Encyclica Rerum Omnium Perturbationem
Left-Wing Arditi del Popolo Attack Fascist Convoy—Day of Slaughter in Rome
Violence erupted in the streets of the capital during the early hours of the 7th, when socialist and communard terrorists attacked a car transporting high ranking fascists as well as the alicorno, Cadenza. A firefight broke out between the escorts and ambushers, leading to an undisclosed number of casualties.
Reports from the State Police indicate that the attackers were members of the Arditi del Popolo, the military wing of the political left, the same group that were behind much of the street violence in the previous years.
The car convoy was transporting Cadenza and a small entourage to the Termini Train Station to be transferred to Pisa for observation at the university. When asked about the previous statement that she was going to be moved to Milan, Michele Bianchi had this to say:
“Yes, we did say that [Cadenza] was being moved to Milan at a different time, but it was done so due to security concerns. The Duce fully admits this, and he rightly pointed out that even this was not enough to protect her.
“If anything,” Bianchi added, “it only goes to show that there is still much work to be done in order to crack down on the violent paramilitary groups that seek to undermine the government and Italy itself.”
Some of the first-responders that arrived on scene after the first shots.
The firefight attracted the attention of the local squadra d’azione, prompting an armed response to the scene. On their arrival the remaining members of the ADP either fled or surrendered on the spot. As of the time of publishing, Panisperna Street and the adjacent streets have been cordoned off for police investigation.
The final count of fatalities is believed to be no more than nine people, with many witnesses describing this as a small miracle, especially when considering that local residents formed a mob to face-off against the armed terrorists. The former were spurred into action when the alicorno, Cadenza, flew high along the upper stories of the apartment blocks to call for assistance.
“It was like an angel mustering His followers to the cause,” an elderly local stated, “as if God Himself was speaking through her.”
While other testimonies are hesitant to call it an intervention from God, they all agree that Cadenza’s capacity for flight and her powerful voice had rallied dozens of citizens to jeer and block the ADP paramilitaries.
Elements of the left such as the PCd'I have condemned the violence and denied having any involvement with the assault. Additionally, Il Messagero has approached the Holy See for comment, but there has been no response so far.
A trail of smoke followed Balbo as he finished his cigarette. He put it out before proceeding to the antechamber to Mussolini’s office. When he opened the door, a pleasant face behind a desk met his.
“Buongiorno, Signor Balbo,” Alessandra, the Duce’s secretary, said with a smile.
“Good morning, Miss Alessandra,” he replied with a smile of his own, waving away the last of the cigarette smoke. “Is the Duce available?” he asked while jabbing a thumb at the office doors.
Alessandra’s smile fell. “I’m afraid that he’s away with the King. He left earlier this morning.”
A low grumble from deep Italo’s throat threatened to make itself heard, but he sighed instead. “Right. When do you think he will be back?”
The brunette’s eyes glanced at the wall mounted clock. “Perhaps in an hour? Maybe two?” She shrugged. “I couldn’t say. When it comes to meetings with the King, his schedule usually needs to be redrawn from scratch afterwards.”
Balbo hummed in thought, pulling out his cigarette packet to light a new one. The subject of discussion that he wanted to divulge with Mussolini was important, but he knew that the King took precedence. He could wait a day if it came down to it, but Italo felt that what he had to say was best said early. After all, a possible traitor in the party was still of high priority.
As he lit the cigarette with a match, Alessandra eyed him with a needy look. “May I?” she asked, pointing to the cigarette.
“Sure,” Italo replied, and offered it to the young lady. She voiced her thanks and took in a deep breath of the aroma of tobacco.
As she let out a plume of thin smoke Alessandra handed the cigarette back. “I needed that, thanks again.”
“It’s no problem,” Balbo said, blowing a plume of smoke of his own.
His mind momentarily wandered, stopping to recall the moment when he wrote his letter of condolences while interned. Camillo Mondadori was a friend, and while Italo knew that he owed nothing beyond the written sympathy for the man’s family, the fascist felt obliged to make time to personally pay his respects at Mondadori’s funeral. The problem was that, however: would he even have enough time to do so, what with Cadenza and the inevitable witch hunt within the PNF?
Balbo’s lips thinned. He felt a little better after another lungful of smoke, but the worry remained.
He idly scratched at the bandage on his left hand. It still occasionally itched, but it had been several hours since it last hurt. All in all, Italo had come out of the ambush rather unscathed. Physically speaking so did Cadenza, though he still had his doubts in regards to the mental aspect…
“Does it hurt?”
Balbo blinked. The question had caught him off guard. “No,” he said, showing the back of the left hand. “Apparently I got cut by glass or something, but it was just skin deep. Nothing to worry about.”
Alessandra smiled at that, though she quickly frowned when she asked, “And Cadenza?”
Italo did not immediately respond. “She’s fine,” he finally said. “They’re keeping her under observation at the Policlinico, but she is fine.”
The secretary lit up a bit. “Say, have you read the news?”
Again Balbo blinked. “You mean today’s issue?” he asked, prompting a nod from Alessandra. “No, I haven’t.”
“The terrorists that survived are going to be tried by today,” the secretary explained. She removed the documents from her desk to reveal a newspaper. “It’s on the front page of Il Popolo d’Italia,” Alessandra said, holding it up for Italo to see.
A collection of mugshots lined the column of the main article. A total of seven faces stared back at Italo as he beheld the headline: ‘7 MEMBERS OF THE ARDITI DEL POPOLO TO BE TRIED.’
His eyes went over the two rows of pictures only to suddenly stop at the fifth one. It was a clean shaven man with a lean face, looking absolutely miserable. Looking closely, Balbo thought that he’d seen those defeated eyes somewhere before…
“I hope that they all get hanged.”
Italo looked up to see a grimace upon Alessandra’s face. “It’s the least those bastards deserve,” she insisted.
Balbo hummed in agreement. “I’m sure that justice will be served,” he said quietly, focusing on the picture of the dejected criminal. Why did this man look so familiar? While there was no color to discern from, he could tell that the eyes were bright. He remembered seeing those same piercing eyes somewhere… but where?
He tilted his head, humming once more.
“What is it?”
The aviator brought up a hand. “Do you have a pen?”
Not bothering to ask for clarification, Alessandra handed Italo one. He carefully scribbled crude looking whiskers that made the man in the photo look like a walrus. Then he added a goatee. When he was finished, Italo stared hard.
He’d seen this man before.
He was a blackshirt; one that Balbo remembered seeing among the throngs that had marched along the Appian Way last year.
Slowly, Italo’s eyes rose to meet Alessandra’s concerned eyes. “I must see the Prime Minister,” he half-whispered, “today.”
As the brunette grabbed the transceiver of her phone and dialled a number, Balbo’s mind raced, working hard to remember which century that particular squadrista belonged to.
Taking another deep smoke-filled breath, one hope persisted amongst all of the other thoughts:
Hopefully the audience with the King won't leave the Duce in too bad of a mood.
For what must’ve been the fifth time since he had left the royal residence, Mussolini let out a frustrated sigh. As the car rolled up to the courtyard of the Palazzo Venezia, he collected his belongings and stepped out of the car when the chauffeur opened the door.
He decided that his report to the King went about as well as expected, now that the emotions had had time to settle. As he had predicted, Vittorio was nearly apoplectic. Despite Benito’s guarantees for the end of street violence, the shootout within Rome itself was a step too far for the King. He went on an anticipated tirade about how political parties were a failure, no matter their political leanings, and voiced his longing for a return to the Italian honeymoon that was the post-unification period, when political violence did not exist.
One thing that the Soldier King had brought up however, was a reminder of his control over Mussolini and especially Cadenza, once more threatening the Prime Minister that if he didn’t bring law and order soon, the new government would be finished.
Benito was painfully aware of the reality of the threat, and even went so far to wish that he could do away with the House of Savoy altogether during one of the quiet moments.
Of course, that was an absurd notion. The Royal Family (or at least Vittorio Emmanuele III) was still too beloved by the people for Mussolini to make such a move. He very much doubted that he would even live to a point where the Italian people would clamor for the House of Savoy to abolish the Monarchy.
Still, a fascist could dream.
At least Mussolini had gotten what he had pinned on the assault to achieve: full support from the Monarchy for his drive to push the left out of political scene. All that was left to do was to think of the best way to broach the debate in parliament in the coming days. Benito would have to finally address the christian democrats in regards of this initiative. He’d need their support in parliament if it was going to gain any tract—
“Signor Primo Ministro.”
Benito’s train of thought slowed as a lanky-looking functionary presented himself by the entrance. “Yes, what is it?”
“Signor Balbo and Signor De Vecchi have been waiting for you in your office,” the walking stick of a man said, reaching to take Mussolini’s effects. “They say that it is urgent.”
Handing over his briefcase, Benito followed the functionary into the winding hallways of Palazzo Venezia. His thoughts went over the possible reasons that both Italo and Cesare wanted to meet him.
The answer was quick and plain: the ambush.
This too, like the King’s outburst, was wholly expected. The only trouble for Mussolini were the faux ADP militia that had been captured. The original plan did involve a few willing and loyal blackshirts to be ‘caught’ and have their image defaced in public, but here Mussolini was, left to deal with more than a few. Not just that, but only two of the arrested men had agreed to that part of the plan!
As he walked at a brisk pace along the corridors, Benito scowled. He hoped that he could get to the ones who hadn’t been in on the latter part of the operation. Hopefully he could salvage the situation before anyone too important would catch on.
An acrid smell of tobacco assaulted his senses when he entered his secretary’s office. Wrinkling his nose, Benito was greeted by Alessandra.
“Good morning, Mister Mussolini,” she said, rising from her seat and waving a hand towards his office. “Both Mister Balbo and Mister De Vecchi are waiting for you inside.”
Spotting a tray with four spent cigarettes, the Duce had half a mind to tell her off for allowing anyone to smoke. Instead, he merely nodded his thanks and proceeded to his office. As he’d been told, both Cesare and Italo sat waiting by Mussolini’s desk. However, standing by them was a third man, a bearded blackshirt with a mess of hair on his head. The medals and arm patches pointed to the man being in charge of a century, though Benito couldn’t ascertain which.
At least his office didn’t reek of cigarettes.
“Greetings, gentlemen,” he said aloud as he closed the door behind him, biting back any worry that he had.
The fascists all saluted, with the squadrista centurion clicking his heels. “Duce!” he hailed.
“At ease,” Mussolini said with a placating wave of a hand. As the salutes and stances wilted, the Duce placed his hands on his hips, throwing a critical look at the centurion. The man, broad as he was, didn’t seem to flinch under the scrutiny.
After a while, Benito finally looked to Italo and Cesare. “I have an inkling as to why you’re all here, in my office, at noon,” he stated with no small amount of mock indignation, “but I must ask: why are you gentlemen interrupting my lunch?”
De Vecchi was the first to pipe up. “Balbo here might’ve found the source of the leak.”
When the quadrumvir had said that, cross-armed and with a severe look upon his moustached face, Benito felt an uncomfortable tingling at the back of his neck. There had been a small part of him that had hoped against hope that this meeting was not going to be about the ambush.
Not needing to fake his interest, he said, “Really?” Mussolini glanced at Balbo who nodded. His right hand slid away from his hip as he regarded Cesare once more. “Well, that’s great news. Who’s going to get the truncheon or a flask of castor oil then?”
“Sir,” the centurion began, “we don’t believe it is just an informant.”
There’s that tingling again. “What is it then, Centurione…?”
The blackshirt momentarily fumbled his words before introducing himself. “Gaspari, sir. Centurion Gaspari of the Bari Century.”
“Well, Gaspari,” Benito said, “if it isn’t just an informant, then what is it?”
Gaspari’s features seemed to sag with shame. “Duce, we’re possibly dealing with party members, including some squadristi, that have crossed to the other side.”
Despite knowing the truth behind the matter, Mussolini couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow to that. Looking to his left to meet Italo’s own gaze, he asked, “What evidence do you have?”
“This man,” Balbo said, picking up a picture of a blackshirt group and pointing to one of the men in it, “was among those arrested from the ADP attack.”
Benito didn’t need to look to confirm his fear, as he explicitly remembered recruiting a man from the Bari Century. Still, he felt obliged to look over the photograph, if perhaps only to distract himself from clenching his jaw.
Asides from the man’s striking eyes, there was nothing that really called attention to the indicated blackshirt. Asides from absolute secrecy and loyalty, their unassumingness was the primary attribute that Mussolini had taken into consideration when he had recruited the fascists for the hit. The whole point of doing so was to keep from anyone important recognizing any one of them if found out. Hopefully this one (a certain Tonio) would not have given any leads if pressed.
If, of course, being the key word in this hypothetical; considering the PNF’s penchant for liberal use of cudgels, daggers and laxatives, any assumption that the blackshirt would stay quiet was beyond foolish.
“Are you certain?”
“See for yourself, Duce,” Cesare said, bringing up a newspaper with a line of mugshots. The one that had a shaggy beard and moustache crudely drawn on him looked frighteningly familiar.
At least he tried to change his appearance, Mussolini thought, though it wasn’t of much consolation.
“That’s...” He turned to de Vecchi. “That’s quite a find.”
“All thanks to signor Balbo, Duce!” the centurion said with some sense of adulation. “I don’t think that even I would have recognized my own man.”
Letting out a slow breath, Benito merely glanced at Italo. Why wasn’t he surprised? “Well done, Balbo,” he said with a forced smile.
Italo merely bowed his head. “It was a lucky coincidence, really.” He walked over to set down the photograph. “If he hadn’t glanced my way, I wouldn’t have recognized him.”
Mussolini felt the butterflies in his gut: of all of the faces for him to remember… “Well done,” he repeated in a mutter. “Who else knows about this?”
“Asides from us?” Cesare looked to the door. “Only your secretary.”
The tension in Benito eased somewhat; perhaps he could still handle the situation before it truly got out of control.
“Not a word,” he said tersely. At the silent response, he added, “This is grave, gentlemen. If word gets out that we have turncoats in our party, we’re‒ we’ll be undermined at every turn.”
“Having a red in our midst isn’t really ideal,” de Vecchi admitted in an unusually quiet voice.
“Exactly,” Mussolini said with a quick nod. “This man” —he pointed to the mugshot of Tonio— “is our key to any other possible weaknesses within our party members.”
Italo, scratching his beard, asked, “How do you want to deal with him, Duce?”
“I will,” Benito quickly said. “I’ll deal with him personally.”
Gaspari’s brow creased. “Duce?”
“This man betrayed the party.” Mussolini brought a hand to his mouth and rubbed a finger on one of his cheeks. “That means that I, somewhere, have failed.”
“Duce, if anyone’s to blame, it should be me,” the centurion insisted. “He’s one of mine, and I should have found him ou—”
A hand from the Duce stopped the man. Levelling his gaze upon the smaller blackshirt, Mussolini spoke with an edge to his voice. “The people look to fascism because of me. They join the party because of me.” He crossed his arms to impose himself, jutting his chin out for good measure. “I want for that man to explain to me exactly where I have gone wrong. Then, and only then, will we be in a position to kill the spectre of treason within the party.”
The silence that followed was deafening for Benito. This was his play and it was the best that he had to offer under the circumstances. He kept his admittedly defensive stance up, doing his utmost best to not let the anxiety of his bluff being called.
At least Gaspari seemed to relent, if his subtle nod and pursed lips were anything to go by. De Vecchi betrayed nothing but his usual disdainful stare, with the corners of his mouth just jutting downwards beneath his moustache. That was probably good, Mussolini decided.
When his eyes shifted to Italo however, the uncomfortable sensation at the back of Benito’s neck returned with a vengeance, which was almost enough to break his poise. In Balbo, the Duce saw a fury that was restrained only by the excuse of civility. The fire of hatred blazed intensely behind his taupe brown eyes. Gone were the boyish features, replaced with those of a man with murderous intent.
It was then that Mussolini realized that he had entirely forgotten about the man’s stance in light of the situation. Who else desired a chance to exact revenge on the man who had possibly killed men under his command as much as Balbo? Especially considering that he could have, even if by pure bad luck, killed Italo and Cadenza?
It was well masked, but the wroth within the aviator was palpable, and it frightened Mussolini.
“I understand, Duce.” Benito turned to Gaspari, almost startled by the sound of his voice. “I assume that you’ll want to see the man as soon as possible. I’ll make the preparations.” The centurione was gone after a salute.
Mussolini exhaled slowly, working to keep himself from looking relieved. At least that was one less person to convince to back off. Although he knew, looking to the other two fascists in his office, that it wouldn’t be as easy to convince either one.
Turning to Italo, Cesare was the first to speak up. “The Duce’s on the case.” His laugh rang hollow. “Everything’s taken care of. I can get back to work and you can go to the hospital to see Cadenza.”
The mention of the filly seemed to calm down Balbo, though it was evident that the man still had some words to mince with Mussolini.
Before he could dismiss the two though, a knock came from the door.
“Who is it?” asked Benito automatically.
Alessandra’s voice came as a reply: “Signor Bianchi wishes to speak to you, sir. He insists that it’s urgent.”
He gave his permission after glancing at the other two quadrumvirs; he needed the distraction.
When Michele came in, he had a pamphlet-size document in hand. In a brief look, he thought that he saw two crossed keys emblazoned on one of the sides. Were those papers from the Holy See?
“Forgive my intrusion, Duce,” Bianchi said with a salute, acknowledging his fellow quadrumvirs with a nod. “I know that you must be preoccupied with the attack, but I have important news regarding the Vatican.”
“What’s that?” asked Balbo with a pointed finger.
Michele approached the desk and placed the document —a letter, Mussolini realized— for everyone to see. The sigil of the Vatican was printed on the front of it, along with a title in Latin: Rerum Omnium Perturbationem.
“State of General Confusion?” de Vecchi said in an uncertain tone. “It’s been awhile since I’ve practiced my Latin.”
Bianchi tilted his head. “Può essere, according to my source.” He opened the letter. “Fortunately, the rest of this copy is in Italian.”
It took a moment, one moment too long than he would have preferred, for Mussolini to realize that this was an encyclical, and a new one for that matter. Italo was also quick to understand the implications.
“Does… does this have anything to do with Cadenza?” he asked in an unsteady voice. Cesare’s eyes lit up in recognition; even he realized what this meant.
Bianchi, surprising everyone, smiled. “Indeed. And it’s good for us.” He flipped a few pages and ran a finger along the paragraphs, stopping to a point in the letter and tapping it twice. “This is where the pope refers to her, right after commending writers and journalists due to a French saint and recognizing him as the patron of writers.”
He cleared his throat before reading aloud.
It is, in this respect, a curious coincidence that this Centenary falls upon so close a date to that of the discovery of a being that some of our Venerable Brothers have been quick to dismiss as mere rumor, a few going so far as to call it heretical to the teachings of the Divine Healer Jesus Christ. We are referring, of course, to the alicorno Cadenza. This is possibly the greatest event to befall the Church, one perhaps equivalent in significance to the Great Schism of 1054, and a matter to be discussed with the utmost care by the Church. We do not need to explain the scope of the appearance of the alicorno, as many of our Venerable Brothers have reported about their parishioners mentioning Cadenza. As such, many of them have sought for guidance in administering their parish with this new revelation within the context of His teachings.
Much time has been delegated to studying the numerous prophecies for possible correlations, including passages from the Book of Lamentations, the Book of Habakkuk, and the Book of Revelation, and it is in these passages that We uncovered the most compelling interpretation. While other prophecies of past Saints and Brothers, such as that of John of the Cleft Rock, appear to correspond with the circumstances of the alicorno, none of these compare to that found within the Books of Matthew. It is here, that We see the earthquake that preceded the arrival of a heavenly being. (Matthew xxviii, 2) This creature, the alicorno, is a spirit sent by Him in response to the growing instability of the world, with the threat bore upon the Russian Church; one of His many spirits walks among us.
There are those among you that may ask if this is a heavenly spirit, and why it has chosen such a form to cross into the mortal plane. The simple answer is that We do not yet know. We cannot assume anything until God’s intentions are clear. We hesitate to call her one of His angels, as for as you are all aware, Venerable Brothers, none of them had ever before assumed the female form.
As such, it is your duty to both assure your flocks that this is the Lord’s work and to prevent the spread of the interpretation that the alicorno is anything beyond what We have declared. In the meantime, We shall hasten to encounter her and learn of her intentions, and judge them accordingly.
As for those who align themselves with the alicorno, do not treat them as enemies of the Church, but as those who have lost their way in their search for a greater purpose. Remember, their patron was sent here for a purpose, and it is in the interest for all believers —Christians or not— to avoid incitement or doubt in scripture, until the Church can ascertain the alicorno’s purpose.
As a pledge of everlasting favors to come and in testimony of Our fatherly affection, We impart most lovingly to you, Venerable Brothers, to all your clergy, and to your people, the Apostolic Blessing.
When Bianchi finished, he was smiling broadly. It was Cesare to speak first however.
“Imagine that—Cadenza being sent by God.” He chuckled deeply. “That’ll be a hell of a thing to explain to her.”
“With the Pope’s blessing, the support from the church is nothing if not certain,” Michele exclaimed, grabbing Balbo’s shoulder and playfully shaking him. Even Italo seemed to forget his previous furor, grinning as he was.
Benito, however, didn’t join in their cheer. When Michele noticed this he asked, “What’s wrong, Duce?”
“It’s...” Mussolini glanced back at the encyclical on his desk. “It’s not bad news.”
“Duce?”
The Duce saw the creased brows upon the quadrumvirs faces. “The Pope’s played us,” he explained, his previous worry put aside for the moment. “Yes, we had hoped that the Church would not have decried Cadenza, but this!” Benito picked up the encyclical. “Pius has put us on the back foot by making her a damned heavenly spirit.
“Think on it for a moment,” he said. “Now that Cadenza’s a manifestation of God, the Pope’s gained leverage on us, as she’s by virtue of being a heavenly being, a Catholic.”
Realization slowly dawned upon the men, as their features sagged dejectedly: the brilliance that was present before in Bianchi’s eyes dulled behind his glasses; Cesare’s nostrils flared and his moustache bristled; Italo’s face seemed to age several years right then and there.
“So...” Bianchi chewed on his lip. “He’s going to dictate terms.”
Mussolini’s nod was grave. “And what happened yesterday in regards of Cadenza’s powers will only cement the Vatican’s stance on her heavenly status in their dogma.” His eyes once more regarded Bianchi. “Has the letter already been circulated?”
“Yes, Duce,” Michele muttered. “It was handed for publication yesterday morning. Most of the larger parishes must’ve already received it.”
Benito ran a hand down along his face. By this time on Sunday, every churchgoer in Italy would have been spoonfed this farce, and there was no way to block this without Pius’s help.
“Call the Curia and get me someone important for me to speak to,” he told Bianchi, adding in a quieter voice, “Pius is probably waiting for me.”
The party secretary nodded and gave a salute before taking his leave. Turning to the others, Benito said, “Go look for any men who are well versed in the Catholic doctrine. We’re going to have to cover every base if we’re going to discuss terms with a man like the Pope.”
Both Cesare and Italo exchanged doubtful glances and gave their own half-hearted salutes. As they left, Mussolini felt as if a great weight had been lifted off of him. He’d bought himself some time with the situation of the assault, but there was still the matter of Balbo. From what he had gathered, this whole thing had run the risk because of his stake and persistence in the incident. If Benito didn’t resolve this quickly…
Funny, it feels like summer in here.
Slumping down on his desk, he immediately got on the phone. Once the connection was established, and a tinny voice came through the line, he had only four words to say:
“Get me de Bono.”
Tonio del Boca lay on his bunk, trying in vain to ease the tension within him. Asides from the worry of having to revise his cover story to ensure that there were no inconsistencies, the constant pacing of his cellmate, Gianluigi, didn’t help his nerves.
He couldn’t exactly fault the man, though. He hadn’t been prepared for incarceration like Tonio had been, and he was rightly worried as to what would happen to him now that he had been arrested.
Granted, the plan had gone completely awry once that aviator, Balbo, began to shoot back; things had gone even worse when the alicorno had somehow formed a mob and sicked it on Tonio and his partners in crime. Nobody was supposed to have been caught then, let alone killed.
At least he was fairly certain that any interrogation that he would be forced into wouldn’t give the police any trails. Hopefully the party would intervene with his sentencing and lessen it somewhat. He couldn’t say the same for Gianluigi however. He had urged (threatened, really) Gianluigi to stick to a cover story and assured him that the police wouldn’t give either one of them trouble if they both played their part.
While it seemed as if he had gotten through to the young man, his jittery pacing told Tonio that Gianluigi would probably cave if pressed.
And this was the one man that he could actually speak with! Who knew what the other unprepared perpetrators would say during questioning?
Letting out a resentful sigh, Tonio could only await their fate.
Resounding footsteps from down the corridor were loud enough to rouse Gianluigi from his nervous stupor to cease his pacing, though he looked all the more panicked. Truth be told, even Tonio felt his heartbeat quicken with anticipation. Soon enough, half-a-dozen blackshirts escorting a prison guard appeared on the other side of the barred door.
“Tonio del Boca?”
Tonio tensed up. He’d been made? But these were PNF. Why would they out him?
“Who?” he said in spite of the lump in his throat.
One of the blackshirts rolled his eyes. “Come on, you’re in the clear. We’re moving you to a nicer cell.”
Del Boca slowly threw his legs over his bunk, carefully eyeing the maces that a good number of them had in hand. “Is that so?” he asked, failing to keep the edge out of his voice.
The blackshirt who first spoke nodded. “Yes, signor del Boca. Come on, up you go.”
Tonio obeyed the men and walked up to the now opened cell door. Before he left however, he was stopped by the lead blackshirt and brought close to him.
“Is he dependable?” the man whispered in his ear.
Tonio blinked; that wasn’t what he had expected. After chewing on the question for a while, he whispered back, “No sir.”
The blackshirt nodded once more. “Right, come with me.” He carried Tonio and led him away. Almost immediately, Gianluigi began to shout.
“Tonio!”
Del Boca looked back, noticing that the other fascists hadn’t followed, but had entered the cell, maces at the ready. It didn't take much imagination to guess what would happen next. Gianluigi’s pained screams soon confirmed his fears.
“Italy needs dependable men like you,” the blackshirt said, ignoring the cacophony from behind. “She doesn’t need weaklings like him or the others.” He turned to face Tonio. “You will point me to the others. Am I understood?”
A particularly sharp shriek stopped suddenly, plunging the cellblock into relative silence, only punctured by the distant sound of batons beating upon flesh.
Of course Tonio agreed. What other choice did he have?
