Page 9 of The Seventh Circle (The Lost Cantos #1)

ANTONIO

Iwoke before dawn, the confusing dreams of Lorenzo's hands still lingering like bruises on my mind.

Sleep had come in fits, interrupted by images I couldn't—shouldn't—entertain.

Each time I closed my eyes, I saw his face, heard his voice asking about my dreams as if he actually cared what a street rat like me might want from life.

The scarf he'd given me lay draped over the chair beside my bed. I'd told myself I'd left it there because I had nowhere else to put it, but that was a lie. I'd wanted to see it first thing when I woke, wanted that reminder of his casual generosity.

My body betrayed me with morning hardness that had nothing to do with the usual causes and everything to do with remembering the brush of Lorenzo's fingers against mine, the intensity in his eyes when he'd spoken of carpentry, of a different life.

"Fool," I muttered, splashing cold water on my face from the basin. "He's the heir. Your boss."

But that wasn't the worst of it. The worst was this: I was a man having these thoughts about another man.

My mind flashed to childhood stories of men burned in the village square for such abominations.

To whispered words about sin and perversion.

To the church paintings of hell, where such souls were tortured for eternity.

I dressed quickly, careful not to wake Enzo who slept deeply on his pallet. Mama would be up soon to start the day's bread, but for now, the apartment was quiet. I slipped the scarf into my pocket, not wearing it but unable to leave it behind.

Outside, Rome was still waking. I walked past the men setting up market stalls, past the vendors starting their braziers, nodding to those who recognized me.

Not as Antonio Romano, but as a Benedetto man.

The thought left a sour taste. I'd become what I needed to be for my family, but never before had I questioned the price of that choice as deeply as now.

My feet carried me to Santa Maria Deli Angeli without conscious decision.

The cathedral stood solid against the pale morning sky, its bell tower reaching toward heaven like a finger pointing the way.

I hesitated at the steps, almost turning back.

But the weight in my chest needed release, and who else could I speak to?

Not my father, who would either laugh or rage. Certainly not Lorenzo himself.

Inside, the cathedral was cool and dim, scented with incense and old stone. A few old women knelt in prayer, black-clad and murmuring their rosaries. I dipped my fingers in the holy water, making the sign of the cross with hands that had broken bones two days before.

The confessional booth stood in shadow, its heavy curtain promising anonymity. I knelt in the pew before it, trying to remember when I'd last made confession. Six months? A year? The sins had piled up—violence, threats, intimidation. But none of those had driven me here today.

Father Giuseppe emerged from the sacristy, his young face serious as he prepared for morning mass.

I'd seen him around the neighbourhood—younger than most priests, with kind eyes that seemed to see beyond the surface.

He nodded at me, perhaps surprised to see one of the Benedetto enforcers in his church at this hour.

I waited until he entered the confessional before approaching, my heart hammering against my ribs. The curtain felt impossibly heavy as I pushed it aside and knelt in the darkness.

"Bless me Father, for I have sinned," I began, the familiar words dry in my throat. "It has been... many months since my last confession."

"God welcomes you back to His grace," Father Giuseppe's voice came softly through the screen. "What weighs on your soul, my son?"

I swallowed hard. "Father, before I speak... what I say here, it stays between us and God, yes? No one else will ever know?"

There was a brief pause. "The seal of confession is absolute. Not even under torture could I reveal what you tell me. Your words are between you and the Lord alone, with me only as humble witness."

I nodded, though he couldn't see me. My hands were trembling. I clasped them together to still them.

"I've done... many things working for the Benedettos. I've hurt people. Threatened them. Taken money that maybe wasn't always fairly earned." The words tumbled out, but these weren't the sins that had brought me here.

"God understands the difficult choices we make for family, though He calls us always to a better path," the priest replied, his voice gentle. "Is there something specific troubling you?"

"Yes." My voice cracked. "Father, I... I think I..." The words wouldn't come.

"Take your time," he said. "God is patient."

I took a deep breath. "I think I'm falling in love with someone I shouldn't." There. A partial truth.

"Love itself is never sinful," he answered carefully. "Though its expression can be complicated by circumstance."

"It's not just circumstance." My voice dropped to a whisper. "It's the boss's son. Lorenzo Benedetto."

The silence that followed seemed eternal. I waited for shocked condemnation, for outrage, for him to throw open the curtain and expose me.

"I see," he finally said, his voice thoughtful rather than disgusted. "And these feelings trouble you."

"Of course they trouble me!" I hissed, keeping my voice low. "It's unnatural. An abomination. I should be thinking about girls, about marriage someday. Not about... not about him."

"Is it?" Father Giuseppe asked quietly. "Many would say so. The Church certainly teaches this. But I've lived in this parish long enough to know that love appears in many forms, and the heart does not always follow the path we expect."

I blinked in the darkness, uncertain I'd heard correctly. "But... it's a sin."

"The Church teaches that acting on such desires is sinful," he clarified. "But the feelings themselves... God made your heart, Antonio. He knows what lies within it."

Hearing my name startled me, though of course he would know who I was.

"What do I do?" I asked, a plea more than a question. "I can't stop thinking about him. When he speaks to me like I matter, when he asked me about books..." I trailed off. "He gave me his scarf yesterday. I've barely put it down since."

"Do you believe he returns these feelings?"

I laughed bitterly. "How could he? He's the heir. He's going to marry the Vitelli girl. He needs sons to carry on the family. And even if by some miracle he felt something... it would get us both killed."

Father Giuseppe sighed. "The world can be cruel to those who love differently. I won't pretend otherwise. But neither will I tell you that God abhors you for feelings you didn't choose."

"You're not saying what I expected," I admitted.

"What did you expect? Fire and brimstone? Demands that you flog yourself?" There was a gentle humour in his voice. "I've seen too much suffering in this parish to believe that more condemnation helps anyone."

I rubbed my eyes, which had grown unexpectedly damp. "So what do I do, Father? How do I stop this?"

"I cannot tell you how your heart should feel," he said carefully. "But I can advise caution for both your sakes. The world you inhabit is dangerous enough without adding this complication. Whatever exists between you and Lorenzo Benedetto, it must be approached with the utmost discretion."

"So you're not telling me to stay away from him?"

He paused. "Would you, if I did?"

I considered this honestly. "I don't know. I should. But when I'm with him, I feel... like myself. Not just the enforcer. He sees me."

"Then perhaps there is something valuable in this connection, regardless of its nature.

Just be careful, Antonio. For both your sakes.

" He cleared his throat. "For your penance, three Hail Marys and reflection on the virtue of prudence.

And perhaps... a visit to your family today. Remember why you chose this path."

"Yes, Father." I hesitated. "Thank you for... for not condemning me."

"God's mercy is greater than any of us can comprehend," he replied. "Act with love and caution, my son. Now, make your Act of Contrition."

I mumbled through the familiar prayer, the words barely registering. When I finished, Father Giuseppe gave me absolution, his voice steady and kind.

I emerged from the confessional feeling both lighter and more confused. The priest had not reacted as I'd expected—had not told me my feelings were an abomination or that I was bound for hell. Instead, he'd spoken of caution and discretion, as if...

As if this thing between Lorenzo and me might actually be possible.

The thought was dizzying.

I moved deeper into the church, away from the confessional, and knelt before the altar. The morning light streamed through the stained glass, painting the stone floor in jewel colors. I withdrew my rosary—my mother's gift for my confirmation—and let the beads slide through my fingers.

"Hail Mary, full of grace..." I began, but my mind kept wandering from the prayer.

Lorenzo's voice echoed in my memory. "What would you do, if you weren't working for my family?" The way he'd leaned forward when I'd mentioned books, genuinely interested in my answer. The way his eyes had lingered on my face, on my mouth.

The scarf in my pocket seemed to burn against my thigh.

I closed my eyes, trying to focus on the prayers, but instead saw Lorenzo's face. The careful mask he wore around his father. The rare, genuine smile when we'd discussed Marcus Aurelius. The vulnerability when he'd spoken of carpentry, of working with his hands to create rather than destroy.

We were both trapped—me by poverty and family obligation, him by birth and expectation. Both wearing masks, playing roles assigned to us rather than chosen.

"God," I whispered, abandoning the formal prayer, "if this is a test, it's a cruel one. Why show me something I can never have? Why make me feel this way about someone who should be nothing more than my boss?"