The train rumbled to a halt at the end of the railways, the iron wheels squeaking heavily when stopping, as the beast of steel roars in his slow stop, signalling the end of travel, terminus. The smoke erupting from his ghastly Blowhole, his gigantic and gruesome mouth stern and in connection with the rest of the body, a true whale on wheels, leading people from places to places, maybe in a disgraceful body, but a rapid one.
The wonders of industrialisation.
The noise is paired with the sound of the controllers' whistle, announcing the end of the journey, something quite useless with the already turbulant noise and the sight of the station. The men in black, almost police like, clothes forcing the occupants to jostle each other in the narrow passages and exits which pierce the sides of the horrible beast.
Not that it would concern him, his wagon was oddly empty, only a quarter of the place being occupied, and by people from his region, people who know who he is, what he did and what he can do, both fearing and grateful.
so, his way out of the car is easy, he feels like moses separating the red sea, walking nonchalantly in the little crowd of people who separate themselves at his coming, letting him step out, this kind of attention and privilege while not being of his taste, not at all, has his obnoxious advantages.
His foot finds the rusty ground of the noisy gare, the crowd being surprisingly not the loudest thing her, but the men in black clothes, running everywhere and in all direction, whistle in their mouth, like a colony of busy ants.
These people, nothing more than travestiti pretending to be policemen, making sure the next travel is not too much late, quite useless, as one minute is not perceivable when this is only added to a two-hour delay.
Although this one was really the closest thing that an Italian train can be from arriving at the right time, having only 45 minutes of delay.
This is crossed with the fact the pace of the vehicle, the anxiety of the controllers and the generally surprisingly eagerness from all the train staff, which made this possible.
All of the employee, from the driver and the machinist to the men black, being strangely dedicated to arriving without delay, from the departure at Messina Centrale all the way to Roma termini. Like they knew an invisible eye was watching them, having made sure they understand the need for this train to arrive at the right time, and the fact that if it doesn't, it will know it.
It seems the person who called him for this appointment want to be sure to not waste more time than needed.
Not that the prefect didn't understand that feeling. After all, order and efficiency were his personal goal and dedication, for him as from his subordinate and the society in general.
Efficiency and order, two thing Italy still miss. Specially in Mori's personal fief.
And that, it always made his blood boil.
Italian in general, especially southerner, were just used to that, having lived all their life in it. The country never truly achieving something even remotely close from the two qualities. But he wasn't like them, all of it made him sick, and he would repair it, give to the people the true place they always deserved in this country.
Whatever the cost.
The train exhales a final plume of steam, a slow white sigh dissolving into the rafters of Termini station, adding the already streaming air of the station. The other passengers disembarking in a busy but tired tide, boots and heels tapping out a scattered rhythm on the worn stone. The great canopy above catches the pale light, filtering it into soft, uncertain pools, as if the station itself were dreaming of the open sky.
Termini, a vast, breathing thing, of soot-black ribs and trembling glass. Its iron backbones bearing quietly the high glass roof, seeming like it want to reach the sky, making the station swim in the hot light of the roman sun, a cathedral not to any god, but to motion itself.
A true new type of cathedral for a new messiah. Industry, and his archangels... steel, coal, innovation and automation.
The air is thick with the smell of oil and dust, of the sweat of hurry, of coal crushed and melted in smoke.
The building, not moving yet alive, full of life, holding its travellers like a ship's hold his passengers to the right coast, rocking them gently toward the waiting city. The open doors reveal the eternal city, Rome, this thousands of years old labyrinth of stone and memory, its alleys still echoing with the footsteps of emperors and poets and still bearing their respectives marks.
Even more now, as he heard the state has made great plan to unravel the capital and its mysteries, building letting place to archaeological excavations. Searching the undergrounds. And raising pillars and rocks as old as Christ himself and even older from the ground.
"Here sir."
He has only the time to pass the door that he is called, his host having meticulously prepared for his arriving.
He turn to see a black car waits at the curb, sleek and roaring with anticipation, its chrome gleaming in the blurring light of the Roman sun.
It is parked in front of the entry of the station, almost closing it from the exterior. It is not really legal, but he doesn't think the person who ordered that does really have to worry about legal limitation.
The driver, a man with a cap pulled low over his forehead, raise his hand, performing the now very orthodox way to greet somebody to him.
Ah yes... the salute.
Not sure if he is yet used to that. But now it is the traditional way.
Wonders for how many times the people will do it until it becomes truly something traditional and the normal way to great each other.
He asked himself shortly before letting his thought pass out, answering the salute by returning it. The outstretched oath raised high in the sky, a silent reconnaissance of shared allegiance.
The man in the traditional blackshirt attire, although improved and more ceremonial uniform to match his status and the one of whom he represents, nods in silent acknowledgment before opening the door, letting him sit on the back.
Sit on the back of the car, always doing that, you must always sit in the back seat. A lesson he has learnt years ago in his own Sicilian fiefdom.
Wonders how many poor old men have died, strangled by a piano wire or with a bullet in the head, because of this mistake.
...
When his meeting is finished, he should get some rest, the south has clearly an influence on his nerves.
The car shudders briefly as it plunges into the waking city.
He let a last gaze at the station as the car leave with this special manner that have all official valet, dancing between eagerness and calm, fast but without any hurry in their demeanour.
The impressive doors are still open, releasing its waves of pilgrims into the ancient veins of the city.
The station façade, grand but traditional, long, with its symmetrical front and built mostly in stone and stucco, with its series of large arched windows, gradually disappears as the car continues on its way, shortly before disappearing between the walls and building of the Piazza dei Cinquecento.
The car made its journey in the street of the Esquilin, the view from the back seat being very enjoyable, passing by the wide arches, the streets that reckon, captivating with their grace, gilded by the afternoon light, trembling with the music of voices, horns and distant bells coming from the thousand churches that can count the city.
Although the beauty of the eternal city could amaze and appease all minds, it had little to calm his nerves, after removing a trickle of sweats which pearled on his forehead, he adjusted the stiff collar of his military uniform. The air was hot, the shadows cast by the thousands of buildings that can count the capital doing little to erase the warm lights of the sun, but he hardly noticed.
His mind was occupied with the single, nagging question : Why was he called for ?
Why did he was dragged here ? In the capital ?
His mission, while developing well and in the good path, is still at millions of years to to be even close from what we could call accomplished.
The "Onorata Società" while having taken some good blows in the teeth and having felt pressure on her neck that she has rarely felt, probably never in all of her existence, she still remains extremely important and powerful, whose influence affects all levels of society and stretched to every aspect of Italian southerner 's life. The only change for the moment is that she is less official, no longer having the graces to remain in the light and preferring to hide in the shadows, but still alive.
Her importance has been at best diminished, not eradicated.
From the Cascio Ferro, the Greco family, the Di Pisa or the Fragalà clan, not any of them is completely dealt with, they are still alive and well. Oh, he wasn't soft with them, no, right now they are hurt, cut and lurking in the underworld, only getting out in the middle of the night like the rats they are, yes, but still alive.
For now his accomplishment was at best to clean the more visible part, almost like a spectacle, but like a rotten tree, you cannot just cut the black branch, smash the spoilt apples and then say you have done the job, while the trunk is still black with rot, ready to let it out and recolour the entire body and façade black, as soon as your back is turned out of arrogance or because you have another problem on your hands.
So he can burn any house he wants, confiscate as many stolen goods as he can, arrest or kill as many Picciotti, put a bullet in the skull of any camorrista he has on his hand, as long as the capomandamento and the capo dei capi are alive, it is at best a superficial move, a treatment not on the sickness but only of its symptoms.
And with the omerta still alive, whatever how much he can try to destroy this "Sicilian tradition", the real bosses, the real men behind all of these criminal organisation, mafiosi and other members of the high society who profit from it alike, will walk alive, damaged and with their money and power severely undermined, but not something a better situation and a weak or distracted government cannot help to recover from it.
So his work on the hidden hand and its families is far from over, whatever power he can have, so why this call ?
The question made him unease as the car pass the romantic and neoclassical buildings.
In Palermo, even with his mission only at its beginnings, he was a hero, or perhaps, more accurately, a force of nature. They still had to cower before him, for now, their influence slipping slowly from their grasp as he carried out the capo del Governo's orders with relentless precision. Yet, this summons to Rome, to the heart of government, of Fascist power, was… different.
He hadn't received such an order, not even a call, in months. The Duce had been content to let him do his work in Sicily, the sounds of the rare brief reports he received occasionally letting soon place to a blank silence. His words had always been few, direct, but now, to be called to Rome, to be pulled from the work he had barely started in the south ? Especially after such a long silence ?
Something was afoot.
Mori tightened his grip on the worn leather handle of his briefcase, his thoughts momentarily drifting to the familiar faces he had left behind in Palermo, the Carabinieri loyal to him, or at least fearful enough to shut their mouth, follow orders and to hide their own little corruption well enough, the local officials who had either feared or appreciated him, and at the end still all obeyed his every order. Sicily, with all its chaos and violence, had been his battlefield.
Now, it seemed, a new type of battle awaited him. The one not of the rifle and of the intimidation, but of the words and the debate, or what a debate could ressemble in the new fascist dream society.
Oh, he knew what was coming to him, in his relentless pursuit of the eradication of the corruption, and the rats which came with it, he has stepped on the foot of powerful people. Throw some of them in the dirt of the dungeon.
Noble, bourgeois, high ranking clerks, clergyman...
And some new powerful men, who wear the black shirt and follow the eagle.
He knew that it would bring him problem, but not this much.
Let's hope the remontrance will be not too harsh, or that his successor will not be just a puppet put here to make the show, while the rotten part of society thrive again, in collusion with the new masters of the country.
The streets of Rome were unfamiliar, bustling with the energy of a capital poised on the edge of transformation, like a bee colony. As the black car moved through the city, the Isotta Fraschini Tipo 8 flamboyant and marking its government official status, the lack of roof permitting to the wind to refresh his face a little bit.
Now that he thinks about it, the government official cars are convertible and authorised to drive without a roof now ?
it seems the political instability has at least partially ceased. Following the more intense and total grip that the new regime has on the kingdom. The government official now being less scared to be so exposed in the car.
At least in there.
There is zero chance anyone in the south would even think about that.
The towering buildings and grand architecture filled him with a sense of both awe and caution, slightly appeasing his now almost grieving heart, ready to see his resignation letter put in his hands.
At least he had the time to do some change and bring some hope to the people of Palerme.
His gaze falls on a new building in construction on his right, a Futurismo like building, patchwork of ancient Roman, neoclassical Italian styles, and the purity and sobriety of modernist avant-garde architecture that has flourished in Italy in these recent years.
A bold, dynamic structure characterized by sharp angles, sweeping curves, where is roman spirit is paired with the passion of the Italian mind, combined in a mix of morality, antique traditional virtue and a sense of speed, movement, and modern industrial power.
This also mark the might of the best sponsor of the futurismo, the sponsor of this new modernist style typically Italian, the new Italian government.
Pairing this with the nostalgia that every Italian feel in his heart, from the most extremist of fascists to the most bolchevicks of Marxists, from the more traditionalist catholic to the more violent atheist, from the more nobility royalist to the more virulent republican, the nostalgia of the might of what was Italy before, to the more glorious civilisation the world has ever seen, the virtuous and splendid thing that modern Italy is not even a pale copy of...
The roman empire.
And when you travel in this city, watching the old romans ruins on your left, the neoclassical opera behind you, the renaissance buildings in front of you, and the roman like building who are constructed on you right, you can only feel this nostalgia consume you, whatever your political view.
And that he can feel it. The longing for the past, the pride drawn from his ancestors, tainted of self-hating for what he is and especially what is country is currently like. Not even the shadow of his proud latin ancestors.
He isn't even what you could call a radical nationalist.
Just the average Italian.
He had served in the First World War, an after the vittoria mutilata, the national treason imposed on the Italian people by the foreign powers, he has then served in the Fiume campaign, with the flamboyant and charismatic D'Annunzio, fighting and reclaiming what was promised to them and what was them and rightfully them.
And now, under the stern, unwavering rule of the new man of the nation, he is working to re-establish virtue and order to what was once a glorious part of The Boot. But now has become a lair of degeneracy, of corruption and criminal plague.
And these marble and stone monuments, new or old. Are reminders of the stakes, the vastness of the task ahead, the order that is restored here, that he is restoring in la Trinacria.
And now... he had been summoned to the new emperor's palace... the epicentre of the new power. For his ultimate betrayal of what was promised.
By the time he reached the new obnoxiously well-known Palazzo, his nerves were taut. The massive and old building stood in front of him, the symbol of power, imposing, granite-gray, stern. With a direct view on the Altare della Patria, or more precisely its cage, the Victor Emmanuel II national monument.
The Blackshirt guards saluted him at the entrance, raising their arm in the air as they know how to do, if they know how to do anything else.
Still, way more respectful than they were when he came here for the first time, he remembers they barely glanced at him as he approached when he arrived for his first meeting there, not even acknowledging his arrival with the faintest nod of their heads. Today their presence is different, gentler and warmer. Warm in respect at least.
His new status has its flaws, but his advantages, he guesses.
He returns the salute in a weak and almost casual way, these people not deserving the respect they lacked in the first place. His hand only shortly raised in an uninterested pose, almost akin to a dismissal. As the heavy doors of the Palazzo open, cracking and groaning like an old machine who need to be repaired an oiled
He passe the entry Fastly, not wanting to stay with these soldati in travestimento. The large door cast a looming shadow over the marble floor, stretching far in the hall.
He then continues, passing every rigid door with a cold stern gaze, stepping through the empty and pompous rooms like a force of nature, his trench coat is heavy on his shoulders, heavier at every foot on the marble as he comes closer to his destination, his boots echoing sharp, decisive steps across the vast hall.
There is worriedness and apprehension in him, but no hesitation.
No reverence for the grandiosity of the place, not any for the guard standing at every door, ignoring them, his thought only focused on his path. He was a man summoned for one reason only, and he knew it.
As he crossed the threshold, a silence wrapped around him, like a thick fog. The tall corridors echoed with his every footstep as he was led up toward The Duce's private office.
then stopping before a desk, disposed alone in a very big and very empty room, at the crossroad of three opened door.
The secretary behind it, a woman with sharp eyes and cold efficiency, gave him a brief nod before pointing her index in direction of a door, to indicate the one he must take, before wavering her hand, a clear dismissal, as her gaze is focused on the document she is typing on her typewriter, never having even put her eyes on him.
He has only the time to enter that the heavy door is closed behind him with a dull thud. trapping him in a long corridor leading to a stern, black door, guarded by two black shirts.
He walks through the vast antechamber, his boots silent on the polished marble. Arriving after a little moment to the two guards looming in front of the private office of the Duce.
A secretary, pale and severe, who seems to appear out of nowhere and without a sound, open the final door without a word.
Inside, Mussolini stood at the window, his silhouette surrounded by the blue Roman sky like in a painting.
He did not turn immediately. He liked to make people wait, a sort of powerplay he supposes, although the view he can have on the city from here is quite astonishing.
Strangely, the room felt cold, even with the roman spring, and colder than any other room he has stepped on in the rest of this building. The man seeming to make even the temperature colder as he makes him wait, staring out at the skies of this city of emperors and popes.
He doesn't know how much time has passed before he heard the word.
"Mori," The capo del Governo said, in a casual but firm tone.
This was not quite like a greeting, but more like an acknowledgment, like you recognise the venue of a soldier summoned.
Mori's eyes narrowed slightly at the casual greeting, especially on his title, or more its lack of it.
There was no "Prefetto", no title to greet him, not any recognising of his position, just his name.
So, there it is... his resignment
"You can come closer" Mussolini added, turning slowly, his dark gaze locking with Cesare's.
With deliberate steps, Mori approached the heavy desk in the center of the room, his heels clincking once, then stood at attention as he stepped before standing behind the seat, his posture still straight, military.
Not out of fear, but out of exactitude. He was a soldier of the State, and in this room, the State had a face.
Even if his status of soldier seems to be soon to be revoked.
"Thank you for coming on such short notice."
Cesare Mori did not salute. He inclined his head slightly, in that stiff, almost disdainful way men of action greeted men of words.
"I go where the State requires," he said simply, his voice a hoarse, rough thing, like a sword drawn from an old scabbard. "And where Italy needs me."
"Good," Mussolini replied as he takes his seat, is figure looming behind the desk, steepling his fingers before letting them rest, joining his hand as he put his elbow on the desk. His gaze pinned Mori like a specimen under glass. "Because Italy needs you very much, now."
The phrase shock Mori a little, even if he doesn't show it facially, him who was expecting to be gently fired, this is not the introduction he expected.
A moment of silence. In it, the sound of a carriage passing outside, the faint clang of church bells in the distance, the weight of a world trembling just beyond the thick walls of the palazzo.
Mussolini said nothing for a moment, his eyes scanning Mori, sizing him up.
"I suppose you wonder why I've called you here."
Mori nodded slowly, though he didn't speak. The air between them grew heavier, charged with the unspoken weight of an answer yet to be revealed.
Mussolini gave a small, almost imperceptible smile.
His eyes, sharp and restless, pinned Mori like a dagger to the wall.
"The newspapers are full of your triumphs in Palermo," Mussolini said, his hand slowly resting on a pile of documents. "Villages pacified. Mafiosi arrested. The landowners whimpering to the ministers for mercy."
"A lot of mercy calling actually, although way less than those who ask me for severity and a firm hand, on you."
"For one paper praising your... accomplishment, there is 5 others asking for liberation, softness, less strict behaviour and pardon."
"And for each of these ones, there is ten who ask for your head, not necessarily attached to the rest of the body"
"I knew you didn't lacked ruthlessness, i liked that, i still do."
"And i also didn't expected you to have a lot of diplomacy in you... But i must say you surprised me, by having even more of one, and even less of the other."
Mori understood, he was not especially soft with the big heads of Sicily, even less, and whatever their origin, job, position or affiliation was. And diplomacy wasn't his skill, and he didn't plan to use it at all, not even a little, these parasites only deserving the meat chopper.
But now, his situation is compromised, he touched the true heads of the corruption, but also the one who are never touched for a reason.
The Duce stopped. Smiled faintly.
"You know me Mori, I don't like mercy."
Mori's voice was calm, without pride or hesitation:"I have not asked for any, Duce."
"Good."
Mussolini took the pile of documents in his hand, before throwing it in the trash can, before lighting up a cigarette, a little fire consuming the papers.
"They didn't show any mercy for Italy, ripping her apart and getting fat on her back and on the back of her people during years. And i am not the type to show the other cheek."
"What you did in Palermo was a nice warm up, a test of the water. But if we want to clean up the state from these leeches, we need to do more, and to do better."
"For now, as you probably now, you've only destroyed the superficial part, the little soldier. And you can't kill a hydra by just cutting her smaller heads, you need to take down each one, and the biggest ones in priority, then pierce its heart, and let the body consume itself as you burn it."
"a snake can lose its skin, its fangs and part of its body, and still live on. But not when it is its head"
"You are eager and very dedicated, i know. But you clearly lack a lot of tools and powers to do what you could do and reach your true potential and the ture goal, the eradication of the scum and the rejuvenescent of the south."
"Before you were restricted to the little course boys and unimportant members, now you can take everyone, cut the head Mori, and let it burn."
He took from its desk a new pile, cluttered with telegrams, military reports, and dossiers marked Riservatissimo. He picked up a thick folder and tossed it lightly onto the table between them.
Mori recognized it: reports from Naples, Calabria, Basilicata. Places where the Mafia and its little cousins, the Camorra and the 'Ndrangheta, ruled as shadow governments.
"You see," Mussolini said, tapping the folder, "Palerme... and Sicily as a whole, it was only the beginning."
"Yes, Sicily is the worst of all, but more like a dying person is the one who has the worse shape in a room full of people who have the cholera. The worst, but far from being the only one to be in bad"
"These parasites are a national disease. I intend to cut out every root. Every branch and its rotten fruits."
He leaned closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial growl "And I intend to use you to do it, at your full potential."
"You have been here, you had a grasp of the full situation in Sicily," Mussolini continued, standing now, hands clasped behind his back as he circled the desk. "The mafia, the lawlessness, the corruption festering under the thin skin of our governance. It is unacceptable."
"I know it," Mori said, his eyes unblinking. "I have seen it. Smelled it. Hunted it. And did what i could to put it down."
"Then you know that what we need is not a mere reorganization of police forces," Mussolini said, stopping in front of him. "Not a shuffling of officials and hoping for miracles, not a change of prefect nor the arrestation of a hand of little mafiosi. We need a purge. A fire. The iron broom to sweep the rot from our lands."
"For too many years the Mezzogiorno has been a torn in the side of Italia. A middle age society, closer to a feudal system land than anything remotely close to modern, a nobility without any check, an economic situation which would make Libya look good, a land where corruption is the norm and omerta is the law, a criminal haven, plagued shadow state with tentacle who reach everything everywhere. A land for mafiosi and corrupted officials and nobles. Not for a people to live and prosper."
"But not anymore, now we are here, i am in charge, you are in charge. And we will not let the glorious destiny and quality of live that the Italian people deserve be stolen by a hand of leeches and criminal."
"These men maybe thought i would be like every precedent government, every precedent regime, every precedent head of state. But i am not. Maybe they thought the same about you as the new prefect. Let's make sure they understand their tragic error."
"As a forest chokes when left untended, so too does a civilization rot when corruption is allowed to take root. Sometimes, fire is the only cure"
Mori's lips thinned into something that might have been the ghost of a smile. "You want to start a full and total war."
"I want peace," Mussolini said, voice cool and measured. "But peace built on strength. You maybe thought you had a lot of power when i first sent you, you have no idea, now you will have full authority. No bureaucratic chains, no paperwork. No political hands tying yours behind your back from the shadows. Any means necessary."
He said the last three words slowly, like laying down pieces on a chessboard. He watched for Mori's reaction.
The Prefect nodded once, solemnly. "I will do what must be done."
The duce answers stoically "And i will give you any tools and ways you could dream of to do this"
Mori gave a crisp nod, careful, reserved.
But Mussolini caught the hesitation. He always did.
"it is an honour to rec.."
"Save the act for ceremony and others, Mori." The duce cut without any civility
"I know you care as much about the eagle and its ideology as much as the toilet paper you use to clean your butt."
He leaned back against the edge of his desk, arms folded, speaking with the calm certainty of a man who no longer needed to shout.
"I know you're not a Fascist. You're loyal to the State, to the people, to order... and that's enough for me."
Mori said nothing. His silence was cautious.
All these recent years he had to shut it or play the game to achieve his dream of cleaning his homeland of corruption... but now it seems that the performance didn't really work, at least not on the capo del Governo. Not that he cares, strangely.
Mussolini continued, his tone almost conversational.
"You will have power you never could even think that existed. There is advantage in working for a totalitarian regime"
"My duce, i am sure tha..."
The words of Mori are cut by a gaze of the man in front of him, clearly reminding him silently, his act is not bought, and not appreciated.
"Yes, I installed a dictatorship"
The duce continues, shrugging, as if discussing the weather, taping two fingers on the polished wood of his desk, slow and deliberate.
"And you will use and benefit of that newfound that authority. Fully. No courts to slow you down. No mayors hiding behind lawyers. No bishops whispering in Rome."
He let that settle before adding, almost dryly:
"If teared down the old Italy, i can at least make sure that the South also is, and that its rot is not let untouched."
Mori's jaw tense slightly, a movement he can't not fully hide.
Mussolini noticed, but he doesn't show any reaction. Continuing, brisk and practical:
"You don't have to love the Party. You just have to do the work."
Mori finally spoke, voice low but firm:
"I will restore order, Duce."
"I expect results," Mussolini said, stepping closer, lowering his voice slightly. "Real results. Not in years... but in months. I want the people to believe again. I want the mafiosi to fear the State like they fear the bullet, like they fear the scythe of the angel of death, and the looming purgatory that anyone who step out of the line should expect. You understand?"
"I understand," Mori said. His voice bore no inflection...
Cesare's expression did not change. Only a slight tightening of the jaw betrayed the fierce energy gathering inside him. And the joy that begun to diffuse in his heart, now he could do more that he even dreamed of.
"You will not be Prefect of Palermo, not anymore..." Mussolini continued."You will be National Commissioner for Internal Order."
Cesare repeated the words, whispering, gazing in the new power and mission he just received.
"You will operate above and against any provincial authority. You will have quasi-military powers, not, military power, the south will be in closest thing to amartial law as long as it need to be, as long as you think it need to be. Arrest, confiscate, exile, kill if necessary. You will have access to the Blackshirts, the Carabinieri, the OVRA, anything deemed necessary to achieve our mission. You will answer only to me, not to the local's clerks, general, nobles or pathetic politicians."
The Duce's voice sharpened:"Only to me."
Mori inclined his head once. "As you command."
The Duce moved behind the desk again, opened a drawer, and slid a packet across the polished surface.
"Your tools," he said.
"You have done well in Palermo," he said. "But that work is far from finished. It's time to take a new step. A larger one."
Mori stiffened, and his mind began to race. Sicily had been his domain, a proving ground for his unrelenting methods. Now it was time to release the beast on all of the south, with no balance, limitation, and no power check to restrain him from hitting the bosses
Without waiting for a response, Mussolini continued.
"I've given you the task of restoring order in all of Mezzogiorno. A national mission."
"You'll be working with others, Mori. Not just the men in Sicily. There are… others here, that I've recently called in Rome who will be your allies."
The Duce leaned toward his desk, taking two other pieces of paper. An administratif paperwork treating about the creation of a new state institution, and the picture of a man in high military uniform.
"You'll be working with General Armando Diaz... he is well skilled, dedicated to every task he is given and also not the political person... and he absolutely despise anything even remotely close to corruption."
"And he has the benefit of being more skilled in diplomacy, money tracking and administratif work than you. You will handle the more... gruesome part."
Our dear general has accepted his new mission, even if it differs from his usual military work, although we are in a war, a total war of extermination, just a more subtle one... i named him the head of a new governmental institution, specially created to handle this mission "l'Ispettorato dell'integrità" (the Integrity Inspectorate).
"He will purge the ministries, the courts, the provincial governments, the little bureaucrat. The white mafia as they call it. The one who work for them in the some administratif way. The one who always carry the pen while the families carry the knives and guns. The one who let the black mafia prosper, their protector and dog. The one who has impeached you to really meaningfully and concretely impact the existence of these mafiosi families."
"You will track and hunt these people. Diaz Will hunt their money and their allied in the institution, whether it is the one who wear clerk's clothes, a judge's outfit, a blackshirt uniform, a mayor hat, a noble's tuxedos or a priest's cassock."
"You will break the Mafia's guns. Diaz will break their pens."
"To summarize, he'll handle the political side of things, the finances, the corruption in the bureaucracy. You, Mori, will handle the more brutal side of this mission...the enforcement."
Mussolini tapped the final page of the packet with a sharp finger.
"Don't be soft, although i don't think i need to tell you that. Cut as many head of the beast you need to finish the job, and be even more brutal to these high society traitors. The judges, mayors, landowners, clerics, and bankers who shelter these criminals in the light of day. Audit the land grants. Tear apart the notarial networks. And when you and him will find the filth, cleanse it... without pity."
Mussolini smiled, a thin, dangerous smile.
"Between you and Diaz, there will be no safe harbour. No haven in the church, the town hall, or the bank. The vermin will be crushed between hammer and anvil."
"And my metaphor about the forest wasn't only metaphorical. Scorch earth on these assholes. Lay siege on entire towns. Make them suffer and hunger them until they lay down their weapons and give themselves."
"If a law restrains you, ignore it. If you need a new one, we will create it."
"Use the flame-thrower if you must, burn half of Sicily and the south if you need to... but the Mafia must be eradicated."
"I've read that in some of the rapport, that the people of Palerme have begun to call you the iron prefect. Show the leeches why you earned that title. Let the fasces, the axe of justice fall on them, make them taste steel."
For a moment, the two men... the Duce of Italy and Cesare, the now "Iron Prefect"... stared at each other in the heavy silence.
Neither blinked.
Neither doubted.
At last, Mussolini smiled faintly and sat down heavily in his chair.
"The politicians will grumble. The Church will whisper. The Americans will protest. Let them. You will give Italy the steel backbone it needs."
"Oh, and about that... I've heard you already dealt with some officials. Some of them appearing to wear the fasces... other the church ropes."
"You are still authorised to do that... But in the case of member of the party or members of the church. You will not have public trials or prosecutions. I want you to deal with them... discretely. The party is still asserting slowly is power, i will not let some black sheep torn apart its image and destroy our work"
"As for the church... let's say it is neither a body i want to make myself an enemy of. Nor a thing i would like to do even if this wouldn't have consequence. They are still a powerful institution, i am currently discussing with the seat of Peter... about different sort of things... and this kind of action would undermine the tedious diplomatic work which is to repair the italian-catholic church relationship."
"Besides... they are still the moral compas for Italian value, it would be bad to damage that."
"So... don't make a show and be discrete with that... Make them disappear in the night. Arrest them under the false pretext of them being transferred elsewhere. Whatever, i don't want to hear about this from any newspaper or official."
"And if a priest is involved, especially a high one... Tell me. The Vatican has also its own special ways of dealing with bad shepherds."
Mori nod at this... it is annoying. But he understands. Besides, it is already way more he could even envy for him.
Mussolini then gaze on him for a long moment, before moving, readjusting himself on his chair, before pulling open a drawer. He slid a thick folder across the surface toward Mori. Inside, names. Networks. Locations. Partial intelligence collected from half-trusted informants and frightened bureaucrats. And the OVRA, of course.
"It is not complete," Mussolini said. "But it will give you a start."
Mori opened the folder, leafed through a few pages. His face remained unreadable, except for the slight tightening around his jaw.
"You will be supported," Mussolini added. "Special forces will be made available if needed. Judges will be instructed not to interfere with your methods. If you require trials, we will give you trials. If you require silence... you will have it."
He did not have to say the other thing. Mori knew it already.
Whatever you do... succeed.
Make them bleed and cry in their beds at night in terror.
"You will have my loyalty," Mori said simply, closing the folder.
Mussolini inclined his head in approval. "I don't need it, as i know you are dedicated for this mission, whatever is the one who could give it to you... but i guess it is better."
"Now go... Prefetto Mori... Prefetto di ferro. Go and make Italy clean again."
"Make the State feared again."
Mori saluted this time, a curt, precise gesture, and for maybe the first time, he thinks he has taken some real pleasure to do that salute. Maybe this new regime and this new ideology is different.
At least surely... this man seems to be.
Cesare then turned and walked out with the same heavy, deliberate stride he had entered with, the door closed behind him like a vault, swallowing him into the burning noon of Rome
As the echoes of his departure faded, Mussolini remained seated at his desk, eyes resting on the place where Mori had stood.
"Let's see," he murmured under his breath, "if iron is enough to reshape rotten wood."
Outside, the bells tolled again. Time ticking, history stirring.
He leaned back, fingers steepled.
Outside, the sky over Rome was darkening. But for Cesare Mori, a new sun was rising... a ruthless, pitiless sun that would burn corruption from the hills and cities of the south, or burn them down with it.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________
Author note
Guys.
I recently watch this novel on the app... and i watched the proposed books that webnovel considered would probably like if i read this one...
And the book this app has considered the closest to mine was
"Perverse Desires - Boruto x Sakura +18"
A r18 sexual fanfiction about a story where the son of Naruto fucks his best friend's mom (who is also his dad's best friend)
The fuck ?