeted him, standing as he took the seat across from me. My tongue almost slipped on the word, wanting to form his actual name instead.

"Romano," he replied, his voice carrying that peculiar blend of authority and reluctance I'd noticed during our previous jobs together. "We have work to do."

I nodded, studying him as he signalled for his own espresso.

The cafe owner practically sprinted to deliver it, bowing slightly—the expected response to a Benedetto in your establishment.

Lorenzo barely seemed to notice, but I'd learned to watch for the small twitch at the corner of his mouth whenever people performed their fear for him.

"The San Lorenzo market," he said after the owner retreated. "Vito Torrino's been collecting where he shouldn't."

"The Blade," I said, keeping my voice neutral though the name carried its own reputation. "Three men with him usually. Sometimes four."

Lorenzo's eyebrows lifted slightly. "You've seen them operating?"

"I know the market. My mother buys there twice weekly.

" I didn't add that I escorted her whenever possible, that I knew every vendor by name, that I'd helped old Signora Benedetti reorganize her bread stall after last month's windstorm.

Better to let him assume I'd been watching for professional reasons.

"What else should I know about Torrino?"

I considered the question, weighing how much to reveal.

With most Benedetto men, I'd offer the bare minimum—they wanted muscle, not thoughts.

But Lorenzo had always been different. During our last job, he'd actually listened to my suggestion for handling the informant, had acknowledged when my approach worked better than his initial plan.

"He likes knives, hence the nickname," I said.

"Carries at least three. Favours his right hand but can switch if pressed.

Quick but showy—likes to leave scars that people will talk about.

" I sipped my espresso, organizing my thoughts.

"Considers himself more important than he is.

Struggles with the contradiction between his ambition and his position. "

Lorenzo studied me with those intense dark eyes. "That's quite an assessment."

I shrugged. "People reveal themselves if you watch long enough."

Something flickered across his face—surprise, perhaps appreciation. "And what does Vito see when he watches us?"

"Nothing yet," I said. "He hasn't been paying attention to the right things."

"And what are the right things, Romano?"

The question carried a weight I couldn't quite interpret. I met his gaze directly, allowing myself the dangerous luxury of really looking at him—the aristocratic features softened by something his father's face never showed, the intelligence behind eyes that noticed more than they should.

"Patterns," I said finally. "Motivations. Where the power actually flows, not where people think it does."

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "And where does it flow?"

"Not always where the Dons believe." A reckless statement, but something about Lorenzo had always pulled truth from me like water from a deep well.

Instead of offense, I saw interest sharpen his gaze. He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice. "My father believes a message needs sending today. Something memorable."

"How memorable?" I asked, needing to know the boundaries of what was expected.

"Enough to discourage further encroachment without starting a war." He traced the rim of his cup with one elegant finger. "I've been told Vito is seeking Sicilian backing. That changes the calculation."

I absorbed this new information, understanding immediately why Don Salvatore had paired his son with me rather than his nephew Paolo, who was known more for his creativity with pain than intelligence. This required precision, not just brutality.

"We'll need to be public enough for witnesses, controlled enough to avoid Sicilian intervention," I said, thinking aloud. "Humiliation more than damage."

Lorenzo nodded, and something passed between us—a shared understanding that violence was a language we both spoke but neither of us particularly enjoyed.

I'd seen how he washed blood from his hands after our last job, the careful, almost ritualistic movements like a priest cleansing himself after communion.

"Vito makes his rounds at mid-morning," I said. "We should position ourselves now."

He finished his espresso in one smooth motion and stood. "Lead the way, Romano. You know the territory better than I do."

We walked together through streets still waking to the day, vendors pushing carts toward the market, women hanging laundry from balconies.

Lorenzo matched my pace naturally, neither rushing ahead nor falling behind—a small thing that nonetheless set him apart from other family men who always needed to establish dominance through something as simple as walking.

"The book," Lorenzo said suddenly. "What were you reading?"

The question caught me off-guard. "Dante," I admitted. "The Inferno."

"A cheerful morning selection," he remarked, with that almost-smile again.

"We're about to descend into our own circle of hell," I said. "Seemed appropriate."

This time he did smile, brief but genuine. "Which circle awaits us, do you think?"

"Violence against neighbors," I replied. "Seventh circle, first ring."

His eyebrows lifted. "You know it well."

I shrugged, feeling suddenly self-conscious.

"I read what I can find. My mother taught me letters before—" I stopped myself, not wanting to remind him of our different backgrounds.

Before my father's back was broken in a dockyard accident.

Before I became the family's sole provider at sixteen.

Before I discovered my ability to hurt people could be converted into lire.

"My tutor made me memorize entire cantos," Lorenzo said, smoothly filling the awkward silence. "I always preferred Paradiso, though everyone expects a Benedetto to favour the Inferno."

The simple confession—a preference that contradicted expectations—hung between us like a small, significant gift. I tucked it away carefully, another piece of the puzzle that was Lorenzo Benedetto.

We reached the market as vendors were setting up their stalls.

The air filled with the mingled scents of fresh bread, ripe produce, and fish packed in ice.

I noticed how Lorenzo observed everything without seeming to—the layout, the sightlines, the potential escape routes.

Not just the heir following orders, but a strategist planning for contingencies.

"There," I said quietly, nodding toward a narrow alley between stalls. "Vito always starts at the far corner with the fishmonger, works his way clockwise. That position gives us the advantage of surprise and control over his exit."

Lorenzo assessed the spot and nodded. "Good. We wait."

We positioned ourselves strategically—visible enough to seem like ordinary market-goers, concealed enough to surprise.

The next hour passed in watchful silence.

I observed Lorenzo from the corner of my eye, noting how he blended effortlessly despite his fine clothes, how the vendors who recognized him gave respectful nods without making a spectacle.

The heir moved in his family's territory like a fish in familiar waters.

Then I spotted them—Vito and three men entering from the east side. "There," I murmured. "With the blue cap and fancy shoes."

Lorenzo followed my gaze to Vito Torrino, who was strutting more than walking between stalls.

Even from this distance, I could see the flash of his rings as he gestured, the slight bulge of a shoulder holster beneath his expensive jacket.

His men spread out behind him, creating a small procession designed to intimidate.

"I see what you mean about the show," Lorenzo said quietly.

We watched as Vito approached the first stall, leaning over to speak with the fishmonger, whose face tightened with fear. Money changed hands—too much, from the vendor's expression. Then they moved to the next stall, repeating the performance.

"Four stalls to go," I said. "Then they'll reach the alley."

Lorenzo nodded. "Follow my lead."

We separated slightly, moving into position.

I felt the familiar pre-fight stillness settle over me—senses sharpening, movements becoming more deliberate.

I carried no gun today, just the knife in my boot and the one at my belt.

Guns made too much noise, attracted too much attention. This needed to be personal.

Vito reached the alley entrance, still laughing at something one of his men had said. Then Lorenzo stepped out directly in front of him, cutting off his path. I positioned myself behind, trapping them in the narrow space.

"Torrino," Lorenzo said, his voice carrying just enough to attract attention without shouting. "You seem to be collecting from the wrong vendors."

Vito's face shifted from surprise to anger to a calculated smirk in the space of seconds. "Benedetto's puppy," he sneered, glancing at his men who were already reaching inside their jackets. "Come to yap at me about territory?"

"Not yap," Lorenzo said calmly. "Remind."

The market had gone silent around us, vendors and shoppers freezing in place, sensing the violence about to erupt. I kept my focus on the three men behind Vito, marking which was likely to move first. The tallest one had his hand already on what was undoubtedly a pistol.

"Your father should have taught you better manners," Vito said, his hand dropping to his waistband where I knew he kept his favourite blade. "But I'm happy to provide the lesson."