“Thank you, sir.” Marco smiled with relief. “You won’t be sorry, sir.”
His father interjected, “That, I guarantee.”
“Thank you.” Buonacorso glanced over as the door opened behind them, and Marco assumed someone had come in, as he smelled cigarette smoke.
“One last thing, Commendatore,” his father said, raising a finger. “You know our mutual friend Massimo Simone. He has been denied an exemption from the new Race Laws, to which I believe he is absolutely entitled. I’m sure you agree.”
“Denied, you say? Massimo?”
“Yes, and this injustice must be rectified. His exemption should be granted, given his years of service and loyalty to the party. I vouch for him in every particular. I was hoping you would help him.”
Buonacorso shrugged. “Beppe, I have no say in such matters, as much as I would like to help. It’s outside the scope of my authority.”
“I expected that was the case, so I wrote a letter on Massimo’s behalf. I’m hoping that you will place it in the proper hands.” His father reached inside his jacket pocket, extracted an envelope, and set it on the desk.
“I will, thank you.” Buonacorso picked up the envelope, and just then, harsh laughter erupted from the back of the office.
Marco and his father turned around as two uniformed OVRA officers walked to the desk, their black boots clicking on the parquet floor. Marco shuddered to recognize one of them as the bearlike OVRA officer who had interrogated him about Aldo. The other OVRA officer was short and skinny, holding a cigarette between slim fingers. Marco didn’t know him, but he was casting hard eyes at his father.
“Do you remember me, Beppe?” asked the skinny OVRA officer.
“Carmine Vecchio,” his father answered matter-of-factly.
“Tell me, are you surprised to see me as a superior officer?”
“No officer is the superior of any trencherman.”
Marco swallowed hard, as OVRA wasn’t to be provoked.
“Bah!” Officer Vecchio dragged on his cigarette. “You haven’t changed, you old warhorse.”
“Thank you,” his father shot back, unsmiling.
“How dare you!” Officer Vecchio snorted, and jets of smoke escaped his nostrils. “You should show me some respect, and also my fellow officer Stefano Pretianni.” He gestured to the bearlike officer, who didn’t react. “And by the way, you’re in no position to ask favors for your Jew friends.”
Marco’s father didn’t blink. “It’s not a favor when it’s deserved. Massimo Simone is a loyal Fascist. He served our country in—”
“What do you know about loyalty, Beppe? Your son Aldo was running guns for subversives right under your nose. God knows what Marco is really up to.”
Marco jumped to his feet, on impulse. “I am loyal to this party, and so is Massimo Simone. He deserves that exemption.”
His father rose beside him, more calmly, his gaze on Vecchio. “Carmine, you’re still picking unnecessary fights, and I’m still ignoring you.”
“What fight is unnecessary, Beppe? Was Caporetto? Is that why you ran like a coward?”
“I did no such thing.”
“Prove it.”
“I don’t have to prove anything to you.”
“You Terrizzis don’t fool me. I’ll be watching you every minute. I’m keeping my eye on both of you.”
“Enjoy the view.” His father turned his back and walked out with Marco behind him. They left the office, crossed the anteroom, and strode past the guards. They descended the grand marble staircase, side by side, roughly the same height and build, unmistakably father and son. But after what had just happened, Marco wondered if he knew less about his father than he had thought.
They reached the ground floor, strode through the archway, and left Palazzo Braschi. They stopped in order to part ways in Piazza Navona, crowded with people rushing this way and that.
“I’m going back to work.” His father’s eyes went flinty in the sunshine.
“I’ll stay here,” Marco said, newly awkward. In other circumstances, he would have hugged his father, grateful for the help in getting his job back. But the rift between them made that impossible. “By the way, how do you know Carmine Vecchio?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Do you think the Simones will get the exemption?”
“They should. I paid plenty.”
“What do you mean?” Marco asked, surprised.
“What did you think was in that envelope, son?”
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Massimo
21 November 1938
Massimo sat in his study, his head in his hands. On the desk in front of him was yet another set of Race Laws. By today’s royal decree, he was no longer a member of the Fascist Party. He had been thrown out. He reread the law’s main provision, hoping that the sentences would change. Nevertheless they remained the same, in