Page 8 of The Seventh Circle (The Lost Cantos #1)

"I should get home," I said, noticing how late it had grown. "My mother worries."

Lorenzo nodded, though something like disappointment crossed his features. "Of course." He settled our bill and walked with me outside.

The night air cleared my head somewhat. Lorenzo stood too close, our shoulders nearly touching as we paused on the street corner.

"Take a different route tonight," he advised. "If Torrino's men are watching you."

"Already planned to." I gestured toward the eastern alleyways. "The long way home."

He frowned. "I'll have a car take you."

"And show them exactly where I live? No thank you."

"Then I'll walk with you part way."

I shook my head firmly. "Bad idea. The heir shouldn't be seen in Trastevere at night." And I need distance from you right now, I didn't add.

Lorenzo studied me for a moment, then removed his scarf—fine wool that probably cost more than my month's pay—and handed it to me. "It's cold tonight."

The gesture was so unexpected I took it automatically. The fabric carried his scent—cologne, wine, something uniquely him.

"I can't accept this," I said.

"Consider it practical. You're more valuable to the family healthy than with pneumonia." His smile softened the formal justification.

I should have returned it. Instead, I wrapped it around my neck, the warmth of it immediate. "Thank you."

"Until tomorrow, Romano." He extended his hand.

I took it, our grasp lingering a moment too long. His skin was smooth against my callused palm, his grip firm but not dominating.

"Antonio," I said impulsively. "When we're not on business, you can call me Antonio."

Something shifted in his expression—surprise, followed by pleasure. "Antonio, then." He released my hand. "And you might try 'Lorenzo' occasionally. When we're not on business."

He turned and walked toward the waiting Benedetto car, leaving me with the ghost of his touch and the warmth of his scarf.

I took the long route home, checking repeatedly for followers, my mind replaying our conversation. The way his eyes had held mine. The casual touches that seemed accidental but left my skin burning.

I wasn't a fool. I recognized attraction—I'd felt it before, for other men, though I'd buried those feelings deep. But this was worse than desire for some anonymous dockworker or soldier. This was Lorenzo Benedetto. The heir. My boss.

Even if by some miracle he shared such forbidden inclinations—and I had no evidence beyond wishful thinking—nothing could ever come of it. The Benedetto heir didn't consort with male enforcers from Trastevere. He married eligible daughters from allied families and produced heirs of his own.

Near my building, I paused to remove the scarf, tucking it into my jacket. My family couldn't see this expensive gift. They'd ask questions I couldn't answer.

I climbed the stairs to our apartment, forcing Lorenzo from my thoughts. Tomorrow I would be professional again. The enforcer, nothing more. I would return the scarf with polite thanks. Maintain proper distance.

But alone in my narrow bed that night, his scent still clinging to my skin, I dreamed of different possibilities. Of hands that wrote elegant figures in ledgers tangled with my scarred ones. Of conversations that never ended. Of a world where Lorenzo wasn't the heir and I wasn't his soldier.

Dangerous dreams that could get us both killed.

LORENZO

The car rolled through the night, wheels clattering over cobblestones as Rome's ancient walls loomed silent witness to my weakness. I loosened my collar, still warm despite the missing scarf, and closed my eyes.

Fool. Absolute fool.

I'd gone too far with Antonio—allowing that easy familiarity, sharing personal desires, practically offering him a partnership. The wine had loosened my tongue, but it was no excuse. Father would have me flogged if he knew I'd revealed such vulnerability to an enforcer.

An enforcer you've now invited to use your given name.

The memory of his voice saying "Lorenzo" hadn't even happened yet, but I could already imagine how it would sound in his deep, careful tenor. Antonio Romano—not Romano, not anymore—with his scarred hands and thoughtful eyes that missed nothing.

Antonio, who'd looked at my offered scarf with such transparent confusion before wrapping it around his neck.

I pressed my forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching moonlight slide across the Tiber.

The water looked black as ink, swallowing reflections whole.

My heart raced with a feeling I recognized but had spent years denying.

It wasn't mere attraction anymore, but something deeper taking root.

This wasn't the first time I'd felt drawn to a man, but it was the first time since taking my place as heir apparent that I'd allowed myself to act on it, even in these small ways.

I'd been careful since Father had caught me at seventeen with the gardener's son—a mistake that had cost the boy's entire family their positions and home.

You're the heir. The future of our family. This weakness stops now.

Father's words had been carved into me that night with his belt, alongside the understanding that any man I desired would ultimately pay the price for my sin.

Yet here I was again, risking not just my position but Antonio's life with every lingering glance and unnecessary touch.

The car pulled up to our estate, and I composed myself before entering. The great house was quiet at this hour, most servants retired to their quarters, though light still spilled from beneath Father's study door. I moved silently past, relieved to avoid another conversation about the Vitelli girl.

In my wing, I paused at the sound of laughter from Paolo's rooms. The door stood ajar, lamplight and cigar smoke spilling into the hallway. I meant to continue to my chambers, but Antonio's face flashed in my mind—his concern about being followed, the family he was trying to protect.

I knocked once and entered.

Paolo lounged in his shirtsleeves, tie discarded, playing cards with two lieutenants I recognized from our southern operations. Empty whiskey glasses and a half-full ashtray suggested they'd been at it for hours.

"The prodigal heir returns!" Paolo grinned, raising his glass. "Join us! These dogs have nearly cleaned me out."

"Just a moment of your time," I said, gesturing toward the hallway.

Paolo raised an eyebrow but excused himself from the game. In the corridor, he leaned against the wall, studying me with alcohol-bright eyes.

"What trouble brings you to my door so late? Another market dispute?"

"It's about Romano," I said, keeping my voice neutral. "He mentioned being followed—someone watching his building, asking questions. Likely Torrino's people after our little demonstration."

Paolo's expression sharpened with interest. "And?"

"And I want you to look into it." I matched his casual tone. "Have someone find whoever's trailing him and... discourage further interest."

"Why the concern for Romano? He can handle himself."

I shrugged, the lie prepared. "He's valuable. Loyal, intelligent. Father thinks highly of him."

"Does he now?" Paolo looked skeptical. "I wasn't aware my uncle had noticed Romano beyond his ability to break kneecaps."

"He's more than muscle." The words came out more defensive than intended, and I moderated my tone. "His reading, his numbers—he has potential beyond enforcement. It would be wasteful to lose him to Torrino's vendetta."

Paolo studied me, and for a moment I feared he saw through my pretense. Then he grinned, clapping my shoulder.

"Whatever you say, cousin. I'll handle it personally." His eyes gleamed with anticipation. "Been looking for an excuse to send Torrino another message anyway."

Relief mixed with unease. Paolo's enthusiasm for violence often exceeded what was prudent, but I couldn't retract the request now.

"Just be subtle," I cautioned. "We don't need a war."

"Subtlety is my specialty," Paolo laughed, the sound undermining his words entirely. "Don't worry your pretty head about it."

I started toward my rooms, but Paolo's voice stopped me.

"Lorenzo."

I turned.

"Is Romano the reason you're hesitating with the Vitelli girl?"

The question hit like ice water. "What?"

"Uncle Salvatore mentioned you seemed... reluctant. And now this special concern for an enforcer..." He shrugged. "People talk, cousin."

"Then they talk nonsense," I said coldly. "My hesitation about the Vitelli arrangement is purely strategic. And Romano is a business asset, nothing more."

Paolo held up his hands in surrender. "Of course. I meant no offense." His smile suggested otherwise. "Sleep well, cousin."

I strode away, anger heating my neck. Paolo was probing, testing whether rumours existed to exploit. I’d have to be more careful—distance myself from Antonio in ways others could observe, even as my mind refused to let him go.

In my chambers, I shed my clothes and washed my face in the porcelain basin, staring at my reflection in the mirror, before reclining back on the mattress.

I looked unchanged—the same Benedetto features that had stared back at me for twenty-six years—yet everything felt different.

The problem wasn’t just that I desired Antonio.

The problem was that I’d glimpsed something in him that resonated with the part of myself I kept hidden—the part that read philosophy instead of ledgers, that questioned the necessity of violence, that wanted to create rather than destroy.

My own scarf was still missing, and the thought of it—of him—was a persistent heat at the base of my neck.

I imagined him in his small, cold room, the expensive wool a foreign object there.

Had he folded it carefully? Or was it still around his neck, carrying the scent of my cologne and the impossible intimacy of the gift?

Here, in the solitude of my rooms, walled in by the wealth and power that kept us apart, I could allow the fantasy to take hold.

My hand, slick with water from the basin, came away from my face and drifted lower, an almost involuntary act of surrender.

I closed my eyes as my fingers wrapped around my own length, the touch a poor substitute for the scarred, capable hands I truly wanted.

I moved my hand, at first slowly, tentatively, as if exploring a forbidden idea.

The friction was a whisper against my skin, but in my mind, it was his touch—rough, calloused, sure.

I imagined those hands, the ones I’d seen break a man’s jaw, tracing the lines of my body with the same focus he gave his books. My breath hitched.

The fantasy became more vivid, more demanding.

I saw him standing before me, his thoughtful eyes dark with a need that matched my own.

The memory of his deep, careful voice finally saying Lorenzo was a sound that echoed not in the room, but in my blood, a dark and pulsing rhythm that my own hand matched.

The pace quickened, no longer tentative but desperate, my knuckles brushing against my stomach with each deliberate stroke.

I was chasing a phantom, a feeling I could only conjure in secret.

I pictured his mouth, usually set in a firm line, softening against mine; his body, powerful and compact, pressing me down into the mattress.

A guttural sound, half-prayer, half-curse, tore from my throat.

My hips arched off the bed, meeting the insistent pressure of my own hand as the fantasy consumed me.

The image of him, finally unguarded, looking at me with the same desperate want I felt—it was enough to shatter my carefully constructed control.

The climax seized me in a violent shudder, spilling my release, warm and thick, against my own skin.

His name was a choked, pathetic whisper on my lips.

The release was a hollow echo in the grand, empty room.

It solved nothing. The pleasure faded instantly, leaving behind only the cold, sharp ache of reality and the stickiness cooling on my flesh.

It was a phantom relief that only sharpened the edges of my loneliness and the impossibility of my desire.

Wiping myself with a cloth, I felt a fresh wave of shame—not for the act itself, but for my own weakness.

I was the heir, a man trained in control, and I had been undone by the fantasy of an enforcer’s smile.

I fell back onto the sheets, covering my eyes with my arm. I should have assigned another enforcer to the market collection. Should have maintained professional distance. Should, at minimum, take steps now to correct my error in judgment.

I would not.

The truth hit me with crushing certainty. I would not step back from Antonio Romano...

...Liar, whispered a voice in my head. You've already started down this path.

Sleep eluded me for hours, my mind cycling between Antonio's rare smile, Paolo's suspicious questions, and my father's expectations. By the time I drifted off, dawn was threatening the horizon, and I'd made no progress resolving my conflict.

My dreams, when they finally came, were filled with scarred hands holding books, brown eyes warming with unspoken understanding, and a future that could never exist—one where I wasn't the Benedetto heir, where Antonio wasn't my soldier, where we were simply two men discovering each other without blood and family obligation between us.

I woke with his name on my lips and the weight of impossibility on my chest, more exhausted than when I'd fallen asleep. The morning light streaming through my window felt like an accusation.

I dressed mechanically, mind still tangled in dreams and the lingering shame of my nocturnal confession.

Part of me hoped Paolo would find nothing—that Antonio's concerns about being followed were misplaced.

But another part, the Benedetto heir trained by my father, hoped Paolo would find Torrino's men.

Give them the message that touching what belonged to our family—what belonged to me—would have consequences.

The thought of Antonio as mine sent a possessive heat through my body that had nothing to do with anger.

I caught my reflection again as I straightened my tie. My face betrayed nothing of the turmoil beneath, schooled by years of practice to project only calm authority. But inside, everything had shifted.

I could deny it to Paolo, to Father, to the world, but I couldn't lie to myself any longer.

I wasn't just attracted to Antonio Romano.

I was falling in love with him.

And I had no idea what to do about it.