Page 6 of The Seventh Circle (The Lost Cantos #1)

This was the path I'd chosen—or that had chosen me. Every day, I walked the knife's edge between provider and destroyer, between the man who helped Enzo with his schoolwork and the man who knew exactly how much pressure it took to break another man's fingers.

And now there was Lorenzo, offering a glimpse of someone caught in similar contradictions. Someone who might understand the war inside me.

I closed the shutters tightly and checked that our door was locked. Tomorrow would bring what it would bring. Tonight, I would guard my family's sleep and try to forget the look in Vito's eyes when he promised to remember my face.

Try to forget—or perhaps dangerously indulge—the way Lorenzo had looked at me with something more than the assessment of a boss for his soldier. Something that made me feel seen for the first time in years.

LORENZO

I returned to the Benedetto manor as the sun began its descent, my body still humming with tension from the market. The house loomed against the darkening sky, its stone facade more prison than home. Guards nodded as I approached, their eyes tracking my movements with practiced vigilance.

Inside, the house smelled of garlic and oregano—Nonna Lucia was preparing dinner. I handed my coat to Stefano, our elderly butler, who examined me with narrowed eyes.

"No blood today, Signorino Lorenzo?"

"Not on my clothes, at least," I replied, offering a tight smile.

"Your father is waiting in his study."

I made my way through the house. Father's study door stood ajar, the scent of his cigars leaking into the hallway. I knocked briefly before entering.

"Ah, Lorenzo." Father looked up from his ledger, spectacles perched on his nose. "How did our market business conclude?"

I stood before his desk, shoulders squared. "Vito Torrino won't trouble our vendors again. We made our point without excessive force. The market appreciates our restraint."

Father removed his glasses, studying me with that penetrating gaze that had intimidated rivals for decades. "Romano followed your lead?"

"He did. He's an asset—thinks before he acts."

"Unlike some of our associates." Father nodded slowly. "And Torrino's reaction?"

"Humiliated but not hospitalized. He'll nurse his wounded pride, perhaps plot revenge, but he knows challenging us directly would be suicide."

A small smile touched Father's lips. "Good. You understand the balance—enough force to command respect, not so much we create unnecessary enemies." He closed his ledger. "Dinner in twenty minutes. Your uncle Federico is joining us. Paolo too."

I suppressed a grimace. My cousin Paolo's company meant enduring his particular brand of cruelty disguised as family loyalty.

"I'll clean up and join you," I said, turning to leave.

"Lorenzo."

I paused at the door.

"I'm pleased with your handling of this matter."

The rare praise should have warmed me. Instead, it settled like a stone in my stomach.

Dinner in the Benedetto household was always a performance.

Crystal glasses caught the light from the chandelier as servants moved silently around us, filling wine glasses and removing plates.

Father sat at the head of the table, Uncle Federico to his right, myself to his left.

Paolo sat beside his father, already on his second glass of wine.

"To family," Father raised his glass. "Our strength and purpose."

We echoed the toast, the ritual so familiar I could perform it in my sleep.

"Lorenzo handled the Torrino situation today," Father announced between bites of Mama Lucia's risotto. "A measured response that preserved our dignity without creating unnecessary bloodshed."

Uncle Federico nodded approvingly. "The market is crucial territory. Well done, nephew."

Paolo's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Measured, Uncle? I heard Torrino walked away on his own feet." He looked at me, challenge evident. "Seems generous for someone who deliberately disrespected our family."

"The message was delivered," I replied evenly, cutting into my veal. "Breaking his legs would have gained us nothing but police attention and market disruption."

"Fear has its uses," Paolo insisted, gesturing with his knife. "Last month, when those dock workers thought they could skim from our shipments, I made sure the message wasn't so... measured."

He launched into graphic detail about what he'd done to the unfortunate workers. I maintained a neutral expression while my stomach churned. Uncle Federico looked proud, Father contemplative. This was our world—violence recounted over fine wine and delicate cuisine.

"Three days they searched for his fingers," Paolo concluded with a satisfied smile. "Found most of them in the harbor. No one's skimmed since."

"And now we pay triple to replace workers who fled the docks," I noted quietly. "Fear has its price too."

Paolo's eyes flashed. "You suggest I was wasteful?"

"I suggest balance in all things," I replied, meeting his gaze. "Even retribution."

Father interceded smoothly. "Different situations require different approaches. Paolo handled the dock issue as needed; Lorenzo managed the market accordingly. Both serve the family."

But I'd seen the calculation in Father's eyes. Paolo's brutality cost money. My restraint preserved income. In our world, the bottom line often determined which violence was acceptable.

The conversation shifted to business matters—protection payments, political connections, territorial disputes.

I contributed when necessary, revealing nothing of my inner thoughts.

By dessert, Paolo was detailing another act of violence with the same enthusiasm most men might describe a football match.

"I swear his eye popped like a grape," he laughed, gesturing wildly. "Blood everywhere. Ruined my new shoes."

I hid my revulsion, disguising it with a sip of wine. This was my blood, my future—men who measured their worth by the suffering they inflicted. And I was expected not just to join them but to lead them one day.

After dinner, Father beckoned me to follow him onto the terrace. The night air offered blessed relief from the dining room's oppressive atmosphere. We stood in silence for a moment, looking over the gardens illuminated by moonlight.

"You disapprove of your cousin's methods," Father said finally. Not a question.

"They're inefficient," I replied carefully. "Needlessly destructive."

"Yet sometimes necessary." He lit a cigar, the flame briefly illuminating the lines of his face. "You understand what others often miss, Lorenzo. When to strike hard, when to show restraint. It's why you'll make a finer Don than I ever was."

The words settled heavily upon my shoulders. I arranged my features into appropriate gratitude.

"I've watched you closely these past months," he continued. "You've grown into the role. Today confirmed what I already knew—you're ready to truly begin the transition. When I'm gone, the family will need your particular wisdom."

"I hope that day is far off, Father."

"Death comes when it comes. But I rest easier knowing you'll carry on our legacy." He placed a hand on my shoulder, a rare display of affection. "You were born for this, my son."

Born for this. Not chosen, not desired—simply born into a fate I couldn't escape.

"You honour me," I managed, the lie bitter on my tongue.

Father studied me, smoke curling around his face. "There's one matter we haven't discussed much lately. You're twenty-six now. Time to think about a wife, children. Our legacy needs heirs."

My chest tightened. "Business has occupied my thoughts."

"As it should. But a man needs balance." His gaze turned shrewd. "The Vitelli family has that daughter—what's her name? The one who studied in Florence."

"Sophia," I supplied automatically, remembering the dark-haired girl from social functions. Pleasant enough, intelligent. A woman I could never love as she deserved.

"I'll arrange to meet her and see if we can come to an agreement between our families. She comes from a good family. Strong bloodlines." He spoke as if discussing a prized horse.

I forced a laugh. "I'm hardly ready to settle down, Father."

"No one is asking for grandchildren tomorrow." His tone lightened, but the intent remained serious. "Simply consider your obligations. Twenty-six passes quickly. Thirty approaches faster than you think."

"I'll keep it in mind," I promised, desperate to end the conversation. "If you'll excuse me, I should retire. It's been a long day."

He nodded, allowing my retreat. "Good night, my son. I'm proud of the man you're becoming."

Each word was another bar in the cage surrounding me.

In my bedroom, I tore off my tie and collapsed into the chair by the window. My hands trembled slightly as I poured myself a generous measure of whiskey from the decanter.

Wife. Children. Heirs.

I'd known this moment would come, had delayed it through excuses of business focus and youth. But Father wouldn't be deterred much longer. The Benedetto line must continue. My preferences were irrelevant against the weight of dynasty.

I drained the glass, welcoming the burn. How many more years could I avoid the inevitable? How many polite dinners with suitable daughters before I was expected to choose one, to pretend desire I couldn't feel?

Antonio's face rose unbidden in my mind—the careful intelligence in his eyes, the controlled power in his movements. I closed my eyes, remembering the brush of his shoulder against mine as we'd walked from the market. The strange electricity of that casual contact.

"Damn it," I whispered, pouring another drink.

This wasn't just appreciation for a capable associate. I'd felt this before—this pull, this awareness. With Matteo when I studied at the University of Bologna, with Carlo at the gentleman's club. Moments quickly suppressed, desires never acknowledged aloud.

But with Antonio, it was stronger. Harder to ignore. I admired his mind as much as his form—the carpenter's son who read Dante, who chose precision over brutality, who seemed to understand the cost of our world without being consumed by it.

I moved to the window, staring out at the manicured grounds that represented generations of Benedetto power.

All of it built to be handed down, father to son, in an unbroken line.

All of it depending on my ability to perform the role I was born into—the ruthless leader, the faithful husband, the father of sons.

The whiskey burned in my stomach. What would Father do if he knew the truth? If he discovered his only son, his heir, preferred men? The thought chilled my blood. I'd seen what happened to men like me in our world. The beatings, the disappearances, the bodies that washed up in the harbour.

Even if I could somehow survive such a revelation, Antonio wouldn't. Father would assume he'd corrupted me, even though Antonio had given no indication he shared my inclinations. The carpenter's son would simply vanish, another body never found.

I pressed my forehead against the cool glass. I couldn't have what I wanted. I couldn't escape what was expected. The walls of duty closed around me like a mausoleum, sealing me in with the dying remains of my true self.

Tomorrow I would rise and don the mask again. I would be Lorenzo Benedetto, heir to the family empire, ruthless when necessary, restrained when prudent. I would begin considering suitable wives and plan for the dynasty's continuation.

But tonight, alone in the darkness, I mourned for the life I could never have. For the freedom to discover if Antonio's casual touches held meaning beyond professional camaraderie. For the simple right to be who I was, not who generations of blood and violence demanded I become.

I finished the whiskey and prepared for bed, each movement mechanical. As I lay in the darkness, Antonio's face hovered in my thoughts.

Sleep came reluctantly, bringing dreams of a different life. A simpler one, free from family legacy. One where I might reach for what I truly desired, where Antonio might reach back.

Dreams that would turn to ash with the morning light.