“Darling,” said Margherita as she pulled the strap of her satin slip over her shoulder, “I trust that you will take care of me and my daughter, no matter what your wife says.”
He leered at her as he sat on the foot of the bed, pulling his knee-high black boots on.
“Of course, I will,” but the curl of his lips left her doubting his promise.
Benito Mussolini was dressing for combat, the kind of combat he knew best. Not the kind that involved guns and cannon, but the rhetorical one that pitted his wit and dynamism against other politicians who thought they could thwart his ambitions. He would be addressing another of the crowds that filled the squares to hear him speak, this time in the Piazza Barberini, and when he was done destroying his opponents with words, he would turn to his assista
