Page 31 of The Seventh Circle (The Lost Cantos #1)

ANTONIO

Ileft the church with Father Giuseppe's instructions burning in my mind.

The streets of Roma passed in a blur as I hurried home, rehearsing what to tell my family.

The truth—but not all of it. They needed to know we were in danger, that we had to leave tonight.

The details of Lorenzo and me could wait until we were safe in Genoa.

Night had fallen by the time I reached our building, the familiar stone steps worn smooth by generations.

I took them two at a time, eager to begin our preparations despite the heaviness in my heart.

We would leave almost everything behind—Mama's cooking pots, Papa's chair, the few books I'd collected.

But we would have each other, and that was enough.

I knocked our family's pattern—two quick raps, pause, then three more—before using my key. "Mama? Papa? I'm home. We need to talk."

The apartment was silent. No warm yellow light spilled from the kitchen, no rustling from behind the curtain that divided the bedroom. Perhaps they'd already gone to bed. I struck a match and lit the small lamp by the door, my eyes adjusting to the dim glow.

"Enzo? You still awake, little mathematician?"

The silence felt wrong. Heavy. I moved toward the kitchen, the lamp casting long shadows across the worn floorboards.

The coppery scent hit me first.

Blood has a smell like nothing else—metallic, primal, unmistakable. I'd smelled it before, in alleyways and warehouses where the Benedettos conducted their "business." But never here. Never in my home.

"Mama?" My voice cracked. "Papa?"

I pushed the curtain aside.

The lamp slipped from my fingers, glass shattering as it hit the floor. The flame guttered but didn't die, casting wild, dancing shadows over the scene before me.

They lay in their bed, still under the blankets as though sleeping.

But the dark stain spreading across the worn linen told a different story.

Papa's throat was cut so deeply his head lolled at an unnatural angle.

Mama beside him, her chest a mess of stab wounds, her eyes open and fixed in a final moment of terror.

A sound tore from my throat—animal, broken.

I stumbled backward, colliding with the small table where we ate our meals, where Enzo spread his books to study.

Enzo.

"No. No, no, no." I whirled around, searching. "Enzo!"

I found him in our shared room, curled on his thin mattress. From the doorway, he might have been sleeping, one arm flung across his eyes as always. But the stillness was wrong. The dark pool beneath him was wrong.

My legs gave out. I crawled to him, gathering his small body in my arms. He was still warm. If I closed my eyes, I could pretend he was sleeping, that he'd wake any moment asking about Milano again, eyes bright with dreams of university.

But blood soaked through my shirt where I held him, and his head rolled lifelessly against my shoulder.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, rocking him. "I'm so sorry. I was supposed to protect you."

The wooden boat I'd carved him lay shattered beside his bed. Next to it, scratched into the wall with what must have been a knife point: Benedetto's dog has been put down.

Vito Torrino. The Blade. His signature was everywhere—the throats cut with precision, the message, the broken toy. This was his revenge for the humiliation in the market, for Paolo's brutal message.

But why now? Why—

Realization struck with sickening clarity. Torrino's men had been watching us, waiting for a time when I wasn't here. When my family was alone and vulnerable.

Because Paolo had sent me to Ostia.

Paolo, who knew about Lorenzo and me. Who'd been playing his own game.

I don't know how long I sat there, holding Enzo's body, my mind cycling through a nightmare loop of grief and rage.

My little brother, who'd wanted to study mathematics.

Mama, who'd worked her fingers raw for us.

Papa, who'd carried coal until his back gave out.

All dead because of me. Because I'd dared to love Lorenzo.

Because I'd challenged Vito. Because I'd believed Paolo's "assignment" in Ostia was legitimate.

I laid Enzo gently back on his bed, arranging his limbs, smoothing his hair. I wiped blood from his face with my sleeve, unable to bear the sight of it staining his skin. My hands shook violently, but I forced them steady for this final act of care.

Then I stood, a coldness settling over me like winter frost.

I knew what I had to do.

From beneath the loose floorboard under my bed, I retrieved my knife—the good one, not the everyday blade I carried. This one had a weighted handle, a steel edge that could split hairs. I'd used it only twice before, both times for the Benedettos. Both times I'd felt sick afterward.

Now I felt nothing but ice in my veins.

I found Papa's old work shirt, the one he'd worn in the mines before his injury.

I tore it into strips, binding my knuckles the way boxers did before a fight.

I tucked the knife into my belt, then took the small pistol I'd hidden inside the kitchen wall—a gift from Papa months ago that I'd never wanted to use.

Tonight, I would use it. All thoughts of leaving with Lorenzo fled my mind, the need for vengeance consumed me.

I knew where Vito would be. Thursday nights he collected from the gambling dens near the river, always ending at La Rosa tavern where he kept a room upstairs. He'd be surrounded by his men, protected.

It didn't matter. Nothing mattered except making him pay.

I paused at the door, looking back at our small apartment one last time. This place that had been home. The worn table where we'd shared meals. The cracked window Papa had patched with newspaper. The corner where Mama hung herbs to dry.

My family wouldn't have a proper burial. By the time anyone found them, I'd likely be dead too. I wouldn't get to say goodbye to Lorenzo either. The thought should have troubled me, but it felt distant, academic. Like something happening to someone else.

"I'll see you soon," I whispered, then closed the door behind me.

The night air hit my face, cool against skin that felt fevered. Paolo's men were watching the building—I knew that now. Let them watch. Let them follow. It didn't matter anymore.

I moved through the streets like a ghost, all my enforcer's training focused on one purpose. Where normally I'd check corners, avoid patterns, tonight I walked directly, openly. The knife at my belt and the gun in my waistband gave me a terrible confidence.

"Antonio!"

A voice called from behind me—Marcella Rossi, the flower seller's daughter who'd thanked me just days ago.

"Antonio, what's wrong? You're covered in—" She broke off, eyes widening at the blood staining my clothes.

I kept walking, deaf to her calls. The world had narrowed to a single point—Vito Torrino's throat beneath my blade.

La Rosa tavern glowed at the end of the street, yellow light spilling from its windows, raucous laughter floating on the night air. Two men lounged outside—Torrino's guards, their posture casual but eyes alert. They straightened as I approached, hands moving toward hidden weapons.

The first guard never had time to draw. My knife opened his throat in a clean, practiced motion—the same wound Vito had given Papa. He dropped with a gurgle, eyes wide with surprise.

The second man managed to pull his pistol, but my momentum carried me forward. I slammed into him, driving my knife between his ribs with such force the handle hit his chest. He fired wild, the shot going high above my head, before slumping against the tavern wall.

Inside, heads turned at the gunshot. I stepped through the door, blood dripping from my knife, Papa's torn shirt wrapped around my knuckles now soaked crimson with the man's pistol in one hand and my knife in the other.

"Where is he?" My voice sounded strange in my ears—flat, hollow.

The tavern fell silent. A dozen faces stared, frozen in shock. None of them mattered. Only Vito.

A burly man—another of Torrino's guards—recovered first, lunging toward me. I sidestepped, letting his momentum carry him past, then brought the butt of the gun down on the back of his skull with a sickening crack.

"Vito Torrino," I said again, louder. "Where is he?"

A serving girl pointed shakily toward the stairs. I moved past her, stepping over the fallen guard.

The tavern erupted behind me. Shouts, breaking glass, a woman's scream. I ignored it all, taking the stairs two at a time.

At the top landing, two more guards waited. They'd heard the commotion and stood ready, guns drawn.

"That's far enough, Romano," one said, his aim steady.

Time slowed. I saw their fingers on triggers, calculated distances, angles. The old Antonio would have stopped, raised his hands, found another way.

But the old Antonio died with his family.

I fired twice. The first shot took the speaker in the chest. The second caught his companion in the shoulder, spinning him against the wall. Before he could recover, I closed the distance between us and drove my knife up under his chin.

The door at the end of the hall burst open. Vito stood there, buttoning his shirt, face twisted with rage.

"You stupid bastard," he spat. "You think you can come here alone? Against all my men?"

"You killed my family." My voice sounded calm, detached.

A cruel smile spread across his face. "The little brother cried for you. Begged me to wait until you came home." He laughed.

Something broke inside me—the last thread of restraint, of humanity. I charged him with a roar that didn't sound human.

Vito was fast—they called him The Blade for a reason. The knife appeared in his hand like magic, slashing across my chest. Pain bloomed, hot and sharp, but I didn't slow. I crashed into him, driving us both back into the room.

We fell together, rolling across the floor in a tangle of limbs and blades. His knife found my shoulder, then my side. Each cut fueled my rage rather than weakening it.

I smashed my forehead into his face, feeling his nose shatter. Blood sprayed between us. He howled, slashing wildly. The knife sliced my cheek open to the bone, but I barely felt it.

My hands found his throat. I squeezed with every ounce of strength I possessed, watching his eyes bulge, his face purple. He stabbed me again, the blade sinking deep into my thigh. I didn't loosen my grip.

"My brother," I hissed, squeezing harder. "My mother. My father."

Vito's eyes rolled back. His knife hand went limp. But it wasn't enough. Death was too quick, too clean for what he'd done.

I released his throat, grabbed his knife from his slack fingers, and began my work. Each cut was deliberate, precise. I carved my family's names into his flesh. With each letter, I whispered their names.

"Enzo." Cut.

"Maria." Cut.

"Elio." Cut.

Blood soaked the floorboards beneath us, mine mingling with his. The room swam before my eyes, my own wounds finally making themselves known. I didn't stop until I'd finished, until Vito Torrino was a ruined canvas bearing my family's memorial.

He was still alive, barely. Conscious enough to understand.

"Remember their names in hell," I whispered, then drew my blade across his throat—the same killing stroke he'd used on Papa.

I slumped beside his body, suddenly aware of the shouting from downstairs, the pounding footsteps on the stairs. More of Torrino's men coming. Or maybe the police. It didn't matter. My task was complete.

I tried to stand but my legs wouldn't cooperate. Blood pooled around me—how much was mine, how much Vito's, I couldn't tell. The room tilted sideways. I thought of Enzo's face, peaceful in death. Of Lorenzo waiting at the church, not knowing I wouldn't come.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, though I wasn't sure to whom.

The door burst open. I raised my gun with a hand that suddenly felt weighted with lead, finger tightening on the trigger.

"Romano! Stop!"

Paolo stood in the doorway, his eyes widening as he took in the scene—Vito's mutilated body, the blood-soaked floor, me slumped against the wall leaving a crimson smear.

"You did this," I said, my voice barely audible. "You sent me away. You knew they'd be alone."

"Not like this," he said, stepping carefully through the blood. "This wasn't supposed to happen."

"Liar," I spat, struggling to my feet. Every movement sent pain shooting through my wounds, but rage gave me strength. "You wanted me gone. You wanted them vulnerable."

Paolo's face hardened. "Think about what you're saying, Antonio. Think about who you're accusing."

"I know exactly who I'm accusing." I lunged at him, knife aiming for his throat.

Despite my injuries, I was fast. But Paolo was faster. He sidestepped, caught my wrist, and twisted. My knife clattered to the floor. His fist connected with my temple with stunning force.

The room spun. I staggered, tried to swing again, but my body betrayed me. I fell to my knees in Vito's blood.

Paolo crouched down, bringing his face level with mine. His smile was a chilling, predatory thing. "You have fire, Romano. I'll give you that. But you're a fool."

He reached out and patted my bloody cheek, a grotesquely paternal gesture. "You're right," he whispered, his voice a low, confiding hiss. "I did know. I made sure."

The world narrowed to his smirking face.

"Vito was getting sloppy, a liability," Paolo continued conversationally.

"And you... you were becoming a distraction for my cousin.

I needed to remind you both where your loyalties belong.

So, I made a call." His eyes gleamed in the dim light.

"I told Vito's lieutenant, 'Romano is back in town, but he'll be visiting his priest around eight o'clock. The window is yours. Make it count.'"

He watched the realization dawn on my face, savoring it.

"Vito was a rabid dog I needed to put down.

Your family... they were just the bait. I needed to see what you would do.

If you would run crying to Lorenzo, or if you would act like a man.

Like one of us." He stood up, looking down at me with contemptuous satisfaction.

"You chose correctly. A bit messy, but effective. "

The rage that had carried me this far curdled into something colder, heavier. This wasn't just Vito's revenge. This was a message from the man standing over me.

"Don Salvatore wants to see you," Paolo said, his voice returning to its cold, official tone as if our intimate confession had never happened. "This changes nothing about your obligations to the family."

Family. The word was ash in my mouth as darkness claimed me.

The last thought before unconsciousness took me: Everyone I've ever loved is gone.

Everyone except Lorenzo.