Page 7 of The Seventh Circle (The Lost Cantos #1)

ANTONIO

The warehouse door closed behind the butcher with a hollow thud. I pocketed his payment—five hundred lire for another month of Benedetto protection—and marked the collection in my small notebook.

"That's the third one over quota today," I noted, showing Lorenzo the figures.

He leaned close to examine my handwriting, his cologne mingling with the distinctive scents of ink and leather. "You have surprisingly neat penmanship, Romano."

"Taught myself." I shrugged, tucking the notebook away. "My mother wanted me in school, but we couldn't afford it after I turned ten."

Lorenzo's gaze lingered on my face. "Yet you quote Marcus Aurelius."

I didn't mention the hours spent with salvaged books by candlelight, the words I'd puzzled through alone. Instead, I gestured toward the cobbler's shop across the street. "Martinelli is next. He'll complain about his wife's medicine costs again."

"Let him keep an extra fifty," Lorenzo decided. "His son works for my uncle. Good family."

This was our third week working collections together.

The pattern had become comfortable—Lorenzo handled the business, I handled anyone who objected to the business.

But there'd been less resistance than expected.

Lorenzo had a way with people that differed from other Benedettos I'd worked for.

He listened. Remembered details. Adjusted terms when circumstances warranted.

The cobbler indeed complained about his wife's condition, and Lorenzo not only allowed the reduction but asked specific questions about her treatment. I watched the old man's suspicion transform to gratitude.

Outside, Lorenzo checked his pocket watch. "That's enough for today. Let's cut through the market."

We walked in companionable silence, vendors nodding respectfully as we passed. After the incident with Vito, our reputation had solidified. The Benedetto heir and his enforcer—fair but formidable.

I scanned the crowd habitually, a practice that had kept me alive since boyhood. Near the fountain, I spotted a familiar face—one of the men who'd been watching my family's apartment. He ducked behind a fruit cart when he noticed my attention.

"Something wrong?" Lorenzo asked, catching my shift in posture.

"We're being watched." I kept my voice casual. "Don't look now. Man by the fruit stand, grey cap. Been following me for days."

Lorenzo nodded, continuing our walk without obvious reaction. "Torrino's man?"

"Likely." I guided us through a narrow side street. "He's been watching my building too. Changed my route home three times this week."

Lorenzo's jaw tightened. "I'll have Paolo look into it."

"No need. I can handle it."

"It's not about handling it." His voice carried unexpected concern. "It's about your family's safety."

The statement caught me off guard. Most bosses considered enforcers expendable—our families even more so. "I appreciate that."

We emerged onto a quiet street lined with plane trees. The watcher hadn't followed us through the shortcut.

"Tell me something, Romano." Lorenzo slowed his pace. "If you weren't doing this work, what would you be doing?"

The question surprised me. No one in the organization had ever asked about my aspirations. "Honestly?"

"I wouldn't ask otherwise."

I hesitated, then admitted, "I'd work with books. Maybe a bookshop or a library." I felt foolish saying it aloud—the enforcer who dreamed of alphabetizing volumes instead of breaking bones.

But Lorenzo didn't laugh. "You'd be good at it. You have a librarian's memory."

"And you? If you weren't the heir?"

His smile faded. "I've never had the luxury of that question." After a moment, he added, "Perhaps carpentry. Creating something with my hands that doesn't destroy."

I tried picturing Lorenzo Benedetto in a carpenter's workshop, sawdust in his expensive hair. The image fit better than expected.

"My father was a carpenter," I said. "Taught me some basics before his injury."

"Mine taught me how to make a man regret crossing us." Lorenzo's voice carried no pride, just resignation. "Different educations."

We reached the small café where we'd begun meeting after collections. The owner nodded deferentially, leading us to a private corner table.

After ordering wine, Lorenzo loosened his tie. The gesture transformed him from the Benedetto heir to simply Lorenzo—younger, less guarded.

"Tell me about your brother," he said, surprising me again. "Enzo, right? You mention him often."

I found myself talking about Enzo's school achievements, his dreams of university, his terrible attempts at cooking. Lorenzo listened with genuine interest, asking questions that revealed he'd been paying attention to previous mentions.

"You're a good brother," he said when I finished. "He's lucky."

"I'm the lucky one. He gives me reason to..." I trailed off, unsure how to explain.

"To stay human in this work," Lorenzo finished for me. "I understand."

Our wine arrived, and Lorenzo raised his glass. "To reasons."

We drank in silence for a moment. The evening light softened the sharp angles of his face, highlighting cheekbones that belonged in a Renaissance painting.

"You ever wonder if there's more than this?" he asked suddenly, voice low. "More than collections and territories and family obligations?"

I hesitated. This wasn't safe conversation for an enforcer with a boss. But something in Lorenzo's expression—vulnerability beneath privilege—made me answer honestly.

"Every day. But wondering doesn't change what is."

"No," he agreed, "it doesn't." He swirled the wine in his glass. "My father informed me it's time I consider marriage. The Vitelli family has an eligible daughter."

I ignored the unexpected tightness in my chest. "Congratulations?"

"It's not a choice. It's an acquisition." Bitterness edged his words. "Another business transaction."

"Most marriages are," I offered. "At least in your position, the cage is gilded."

Lorenzo looked up, something raw in his gaze. "A cage nonetheless."

Our eyes held for a moment too long. I looked away first, focusing on my wine.

"You've never married," he observed.

"Hard to support a wife on what I make." True, but incomplete. I'd never found myself drawn to the neighborhood girls my mother constantly suggested. Their soft curves and flirtatious smiles left me unmoved.

"No sweetheart waiting at home?" Lorenzo pressed.

I shook my head. "Just family."

"And books," he added with a slight smile.

"And books," I agreed, returning the smile before I could stop myself.

The wine loosened something between us. Our conversation shifted from business to literature, Lorenzo expressing genuine surprise at the breadth of my reading.

"Self-education is still education," I said defensively.

"Often better," he countered. "You've read what interests you, not what someone decided you should know."

He spoke of his university years with a mixture of fondness and regret, describing professors and ideas rather than the debauchery most privileged sons focused on. I found myself imagining him in lecture halls, debating philosophy instead of counting protection money.

"I should have studied harder," he admitted. "I knew I'd return to this life, so I never fully committed."

"Yet you remember more than most who attended."

He shrugged. "Remembering isn't the same as becoming."

The café had emptied around us, the owner discreetly keeping other patrons away from our section. Lorenzo ordered a second bottle, and I knew I should decline. Drinking with the boss—especially this boss—wasn't wise. But I found myself nodding, unwilling to end our conversation.

"Your father expects great things," I said, redirecting to safer ground.

"My father expects exactly one thing—that I become him." Lorenzo poured for both of us. "But I'm not him, Romano. I don't want this business run the same way in my lifetime."

The admission surprised me. "How would you run it?"

"Smarter. Less blood, more strategy." His voice lowered. "The violence... it has a cost beyond the immediate."

I nodded, thinking of the nightmares that sometimes came after jobs went badly. The faces that stayed with me.

"The market," I said. "With Vito. You could have had me cut him badly. Most bosses would have."

"Would you have done it? If I'd ordered it?"

I considered the question honestly. "Yes. But I would have questioned your judgement afterward."

His laugh was unexpected and genuine. "Good. I need people who think, not just obey." He leaned forward. "That's why I requested you for collections. You see the larger picture."

Heat rose to my face at the praise. "Just doing my job."

"No." Lorenzo's gaze was intent. "You're doing more than your job. You're showing me a different way to operate."

The wine must have affected me more than I realized, because I found myself studying the curve of his mouth as he spoke. The elegant line of his throat when he swallowed. I forced my attention back to his words.

"—need allies who understand the vision," he was saying. "If I'm to change things without losing control."

"You consider me an ally?" I asked, surprised.

"I'd like to." His fingers brushed mine as he reached for the bottle, the contact brief but electric. "If you're interested in more than just following orders."

I withdrew my hand, uncomfortable with my body's response to that casual touch. "What exactly are you proposing?"

"A partnership of sorts. Your perspective is valuable to me, Romano."

Relief and disappointment mingled strangely in my chest. Of course he meant business. What else would Lorenzo Benedetto want from an enforcer from Trastevere?

"I'm not educated enough to advise the Benedetto heir," I said carefully.

"Education and intelligence aren't the same thing." He refilled my glass. "You have the latter in abundance."

The compliment warmed me more than the wine. I tried to remind myself of the danger here—not just from growing too familiar with a boss, but from the confusing reactions his presence triggered in me.