Page 32 of The Seventh Circle (The Lost Cantos #1)

LORENZO

The candles in Santa Maria degli Angeli flickered, casting long shadows across the worn stone floor. I paced the length of the nave, checking my pocket watch for the fifth time in as many minutes. Ten-thirty. Antonio was late.

Father Giuseppe had arranged for us to meet here at ten. I'd managed to slip away from the house after a tense dinner with Father, claiming a need for confession before tomorrow's celebration. He'd smiled, pleased at my apparent piety, unaware I was preparing to disappear from his life forever.

The empty church echoed with my footsteps. Each minute that passed twisted my anxiety tighter. Antonio was never late. Not for anything that mattered, and certainly not for this—our escape, our future, our lives.

I approached the altar, finding strange comfort in the painted suffering of martyred saints. Would we become martyrs too? Sacrifices to a world that couldn't accept what we were to each other?

The side door banged open. I spun, relief flooding through me—but it wasn't Antonio who entered. Father Giuseppe rushed down the aisle, his cassock billowing behind him, his face ashen.

"Lorenzo," he gasped, clutching my arm. "You must come quickly."

The dread in his voice froze my blood. "What's happened? Where's Antonio?"

Father Giuseppe's fingers dug into my arm. "The Romano family. They've been murdered. All of them."

The world tilted beneath my feet. "What? No. That's not possible."

"Vito Torrino. His men left a message."

"And Antonio?" My voice didn't sound like my own.

"He found them. Then he went after Torrino."

"Where is he now?"

Father Giuseppe's eyes filled with sorrow. "He killed Vito. Butchered him and five of his men at La Rosa tavern. Your cousin Paolo arrived with your father's soldiers. They've taken Antonio to see Don Salvatore."

I staggered back, my mind racing to make sense of this horror. "We need to go there. Now."

"Lorenzo, think. Your father will be furious. An unsanctioned killing—"

"I don't care." I grabbed my coat. "Antonio needs me."

"They'll kill him for this, Lorenzo."

"Not if I can help it." I moved toward the door, then paused. "Father, please come with me. Say you're there to perform last rites for Antonio's family."

Father Giuseppe hesitated only a moment before nodding. "I'll bring my kit."

The Benedetto compound loomed in the darkness, windows glowing with lamplight despite the late hour. Guards at the gate straightened when they saw me approach with Father Giuseppe beside me.

"The priest is here for the Romano family," I said, my voice steady despite the storm raging inside me. "Where is Antonio?"

"In the small study, Heir Lorenzo," one guard answered. "Your father is finishing business with Signor Capelli before seeing him."

We moved through the courtyard. Every shadow seemed to whisper of death. I could feel Father Giuseppe's concerned gaze on me, but I kept my eyes forward, my steps measured. I couldn't falter now. Not when Antonio needed me most.

The small study door was guarded by Marco, one of Paolo's men. He moved to block me.

"I need to see him," I said.

"Paolo said no one enters."

I drew myself up, summoning every ounce of my father's authority. "I am not 'no one,' Marco. I am Lorenzo Benedetto, and you will step aside."

Marco's eyes widened at my tone. He hesitated, then moved aside.

"Father Giuseppe will wait out here," I added. "This is a private matter."

I entered the study and closed the door behind me. The room was dim, lit only by a single lamp. Antonio sat slumped in a chair, his clothes caked with dried blood. Fresh bandages covered wounds on his arms, leg, and face, hastily applied to keep him alive for my father's judgment.

"Antonio."

He looked up, his eyes hollow, vacant. Those beautiful eyes that had always held such warmth, such intelligence—now they were empty wells of grief.

I crossed to him in three strides, falling to my knees before him. "Antonio, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."

His face crumpled then, the stoic mask shattering. I pulled him into my arms as his body shook with silent sobs.

"They killed them all," he whispered against my neck. "Enzo was still in his bed."

I held him tighter, feeling his tears soak my collar. My own eyes burned. "This is my fault. If I hadn't—"

"No." His voice strengthened. "This is Torrino. And Paolo."

"Paolo?" I pulled back to see his face.

"He knew. He sent me to Ostia to get me away from them." Antonio's voice broke. "He left them unprotected, knowing Torrino wanted revenge. He told them when to strike."

The pieces fell into place with sickening clarity. Paolo hadn't just been trying to separate us—he'd orchestrated this. Used Torrino's vendetta to eliminate Antonio's family, knowing exactly how Antonio would respond.

"I killed him, Lorenzo." Antonio's eyes met mine, seeking something—forgiveness, understanding, I wasn't sure. "I carved their names into him before I cut his throat."

I should have been horrified. Instead, I felt only a cold, hard certainty that Torrino had deserved every cut.

"We'll figure this out," I promised, though I had no idea how. "We'll find a way."

Antonio's hand, bloody and bruised, reached up to touch my face. "There is no way out of this, Lorenzo. Not for me."

"Don't say that." I pressed my forehead to his. "I won't lose you too."

In that moment, nothing else mattered—not my father, not the family, not the bloody business that had brought us to this point. I kissed him, tasting salt and copper, pouring every ounce of my love and desperation into it.

Antonio kissed me back with the fervor of a man who knows it might be his last. His hands clutched at my shirt, pulling me closer, as if he could disappear into me and escape the horror of this night.

"I love you," I whispered against his lips. "We'll go away, start over—"

The door crashed open behind us. We broke apart, but not quickly enough.

Paolo stood in the doorway, his face a mask of disgust. And behind him, his expression shifting from confusion to dawning horror, stood my father.

"What is the meaning of this?" Father's voice was deadly quiet.

I rose to my feet, positioning myself between Antonio and my father. "This isn't what you think—"

"What I think?" Father stepped into the room, his presence seeming to suck all the air away. "What I think is that my son, my heir, was just kissing a man—a soldier—like some degenerate!"

"Don Salvatore," Antonio began, struggling to stand.

"Silence!" Father roared. "You don't speak to me. Not ever again."

Paolo's face held a terrible satisfaction. "I tried to warn you, Uncle. I told you Lorenzo was distracted, that he was making plans behind your back."

"You knew about this... abomination?" Father's eyes never left my face.

"I suspected," Paolo said. "I followed them to an abandoned villa where they met in secret. I heard them planning to run away together after the Romano family moved to Milano."

"Is this true?" Father asked me.

I straightened my shoulders. There was no point in lying now. "Yes."

The word hung in the air like a gunshot. Father's face contorted with rage, then settled into something worse—cold, calculating fury.

"Paolo, bring Father Giuseppe in here."

Paolo left, returning moments later with the priest, whose face paled when he saw the tableau before him.

"Father," I said, "I can explain—"

"There is nothing to explain." Father cut me off. "You've made your choice clear enough."

He reached into his jacket and withdrew his revolver, the pearl handle gleaming in the lamplight. With deliberate movements, he extended it toward me, grip first.

"Now you will make another choice, Lorenzo." His voice was ice. "You will take this gun and kill this... this perversion that has corrupted you. You will prove that you are a Benedetto, worthy of the name and everything that comes with it."

"And if I refuse?" My voice didn't tremble, though my insides quaked.

Father's smile was terrible to behold. "Then Paolo will kill him. Slowly. And you will watch every moment before I cast you out. No name, no money, no protection. You'll be dead within a week."

"Don Salvatore," Father Giuseppe stepped forward. "Please, this is not—"

"Be silent, priest, or leave," Father snapped. "This is family business."

Antonio's hand found mine, squeezing once before letting go. "Do it, Lorenzo," he whispered. "It's alright."

I looked at him, this man who had shown me what love truly meant. His eyes held no fear, only a deep sadness and resignation.

"I can't," I whispered back.

"You must," he insisted. "Live. For both of us."

I took the gun from my father's hand, feeling its weight—the weight of my family legacy, of expectation, of violence.

"Look at me," Antonio said softly. "Only at me."

I raised the gun, my vision blurring with tears. Antonio stood tall despite his wounds, his gaze steady on mine.

"I love you," he mouthed silently.

I pulled the trigger.

The gunshot echoed through the small room. Antonio jerked backwards, a bloom of red spreading across his chest. He crumpled to the floor, his eyes still open, still fixed on mine as the light began to fade from them.

Father Giuseppe rushed forward, kneeling beside Antonio. I stood frozen, the gun still extended, smoke curling from the barrel.

"You've done well, son," Father said, his hand heavy on my shoulder. "Now we can put this... unfortunate business behind us."

Father Giuseppe bent over Antonio, murmuring the last rites. His hand moved in the sign of the cross. Then he looked up, his face grave.

"He's gone."

My father nodded, satisfied. "Paolo, have the body removed. Lorenzo, come with me. We have much to discuss before tomorrow's celebration."

I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. The world had narrowed to Antonio's still form, to the blood pooling beneath him, to the eyes that would never again look at me with love.

"Lorenzo," Father's voice hardened. "Now."

Somehow, I followed him from the room, leaving Antonio behind. Each step felt like walking through deep water, like moving against an impossible current.

In the hallway, Father placed both hands on my shoulders. "You've proven yourself tonight. I know that wasn't easy, but it was necessary. Some weaknesses must be cut away, like diseased limbs."

I looked at him—this man I had feared and respected my entire life—and felt nothing but hollowness.

"Yes, Father," I said, my voice flat.

"Good. Go clean yourself up. We'll speak more in the morning."

He walked away, Paolo following after a last smug glance in my direction. I stood alone in the hallway, the ghost of the gun's recoil still vibrating through my arm.

Antonio was gone. My love, my future, my hope for something beyond this life of violence and control—all gone with a single bullet. My bullet.

I made my way to my room, moving like a sleepwalker. Once inside, I locked the door and sank to the floor, back against the wall. Only then did I allow the tears to come, silent and wrenching, tearing through me like knives.

I had killed the only person who had ever truly known me, ever truly loved me. I had chosen family over love, duty over freedom. I had become exactly what my father always wanted me to be—a true Benedetto.

And in doing so, I had killed myself as surely as I had killed Antonio.

The gun was still in my hand. I looked down at it, considering. One more bullet. One quick end to the emptiness stretching before me. It would be easy. Easier than facing tomorrow, and all the tomorrows after, without Antonio.

I raised the gun slowly, feeling its weight for the second time that night. This time, I pressed the barrel against my own temple, finger curling around the trigger.

"I'm sorry," I whispered to the empty room. To Antonio. To the man I might have been, in another life.

I closed my eyes.