Page 4 of The Seventh Circle (The Lost Cantos #1)

Everything happened at once. The tall man drew his pistol, but I was already moving, my fist connecting with his throat before he could aim.

Lorenzo ducked as the second man lunged, using his momentum to slam him face-first into the brick wall.

The third man managed to throw a punch that grazed Lorenzo's jaw before I caught his arm, twisting until something cracked.

Vito had drawn his knife—a wicked, curved blade that caught the morning light. He slashed at Lorenzo with surprising speed, forcing him back a step. I moved to intercept, but Lorenzo handled himself with unexpected grace, evading the blade like a dancer.

"You fight your own battles?" Vito taunted, circling. "I thought Benedettos just sent dogs to do their dirty work."

The insult was meant for me, but I felt no sting. I'd been called worse by better men. Instead, I used his distraction to position myself precisely where I needed to be.

When Vito lunged again, Lorenzo sidestepped perfectly—directly into the space I'd created.

The momentum carried Vito forward, off-balance, and I struck with the precision my reputation was built on.

My hand caught his wrist at exactly the right angle, applying pressure to the nerves that controlled his grip.

The knife clattered to the cobblestones.

Before he could recover, I swept his legs from under him, driving him to his knees with a force that made the impact echo through the alley. In one fluid motion, I retrieved his fallen knife, pressing the tip against his throat just firmly enough to break the skin.

Lorenzo stepped forward, looking entirely unruffled despite the violence. His men were down—one clutching his throat, one bleeding from a broken nose, one cradling a fractured arm.

"The San Lorenzo market has been Benedetto territory for three generations," Lorenzo said, his voice pitched to carry to the gathered crowd.

"The vendors here enjoy our protection, which means they enjoy peace.

" He crouched to meet Vito's eyes. "Your father knows this.

He's apparently forgotten to teach you proper respect. "

Vito's face contorted with hatred. "The Sicilians—"

"The Sicilians won't be interested in a fool who can't hold a knife," Lorenzo cut him off. "Nor in someone who can't recognize the boundaries of power in Rome."

I maintained pressure on the blade, careful not to cut deeper than necessary. This wasn't about killing—it was about the memory of humiliation, the public display of weakness.

"Perhaps a reminder of those boundaries would help," Lorenzo continued. He looked at me, a silent communication passing between us, and I understood exactly what he wanted.

With deliberate movements, I cut—not Vito's throat, but the expensive jacket he wore, slicing through the material to expose the shoulder holster and the pistol it contained.

Then I cut again, severing the straps so the gun fell to the ground.

A third cut removed his belt, sending his trousers sagging indecently.

The crowd that had gathered tittered nervously. Vito's face flushed deep red, humiliation replacing fear in his eyes. I moved the blade back to his throat.

"The traditional penalty for theft is the removal of the offending hand," Lorenzo said conversationally. "Collecting from our vendors is theft, Vito. But today, I'm feeling merciful."

I saw the moment Vito realized he wasn't going to die—relief followed immediately by a different kind of fear. The fear of returning to his father as a failure, publicly humiliated.

"Take your men and go," Lorenzo said. "Tell Giovanni that the Benedettos send their regards and their expectations of proper respect in the future."

I stepped back, allowing Vito to scramble to his feet, clutching at his falling trousers. His eyes burned with hatred as he looked between us.

"I remember faces," he spat, the threat naked in his voice. "Both of yours."

"Good," Lorenzo replied calmly. "Then you'll remember to avoid us in the future."

Vito gathered his wounded men, their departure lacking the strutting confidence of their arrival. The market remained silent until they disappeared from view, then erupted into nervous chatter. I noticed Lorenzo watching the vendors, something unreadable in his expression.

"You could have cut him deeper," he said quietly, for my ears only. "My father would have expected it."

I cleaned Vito's blade on my handkerchief before tucking it away—a trophy and a message. "Blood washes away. Humiliation festers." I met his gaze directly. "Besides, dead men can't carry warnings."

That almost-smile appeared again. "Practical as well as philosophical."

Old Signora Benedetti approached us, her lined face reflecting gratitude and fear in equal measure. "Thank you, young master," she said to Lorenzo, pressing a small package of fresh bread into his hands. "We were afraid—"

"No need for fear now," Lorenzo assured her, accepting the gift with surprising gentleness. "The Benedetto family protects its own."

The other vendors approached cautiously, offering similar thanks, small tokens of appreciation.

I stepped back, watching Lorenzo handle each interaction with a natural grace that seemed at odds with the violence we'd just delivered.

He remembered names, asked about children, accepted their gratitude without the condescension I'd seen from other family men.

When the crowd dispersed and we were relatively alone again, Lorenzo turned to me. "That was... efficient."

"You were expecting something else?"

He studied me for a moment. "My cousin Paolo would have left more blood. My father might have expected it."

"Is that what you wanted?" I asked, genuinely curious.

"No," he admitted. "Violence should be measured, not indulgent." His gaze traveled over me with new consideration. "You fight differently than the others. Precisely. Necessarily."

I shrugged, uncomfortable with his scrutiny. "I do what needs doing, no more."

"That's rarer than you might think." He glanced toward the direction Vito had disappeared. "He'll be back. With more men next time."

"Yes," I agreed. "He's the type to nurse grudges."

"Are you concerned?"

I met his eyes directly. "Are you?"

Something passed between us then—understanding, perhaps respect, possibly something more dangerous that neither of us could afford to name.

I saw in Lorenzo not just the heir to a criminal empire, but a man struggling against the confines of the role he'd been born to.

And perhaps he saw in me something beyond the soldier, the enforcer, the street rat from Trastevere who'd risen through violence to support his family.

"We should report back to my father," he said finally, breaking the moment.

I nodded, falling into step beside him as we left the market. The morning's work was done—territory defended, message delivered, reputation maintained. But I felt the weight of Vito's promise hanging over us, the certainty that this wasn't an ending but a beginning.

And beneath it all, that indefinable current between Lorenzo and myself—something that made me both more and less than the enforcer I was supposed to be, something that threatened to complicate the already dangerous world we inhabited.

"Dante got it wrong, you know," Lorenzo said unexpectedly as we walked.

"How so?"

"The worst circle of hell isn't for betrayers or blasphemers," he said softly. "It's for those who recognize a different path but lack the courage to take it."

I said nothing, but let his words settle between us like a challenge, or perhaps a confession. We continued toward the Benedetto compound, side by side but separated by bloodlines and expectations, by the roles we'd been assigned in this particular circle of hell.