//------------------------------// // Dreams and Expectations // Story: Il Duce e la Principessa // by GIULIO //------------------------------// Parliamentary Session Disrupted by Mob Early on Wednesday, in a scene that harkens back to the Bonomi Administration, a massive crowd formed in front of Montecitorio Palace, barring entry to several deputies. The majority of the latter were later identified as members of the left-wing parties of the Italian Socialist Party and the Communist Party of Italy (PSI and PCd’I respectively). Protesters hurled insults and profanities at the PSI and PCd’I deputies. Some witnesses added that rotten fruits and vegetables were thrown as well. Among the different demands from the crowd, the most prominent was that of justice against the perpetrators of the firefight on the 7th, with many accusing the two parties being behind the attack on a fascist convoy that put at risk the alicorno, Cadenza. Despite denying any such claims, PSI and PCd’I house representatives were continually harassed by the mob. Protesters waved flags and chanted anti socialist slogans. Tensions grew high when carabinieri were dispatched to control the protesters, though there have been no reports of violence from either side. Regardless of the police presence, no action beyond protecting deputies was taken. The multitudes remained for the remainder of the morning and much of the afternoon. With over a third of representatives unable to even enter parliament, the session of the day has been suspended. While the demonstrations drew criticism from many members of parliament, the response from both the government and the fascist wing of Montecitorio was decidedly mild. Political experts claim that this is a grave setback for the left-wing parties and a victory for the administration. There is some speculation as to how this whiplash from the populace will affect future lawmaking, but the general consensus among political circles point to a loss of support from traditionally left-leaning parties for future proposals offered from the PSI and PCd’I. Many, however, fully expect a repeat of the violence from previous years in light of the public outcry. It was dark—impossibly so. There was not even the suggestion of light that Cadenza had seen in near-dark rooms. Those had frightened her before but this…! There were few words, if any, that could begin to describe the unease forcing the hairs of her coat to stand erect. Cadenza had already given up calling for somebody, anybody to call back to her. All she was rewarded with were the harrowing echoes of her voice, vestiges of a ghostly speaker that only seemed to mock her attempts to communicate. Defeated, she made herself small as possible, and closed her eyes. What was the point of seeing if there was nothing to see? Then, loud enough to stir her to attention, came a sound that wasn’t borne from Cadenza. It was close: as if somebody collapsed right next to her. Hesitantly, she peeked her eyes open. It was Camillo down on his hands, struggling to rise. A sickly-looking liquid dripped from his head. She couldn’t really tell in the darkness, but it looked crimson: blood, the alicorno recalled, thinking back to the many times that Duce and his friends had mentioned it. The man turned his head to face Cadenza, revealing a pained expression that morphed into one of surprise. “Cadenza...” Words failed him as he suddenly gasped, flinching in agony. To her horror, a shower of shards fell upon Camillo, who elicited a wordless cry and crumbled under the barrage. The cacophony of shattering glass persisted however, and prompted Cadenza to cover her ears. When it ended, she gingerly unfolded her ears and took in the scene before her. A layer of glass lay upon his form, like sleet on a rooftop, ruining the back of Camillo’s winter coat. Blood leaked out from the many tears on the fabric and the side of his face, pooling on the floorless bottom of the black void and against his body. His face remained contorted by pain,  with half of it being completely soaked in red. Camillo was entirely motionless, not speaking a word in his funny Southern twang. Cadenza too remained frozen. She had done nothing to help the man, and she knew it: just a shove and he would have been spared. Why had she not done a thing? She had shown time and time again that she had powers that nobody else, not even Duce, had. She could have saved him. The guilt bit deep, and the filly felt a shortness of breath and a burning sensation at the back of her neck. “Not so special, then.” Cadenza looked around the darkness. It sounded like Duce, but where was he? When she looked back to where Camillo’s body was, the scene had changed: instead of the Sicilian’s still form were now two figures. The first was Baa-bo on his knees, beaten and defeated; the second was a heavily clad person holding a smaller thunder tube aimed at Baa-bo’s head. Italo saw Cadenza and wordlessly pleaded to her. There were no words, only an understanding. ‘I’m sorry,’ he seemed to say with his eyes, tilting his head away in preparation of what was inevitable. In response, the scarfed figure put the barrel of the weapon right into the side of his head. Before, when Camillo was peppered by the shards of glass, Cadenza felt an emptiness within herself: a cold void that sapped her capacity to act beyond witnessing the terrifying scene. It was supposed to happen again, and even the armed figure seemed to know this, not giving the filly a second thought. But it was different this time. Where there had been a bleakness within her heart, a flame sparked into life, soon blazing into a sweltering inferno. Cadenza’s body screamed as her veins burned, but instead of writhing in agony she was compelled to act. A scorching passion revitalized her senses and abilities. Not this time, she declared. The weapon was ripped away from the bad man and, aflame with her will, struck a blow at the head, knocking him down. In a leap and a flap of her wings, Cadenza crossed the distance and now stood tall above the squirming mass of cloth and wool. It soon fell away, breaking off of whatever shape it once had, leaving the masked man suddenly maskless. Much like Baa-bo, the revealed face implored to Cadenza, but here the bad man was terrorized beyond all comprehension. The boyish features told her that he was even younger than Baa-bo, not even having a hair anywhere along the jawline or above the upper lip. The skin was fair, but what was striking were the hazel eyes, wide open and with the pupils shrunk to mere pinpricks. There was a moment of hesitation. The fire within Cadenza flickered as she saw what was probably a young boy who had just turned adult. Her weapon lowered slightly. His mouth flapped open. “What the—” The flame flared up again. She couldn’t allow the bad man to hurt her. She couldn’t allow him to hurt Baa-bo! Within Cadenza’s searing heart was a certain coldness: a sense of indifference. And that same iciness ordered her to pull the trigger. The sound that followed was the loudest thunder that she had ever heard. Cadenza’s eyes fluttered awake to a cool light. Her nose instinctively wrinkled at the unfamiliar smells, far too strong and artificial for her. Among the sickeningly sweet smells was, however, a far more familiar and pleasant scent. “Buongiorno, Cadenza.” A faint but genuine smile touched her lips. “Hi,” she said to Baa-bo. Her eyes finally focusing, Cadenza saw that she was still in the private room set aside especially for her. Baa-bo sat on the only chair next to her, looking on with concern. “Did you sleep well?” The filly grunted noncommittally, letting out a wide yawn. “I miss my bed,” she muttered as she rubbed the sleep away from her eyes. Baa-bo chuckled. “We’ll get you home sooner than you think. The doctors are confident that you’ve recovered fully and are ready to let you go.” Cadenza’s smile faltered a bit. She knew that the doctors, gentle as they were, were only trying to help her, but she couldn’t say that she enjoyed her stay at the hospital. Sure, she was treated especially well, and even her room showed it: it was spotless, had a desk stocked with drawing material for her use, and had a personal bathroom. Even the food that the nurses brought in was good. But Cadenza could see the cracks underneath it all. One time while she transited between wards, she caught a glimpse of those for the less fortunate, and was appalled by the conditions. Crowded, left unattended, and (from what the filly smelled) lacking toilets. Why was she receiving such good care while others languished in such squalor? This was supposed to be a hospital; everyone was supposed to be helped. What made her so special? Baa-bo’s own smile fell away. “What’s wrong, Cadenza? Don’t you want to come back?” “Oh sì, I do!” Cadenza quickly replied before looking down at nothing in particular. “It’s just…” The man approached with a worried look. “What is it?” he asked softly. Cadenza couldn’t meet his eyes. Her thoughts had wandered back to what had happened back at the car crash, and… She bit her lip, then took a deep breath. “I saw the bad man,” the filly muttered, not wanting to look up. “The bad man?” Baa-bo’s voice gained an edge to it. “Who are you talking about?” Cadenza’s ears flattened—she really didn’t want to talk about it. But it’s Baa-bo, a part of her chided. He’ll understand. “I saw him—while I was sleeping,” she began, finally managing to look to Baa-bo. “You‒ I saw him with the thunder thing on you.” She paused, blinking profusely to keep her eyes from tearing up. Baa-bo drew close, lowering himself to eye-level. “He had a gun on me?” Cadenza tilted her head at him for a moment. “Pistola?” “The ah, the ‘thunder thing’. It’s a—” He shook his head. “But that doesn’t matter. What happened?” The alicorno’s next breath was short. “I took‒ I took it away from him, like the other time, and I...” When she closed her eyes, the same scene played out before her once more. Some details were missing though, like the actual ‘gun’ itself and the size of the man. Still, the important ones were as clear as ever: the look of confused panic on his face and the sheer scope of the anger within her. When Cadenza opened her eyes again it was out of surprise: Baa-bo had closed in for a hug. “You did the right thing,” he said sternly. “You did the right thing and that’s all that matters.” She struggled with the embrace. “But I—” “I know,” Baa-bo interrupted. “I know that you feel horrible for doing it, but if it weren’t for you, neither of us would be here to talk about it.” “But that’s the thing!” Cadenza protested, finally breaking out of the hug to face Baa-bo. “I didn’t feel bad about it this time.” For a moment, Baa-bo’s mouth opened to argue her point, but as she stared hard at him and her words sunk in, whatever argument he had died in his throat. “What?” he finally said. “I mean, I wasn’t happy, b-but I was just so angry.” The alicorno’s voice became scratchy as she continued on at a faster pace. “I was angry with myself for not having done anything before and when I saw you ready to be—” She let out a ragged cough. “When you‒ when I saw you sitting there with th-the pistola on your head, I-I just...” Cadenza stopped herself. She suddenly felt as if she had just run at full speed for hours. She was almost panting as well! Baa-bo merely watched with intense scrutiny, showing no sign of emotion. Cadenza swallowed. “It… it felt good when I did it this time.” Again, Baa-bo did not say a word. His only response was a slow blink and exhalation from his nose. He raised a hand to massage the bridge of his nose, never once breaking away his stare. “I am‒ am I a bad person?” she asked in a tiny voice. That seemed to light up his eyes. “No,” he immediately said with an emphatic shake of the head. “You are not bad.” “But I liked it,” Cadenza said lamely. “I wanted to do to that man as they did to your friends!” She meant to continue, but a raised hand stilled her. “You’re not bad,” Baa-bo repeated. “You know that it isn’t right to—” He paused, thinning his lips. “—to hurt people. That already tells me that you’re not like those bad people that tried to hurt us.” He placed his hand underneath the filly’s muzzle. “You did what you had to do, Cadenza. The world isn’t a fair place, and you will have to do ugly things to get through. “I’ll admit that sometimes it feels good to do bad things,” Baa-bo said, “and it can be hard to realize that what you've done is bad. That” —he clasped one of her hooves— “is what separates good people like you and me from those who wish to harm others.” Cadenza stilled as his eyes stared into hers. “Never forget that. So long as you know what you do is wrong and care, you’ll never be a bad person. Always try to help others who need it, but understand to do so, you will have to hurt someone sometimes.” The filly took a shallow breath. Not once did his voice carry an inkling of anger, she realized, but there was gravity to it; Baa‒ Balbo meant what he said. Balbo’s grip tightened. “You’re not a bad person,” he repeated once more. Cadenza gave a curt yet firm nod. “Capito.” Despite the severity of their discussion, she felt… lighter. Perhaps not entirely better, but at least the man had given her a nugget of hope to hang on to. She wouldn’t be forgetting that anytime soon. “If you need to talk about this again, just ask.” Balbo offered a lopsided smile. “I’ll always be available.” Her nod was much more emphatic this time. “I will.” Taking a brief moment to rub away the tears from her eyes, Cadenza rose up from her bed. Before she dropped down from it however, she paused. “Um, Bah-lbo?” Despite his evident surprise at her nearly correct pronunciation, Italo didn’t miss a beat. “Yes?” “Can you not tell Duce about this?” The filly rubbed her forehooves awkwardly. “I don’t want him to know what we’ve talked about.” Balbo smiled. “D’accordo. We’ll keep it between the two of us.” He rose to his full height. “Now, about getting you out of here...” “Where are we going?” He stopped and turned to face her. “We’re going to the Duce’s home,” Balbo replied before his face fell. “His home is near Forlì, so we need to get going if we’re going to catch the train.” Cadenza’s reaction was instant: her neck tensed up and her eyes widened while her ears stood attentive. “I know,” Italo said in a tired voice, bringing up a placating hand. “But we’re not taking half-meas‒ er, we’re doing things right this time.” The alicorno’s brow furrowed. “No bad people?” “None whatsoever,” Balbo answered immediately, resting his hand upon his chest. “You have my word and that of the party.” There was a pause before he finally got a nod from her. “You’ll need to make yourself presentable if you’re going to go to the Duce’s own home.” Cadenza watched him walk to the desk; rather, Italo walked over to pick up a parcel on top of it. Turning around to present its green contents, he grinned. “What do you think?” “Do I have to?” Rachele gave the six-year-old a severe look. “Chiaro che sì,” she said with an exasperated sigh. “No matter who it is we have to be respectful to all guests, alicorni included.” “But she’s even younger than Bruno!” Vittorio protested. His mother gave the briefest of pauses. “And? What does the age of a guest have anything to do with how they’re received?” She placed her hands on her hips in a manner not unlike that of her husband. “You’ll keep to your seat until I tell you otherwise, am I understood?” The blond child harrumphed and fumed, but he otherwise quieted down. Sitting next to him on his left was Edda, who in turn had the younger Bruno next to her. All three sat on the chaise, all dressed in matching suits and dress of blacks and greys. Edda, sitting in the middle, sat still as she had been ordered to. Bruno was also as quiet as her sister, though he couldn’t help but fidget. Poor kids, Benito thought, sitting across from them all. He sympathised with his children, seeing how they had been forced to wait for almost an hour for a tardy dinner. It couldn’t be helped, what with the actual security detail that had to be organized for Cadenza and Balbo. That had already been a headache to deal with if Cesare was to be believed. At least a private train had been requisitioned, and unlike the other time, the route had not been publicized; that had considerably simplified the whole ordeal. Mussolini decided not to entertain the ironic thought of the train being hit by actual left-wing paramilitaries. The odds of that were next to nil, but still… “I’m hungry,” Vittorio grumbled, along with his stomach. Bruno took a moment to nod in agreement. Their sister merely glanced at her younger sibling, ever well-behaved and quiet. Benito had to admit that he too was growing somewhat peckish himself. The handler had phoned ahead from the railway station to notify the Duce that Balbo and Cadenza were on the way, but they had trouble finding a car. That had been twenty minutes ago, approaching on half-an-hour, and he was growing concerned. His home wasn’t even ten kilometers from the station—surely it wouldn’t take an automobile this long to arrive. Mussolini’s previous fears resurfaced all for a moment before he ruthlessly dismissed them. The only real concern that remained had to do with his family’s reception of their guests: specifically Cadenza, of course. He was sure that the children would get along with her, Vittorio’s grumblings notwithstanding. In all honesty, it was Rachele’s acceptance that Mussolini had trouble ascertaining. The two have had plenty of moments to discuss the matter, yet even in the latter times, she had some qualm to the whole idea. ‘She’s a horse’ was the first and the most common excuse, with ‘she’s not even a year old’ following close behind. Benito rationalized, dismissed and explained away these concerns, insisting that Cadenza was a person first and foremost, like anyone else. Granted, there were certain concessions that he had to make, though these were primarily culinary in nature. These were the ones that Rachele was at least agreeable with, as there were a number of dishes that accommodated the alicorno’s known diet. Still, Benito fretted inwardly over his wife’s acceptance. “They’ve arrived!” a voice from outside called, probably one of the guards at the compound gate. All three children perked up and sat upright in their respective seats with nary a word (asides from a ‘finalmente’ from Vittorio), while both Mussolini and Rachele exchanged a knowing glance. She still wasn’t sure about the whole thing, but at least she was willing to give it a chance. That’s all I ask. The two of them got up, with a harsh yet brief gesture to Vittorio from Rachele, and walked to greet the newcomers. When the knocking came, Benito went for the door. He clenched the doorknob and looked to his wife. Once she offered him a nod, he twisted the knob open. “Buonasera, Duce.” There at the front porch of Mussolini’s home both stood Balbo and Cadenza. Italo’s ware was formal though nothing particularly lavish: a simple yet fancy tan fedora; an overly large grey topcoat; a pair of plain trousers, and a black tie tucked underneath it all. It was clear to Benito that he had no formal evening dress and so had to make do with what he had. Cadenza, on the other hand, looked stunning. While the alicorno had always an air of elegance au naturel, the creature that stood before Benito was truly a sight to behold. Although she partially hid herself behind Balbo’s leg, her pistachio chiffron dress was still resplendent, even under Italo’s shadow. The openings made to accommodate her wings were a bit too large to be a perfect fit; in fact, the measurements on the whole appeared to be too large for her size. Understandable, as the measurements that Mussolini had provided were old and probably small for Cadenza now. As such, concessions had to be made for the commission, especially with the unusual design. Still, the somewhat ill fitting dress worked on her. Hopefully it’d make as much of an impression on Rachele as it did on him. “Balbo,” Benito greeted with a handshake and putting on a genuine smile. “I hope that the train ride to Forlì was comfortable.” “Thankfully it was uneventful,” Italo replied with a lopsided grin. “That’s really all we could have hoped for.” He looked down. “Isn’t that right, Cadenza?” The little filly gave a sharp nod, her eyes taking in the interior of the foyer. Once her gaze fell upon Mussolini, she folded her ears. He bent down a bit. “Did you enjoy the ride?” He’d have come down to her eye level, but his suit wouldn’t allow for that. Again Cadenza’s nod was crisp and short. She looked beyond Mussolini to Rachele. “Hello, Cadenza,” Rachele said, doing what approximated to a curtsey. “I’ve heard and read much about you.” Both the alicorno and the Duce gave her a perplexed look, though Benito suspected not for the same reasons. Yes, Cadenza was a very important and special guest—probably the most important that Rachele would ever receive at their own home. He did not however think that that qualified for a curtsey. Sure, it wasn’t really one, but still… “Read?” Cadenza asked meekly. Benito thought that he saw his wife’s lips twitch ever so slightly. “Well, yes. There’s consistently an article on you in most papers now.” Rachele brought a finger to her lip, as if thinking. “In fact, I do think that the whole of Europe now knows your name. It might even be known in America.” While it looked that Cadenza didn’t quite know how to take that, she seemed to edge on the side of receptive. Mussolini inwardly thanked that, for now at least, Rachele was receptive as well. The alicorno remained silent, though she settled on smiling at his wife. Before the silence threatened to become awkward, Italo stepped in: “You have to forgive her, signora. This is her first time outside of Rome. You understand, of course?” “Of course, sir,” Rachele said before clicking her tongue and shaking her head. “But where are my manners? I am Rachele Anna Guidi Mussolini.” “Italo Balbo, madam,” he replied as he daintily clasped her offered hand and bowed. “It’s a pleasure.” As his wife welcomed the guests in, it occured just then to Mussolini that he and the others had all neglected to teach Cadenza the nuances of finer social interactions. It hadn’t been deemed necessary up until now, what with her having been accommodated at the PNF’s headquarters. One look at the clueless expression on the foal’s face made Mussolini want to kick himself. Both Benito and Cadenza would have to play this by ear then. Hopefully Rachele wouldn’t be shouting said ear off by the end of tonight. After Balbo had taken off his coat the four of them finally entered the living room. All of Mussolini’s children looked on from their seats, their eyes immediately settling on Cadenza. Edda’s reaction was, as expected, the most restrained of the three with a near imperceptible widening of the eyes. Both boys gaped, though Bruno went further with an incredulous ‘caspita!’ To be entirely fair, Cadenza’s own reaction was less than stellar: a lip bite and flick of the tail. Rachele would have none of it. “Children,” she began with all of the subtlety of an armored car, “why don’t you greet our guests, Mister Balbo and young Cadenza?” “Buonasera, signor Balbo,” they chorused imperfectly. “Buonasera, Cadenza.” “Allow me to present you my children, Italo,” Mussolini said with a wave of a hand. “Edda, Vittorio, and the youngest, Bruno.” “Hello, children.” Balbo shook hands with the boys and repeated the same gentle gesture with Edda as he had done with Rachele. Then, much to her apparent dismay, all eyes were on Cadenza. Her tail wanted to tuck in behind her legs, but the dress got in the way. “Go on,” Italo offered in a quiet voice, “say hello.” Again she bit her lip. “Ciao.” Again that prompted some rather visible reactions from Mussolini’s sons and daughter. “Wow, she talks!” Rachele bristled. “Bruno!” She slapped him at the back of the head. “Behave yourself!” Benito watched with thinned lips as Bruno recoiled before straightening up. He knew that Rachele hadn’t hit hard, but he saw Bruno hold back a sob. “Sorry,” he said in a mewl. “Don’t apologize to me,” she huffed, pointing to Cadenza. “Apologize to her.” “Scusami, Cadenza.” Cadenza, for her part, stared. Once more, Mussolini wanted to kick himself, but for a different reason this time. Perhaps he and the others had been too soft on her back in Rome, but there had never been a reason to dole out physical punishment. It was no wonder that the sight of it here shocked her. “I-it’s alright, Buh-roono,” Cadenza replied immediately. She looked to Rachele. “Please, don’t hit him.” Benito didn’t even need to look to see what his wife’s reaction was. All he could hope for now was a quick end to the night. Del Boca stood shivering in the chilling night air. He rubbed his gloved hands for warmth and tucked them in his overcoat pockets. “Freezing my arse off out here,” he muttered dejectedly to himself. Tonio’s escorts had good motive to keep him out in the alley just outside the train station, as the risk of being recognized was too great. To be caught just on this side of the Swiss border would be terrible, as the lead escort had explained. Del Boca still had many doubts over their plan to smuggle him over to Lugano. Granted, Tonio’s original expectation had been a quasi-exile in the Swiss Canton of Ticino, but with everything that had happened, he was worried that his handlers were rushing the most difficult part of the plan. They still hadn’t given him travel documents for if the border guards would check the passengers’ papers, nor did he have any Swiss Francs. Hell, he had no clothes asides from those on his back! Tonio glanced towards the mouth of the alleyway for any sign of his handlers, spotting nothing beyond some unfortunate vagrant sleeping on the pavement—or was he knocked out? The discarded beer bottles were rather telling. Tonio uttered another vaporous curse under his breath. Hopefully the others would come soon enough. Yet there was a part of del Boca that hoped that they didn’t. Sure, the blackshirts had treated him well enough, but Tonio hadn’t forgotten what had happened back in Rome. Six fascists killed by the hands of the PNF itself, just because the party didn’t trust them to keep a secret. His lips twitched downwards; it wasn’t the party that had thought them untrustworthy—he thought that, and he told them so. Tonio’s action was unforgivable, especially so after he had worked with them. Even Umberto, the only other member who was prepared for arrest, was not spared from the accusation of treason. Del Boca had justified this by continually reminding himself that Umberto would likely have done the same to Tonio had the party bruisers gotten to him first instead of Tonio. What would his mother think if she could see him now? A short, mirthless chuckle was lost in the night air in that alley of Como. Even if he had bought exile by outing his friends, what exactly kept Tonio from being offed himself? If the party had no qualms of killing off its own members just to cut every loose end, why was he still alive? At first he believed that this was some horribly skewed loyalty test. That had been his excuse at least, to justify putting himself above his fellow conspirators; they would have put the entire enterprise at risk if they were allowed to live. After all, Tonio knew that there was no such thing as a bloodless revolution. But fascists aren’t supposed to kill one another, a part of him protested. They were just doing what they were told to. Everything else was beyond their control. Not for the first time, Gianluigi’s terrified visage resurfaced in Tonio’s mind. “Cazzarola,” he cursed under his breath. Footsteps and some sort of rumbling on the cobblestone pavement broke him from his reverie. Looking down along the narrow lane, del Boca spotted silhouettes of two men approaching. The nearest one raised a hand. “Sorry for the wait,” came a voice that Tonio had grown familiar with in the last few days. The trilby on Fulvio Sassi’s head was tilted forwards, but it didn’t hide his apologetic smile. “The man responsible for the ticket office was asleep, and I had to go and look for him to get anything done.” Tonio only half-listened to the man, as he was far more interested in the large boxy shape that the second fascist, a certain Dumini, was wheeling in on a hand truck. Upon closer inspection, he realized that the man was moving a fairly large trunk. “What’s that for?” he asked Sassi, indicating the trunk with a tilt of the head. Sassi turned to see what Tonio was pointing to. “The trunk?” He put on a smile. “Ah, that’s another reason why we took so long. Those, good sir, are your clothes.” Del Boca’s brow shot up. “My clothes?” “Yessir,” Fulvio said, patting the luggage with a gloved hand. “We took the liberty to get you enough clothes to last you for a week and a container for you to keep them and anything else in for once you arrive in Switzerland.” Eyeing the admittedly charismatic smile with some trepidation, Tonio didn’t join in with a smile of his own. “Where in Switzerland, exactly?” Sassi’s grin fell somewhat. “Signor del Boca,” he began politely, “as we’ve already told you before, your contact in Locarno wi—” “Will tell me once I get there, I get it,” Tonio interrupted with a shaky huff. “A-and the money that I’m going to need will be given to me then, right?” He didn’t bother to wait for the response as he continued: “Can I even see the damn train ticket? You’ve hidden everything else from me so far.” Fulvio brought a hand up to a breast pocket, in a movement that appeared to be almost defensive. After a moment of indecision, the hand dug into the pocket and he produced a small voucher. Tonio approached him. “Hand it over.” “I can’t do that,” Fulvio said flatly, stepping away. Del Boca sucked in his lips. “Wha– why not?” he asked tersely. “You know why,” his handler replied. “Until you’re on the train, we’re safekeeping both it and the money for in case—” “Smettila di raccontarmi palle!” Had they been anywhere more public, Tonio’s outburst would have easily garnered the attention of onlookers. As it was though, not even the vagabond stirred. He walked right up to Fulvio, standing over the smaller man and forcing him to draw back slightly. “I’ve had it with my handlers leading me by the nose while leaving me in the dark like you have.” Del Boca’s voice was considerably quieter, but the undertone had not changed. A part of him distantly wondered where this bout of courage had sprung from, but Tonio didn’t really care. Sassi did not retreat, though Tonio saw the man’s throat twitch in response; even in the poor lighting of the alleyway, Fulvio’s eyes were as wide as headlights. “N-now see here…!” “Shut your trap, Sassi,” del Boca said in a menacing whisper, “and show me the fucking ticket.” Threatening Fulvio was as far as he would get as Tonio felt a hand placed firmly on his shoulder. “Hey,” came the collected voice of Dumini, “there’s no need to get violent here.” Del Boca’s temper abated when he realized that he was still outnumbered here if he escalated. It was still there, but Tonio understood that he was at a disadvantage. It didn’t mean that he wasn’t pissed off, though. “You’re going to calm down, yeah?” Dumini said with a sympathetic look about his eyes. “I know things are shit right now, but if you let us do our job, you’ll be safe.” Tonio chewed the inside of his cheek. “I have– I’m just so tired of being kept in the dark. I can’t—” He let out a breath. “I just can’t keep doing this.” Dumini patted his shoulder. “I understand. I promise you that this’ll all be over soon, sir.” Looking into his eyes, Tonio couldn’t see anything disingenuous in the man’s tone. Dumini was a man of few words, but unlike Sassi, he was both frank and sincere. Del Boca’s understanding clashed with his frustration regardless. Again he merely sucked in his lips, finding no target to vent his dissatisfaction of the whole affair. It was still quite the mess, even if he was being assisted here. “Here,” Dumini suddenly said, digging out a flask from his person, “maybe this’ll make you feel better.” Tonio eyed the offered flask. “It’s Cabernet Grappa,” the man supplied. “Think of it as an apology from the two of us—from the whole party.” Again, he couldn’t find any ill intent in Dumini’s words. To be entirely frank, Tonio needed a drink what with everything that had happened so far. “Thanks,” he replied perhaps too grumpily, but he had meant it. Unscrewing the cap, del Boca prepared to down the thing like a shot. As soon as the contents made contact with his tongue, he immediately knew that something was terribly wrong. The texture was completely off and far too thick for it to be any liquor. It promptly triggered his gag reflex and wracked Tonio with a series of terrible coughs. The taste! It reminded of him of castor oil! He wanted to say as much, but the foul gel-like substance mushed his words into a long incoherent groan. A small part of him realized too late that the warm, consoling hand from before was gone. All too quickly, a gloved hand clasped against his mouth and nose, pulling him backwards. Before Tonio could react a sharp pain erupted at the rear of the base of his neck, puncturing through flesh and ligament; he felt it all. A scream formed from within but it only came out as a gurgled rattle, and strength rapidly faded from del Boca. Soon the agony was tripled as twice more the skin of his neck was lacerated by a cruel blade. His hands, once firm enough to wrap around the offending arm that was restraining him grew numb and limp, and all of his upper body strength disappeared. The last thing that Tonio was aware of was the sound of his own bloody rale. Fulvio watched del Boca crumple to the pavement with a horrific churning noise emanating from the man. The twitches and body spasms ceased quickly enough, but the sound went on for far longer than Fulvio would have liked. “Shit!” Sassi’s glare stayed on the now-deceased blackshirt for a while longer until the shock faded and his eyes were drawn to the slick shine of Dumini’s dagger. Something within him urged him to ensure that they were alone. Fulvio’s eyes were upon the sleeping drifter soon enough. “Amerigo, you damned fool,” he said, suddenly breathless, “we were supposed to do this where nobody could see us!” Dumini didn’t turn to face his companion, and had instead tore the scarf from the corpse to place it underneath the bleeding knife wounds. After what had felt like a minute, he finally replied: “Nobody’s here, Sassi.” “Nobo…!” Fulvio brought a palm to his forehead. “There’s a man right there!” he said in a harsh undertone. That finally caught Amerigo’s attention, as he turned to follow Fulvio’s indication to the sleeping form of the vagabond. The man scoffed—he actually scoffed. “That bum? He’s not going to be rattling off any tales.” Now it was Sassi’s turn to scoff. “Oh?” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “So I suppose that you’ll be offing this guy as well, right?” “Don’t need to,” Dumini replied as he got back to removing his coat. “He’s already dead.” Fulvio began to respond but suddenly stopped himself. What? Continuing as if Fulvio had voiced his thought, Amerigo added, “The beer bottles tell me that he’s in a deep sleep.” He paused for a moment as he began to rip open del Boca’s coat. “And being knocked out in this weather? That’s a sleep he ain’t waking up from.” Sassi stared dumbfoundedly at Dumini as he continued to indignantly strip down the cadaver. After a moment he turned to the unconscious vagrant. He should have come to Amerigo’s conclusion sooner. Perhaps he would have if that damned del Boca hadn’t blown up on him. “Sassi.” Fulvio shifted his eyes to Amerigo; he had just finished unclothing the corpse. “If you want to assist, you can come here and help me out with this.” Fulvio didn’t respond at first: he only let out a shuddering breath. “I already told you about that, Amerigo,” he said in a quiet voice. “I’ll, ah, I’ll go keep watch.” “You go do that,” Amerigo said without turning to face him. As Sassi took a few steps, he heard the crack of a dislocated joint. It would be the first of many—he knew. “Oh, and one more thing.” Fulvio stopped mid-step and turned to see Dumini look behind his shoulder with a steely gaze. “We’re not friends, so do not call me Amerigo.” Dumini’s voice chilled him far more than the cold did. Body Found in Large Trunk in Lake Como Curious onlookers late in the evening of the 12th spotted a locked travel trunk that had washed up on the Western shore of Lake Como, near the town of Moltrasio. Local authorities were contacted and the luggage was recovered. A distinct smell of decay emanating from the trunk alarmed the agents on the scene, prompting them to break open the lock. Stowed inside, police sources say, were the remains of an adult male. After being stabbed fatally in the neck, the victim had been stripped nude and his joints have been broken and twisted to fit inside the container. There is little hope to identify the victim as the head had been horribly disfigured with what sources claim was a blade. Authorities called for calm, promising to find and jail the guilty party swiftly.