The Incident at Montebello Read Online Free Page B

he wrote. His article for the American press was intended to keep the dollars flowing in, but he was appealing to a dwindling audience. He feared the fickle American press and public were ready to turn on him, among them, the dilettante Vanderbilt.
    Deep in thought, he didn’t hear the knock on the door or the footsteps tapping across the marble floor until Arturo Bocchini, the head of the OVRA, stood before him in a crumpled suit and shirt. “You’re a lucky man, Duce.”
    He shuddered. “The next time, the gunman might be luckier. Who’s the bastard?”
    â€œOne of ours. A communist from Torino. The crowd killed him. Tore him limb from limb. For you, Duce, they’d throw themselves on the lions.”
    He nodded, pleased at his people’s loyalty. It comforted him, but it evaporated just as quickly. Wasn’t it always this way? Ever since he could walk, he had scrounged for solace at the knees of women, who were just as likely to kick him as pat him on the head. He told Bocchini, “Everywhere I turn, they’re on my heels.”
    â€œThe more powerful a man is the more enemies he has.”
    â€œRemind them who’s boss.”
    â€œOf course, Duce. I’ll send a squad out there.” But Bocchini didn’t leave. He cleared his throat and murmured, “I have news about the incident in Montebello. The two police witnesses have been transferred. The local police chief reassures me he’s searching for other witnesses, and if he finds any, he’ll make sure they keep quiet. But we’ve also gotten word that a mechanic in the area is spreading rumors that you were the driver of the car. We believe he’s part of a resistance group that’s planning a series of actions designed to discredit your administration.”
    Il Duce tossed down his pen. “Son of a bitch. Find the mechanic and his men. He needs to learn how to keep quiet. If he can’t learn, I want him shot.”
    â€œYes, Duce.”

CHAPTER 4
    It was more than she could bear to lose Lucia too, so she returned to her kitchen, joining the women from the village bringing gifts—a late summer melon, a pot of minestrone. As she set out the food and washed dishes, bits of conversation floated around her. From time to time, the women’s voices dropped, murmuring like the tide.
    â€œWhen Sofia died, Lucia’s heart died too. And to think she has to go through this alone,” one woman said.
    â€œThat good-for-nothing husband of hers keeps sending telegrams from Boston, but what are words at a time like this?” another added.
    â€œDid you hear about the driver? He’s a big shot from Roma.”
    â€œI heard it was Il Duce himself.”
    â€œWhere’d you hear that? I heard it was a rich americano .”
    â€œYou’re both wrong,” a third woman said. “I know for a fact it was the son of Signor Martinelli, the cabinet minister. The one who races cars at Monza.”
    Isolina kept her thoughts to herself. She knew what she saw: the car—just a blur of metal, tires, and gleaming chrome; the driver—simply a round face with a high, pale forehead and a rigid chin; and her cousin—trapped under the grill and wheels, the life crushed out of her. She was more inclined to believe her father, who blamed a wealthy americano . Her mother, however, was convinced it was Sofia’s destiny to be plucked early from this earth by the hand of God.
    When Lucia shuffled downstairs, Isolina hardly recognized her for she no longer dressed in one of her silky blouses the color of sea and sky or a slim skirt that hugged her hips. Instead, she resembled a dark bird—no different from all the village widows dressed in black. Even her hair was pulled back into a knot instead of shimmering in waves down her back. Sinking into the rocking chair, she stared into the fire, until a woman thrust a plate into her hands and told her to eat. After swallowing