him breathless with rage. The bearlike Stefano Pretianni from OVRA held Gemma, pressing a knife against her throat. Her eyes had gone round with terror behind her glasses. Carmine Vecchio stood behind Maria, his hand clamped on her shoulder. His wife sat frozen in a chair, her face a mask of mute horror.
Carmine sneered. “Welcome home, Beppe.”
Beppe suppressed the fury in his chest. He knew instinctively he had to proceed with caution. “Let the women go. Your fight is with me.”
Marco added, “And me.”
Carmine’s dark eyes glittered with malice. “I finally got you where I want you, Beppe. I’m turning you and your family in. You’re hiding a Jewess. She gets what she deserves.”
“No!” Beppe shouted, but Stefano yanked his knife across Gemma’s throat, slicing it open.
Gemma’s eyes flared in agony. Blood spurted from the gruesome gash. She emitted a hideous gurgling sound.
Beppe roared, launching himself at Carmine and Stefano. Marco appeared at his side, running at the men. Stefano released Gemma, who collapsed to the floor, bleeding. Maria and Elisabetta rushed to her side, screaming in horror.
Beppe punched Stefano in the face. Stefano reeled backward, his nose exploding in blood. He dropped his knife.
Marco headbutted Carmine, who crumpled, stunned. Marco slugged him, but Beppe spotted Carmine slip his hand in his pocket. Beppe knew it was a gun, so he charged Carmine. The gun went off with a deafening report.
Beppe grabbed Carmine by the ears and banged his head against the wall, knocking him senseless. Carmine got off another shot as he slid down.
Beppe snatched Stefano’s knife from the floor and plunged it deep into Carmine’s chest. Carmine’s eyes popped.
Meanwhile Marco punched Stefano, who punched him back harder. Marco staggered, reeling. Stefano turned to the stairwell to run away.
Beppe lunged after Stefano, grabbed the big man, yanked him off-balance, then threw him into the wall, headfirst. The impact stunned Stefano. Marco punched Stefano again, knocking the big man backward. Stefano’s arms flailed. He fell, groaning. Blood poured from his broken nose.
Beppe picked up a chair, stalked to Stefano, and beat him with the chair until his skull showed. Stefano lay motionless, and Beppe dropped the chair with a clatter.
“Beppe!” Maria screamed, behind him. “You’re bleeding! You’ve been shot!”
“I’m okay,” Beppe told her, but warm blood bubbled in his throat. He remembered the coppery taste from the Great War.
“Papa, no!” Marco shouted, his eyes wide.
“Don’t worry.” Beppe looked down to see crimson bursts on his chest, blooming like grotesque flowers. He didn’t feel anything. He knew that he was losing blood fast.
“Beppe!” Maria rushed to his side.
Beppe dropped to his knees. He was going into shock. He had seen enough to know. Men had died from such wounds at Caporetto.
“Beppe, don’t leave!” Maria sobbed.
Beppe tried to reassure her, but he fell to the side.
Maria knelt beside him and turned him onto his back. Her tears dropped onto his face.
“I love you, my wife,” Beppe told her, his words drowned in blood.
“Papa!” Marco appeared on his other side, anguished. “No!”
Beppe reached for Marco’s arm. “Take care of your mother.”
Beppe closed his eyes, feeling his soul edge away from them, seeking the hands of God. He took comfort in the faith that he would see Aldo soon, and he and Aldo would both perish on the side of justice.
He let go of his mortal life and all of the years he had spent walking the cobblestones of Rome and the rocky soil of Abruzzo, ending the sum total of the days granted him by God, each one spent in an Italy he had loved and bled for, a country of passion and emotion, as gloriously turbulent as the human heart.
His soul ascended to a higher and better life.
One that never ended.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWENTY
Marco
16 October 1943
Four people lay dead in the Terrizzi kitchen, and the gruesome scene spurred Marco into action, despite his grief. He called Emedio and told him the terrible news, and Emedio came and comforted their mother. Then he called Arnaldo, his father’s old war buddy, who arrived with a car, wrapped the corpses of Carmine and Stefano in blankets, and took them from the apartment, to dump them in the Tiber on the outskirts of the city. It was Marco’s plan, which ironically exploited the lack of carabinieri and the Nazis’ ruthless preoccupation with rounding up the Jews.
After that, Marco called Nino Venuti, a local undertaker who agreed to a false story of his father’s death. The public would be told that Beppe Terrizzi, the former professional