He hangs up. He pours a glass of red wine, holds it to the light. It looks exactly like blood.
Inside, a hundred men wait—arditi (shock troopers), futurists, disgraced officers, and petty criminals. They sit on wooden chairs in a former textile union hall. The air smells of damp wool, cheap grappa, and unresolved violence. mussolini: son of the century series
“Burn it,” says Mussolini. “And leave a note: ‘The century belongs to us.’” He hangs up