Chapter sevenJune 1945
Fiume
A large, iron fist slammed into Ettore’s jaw. It was not the first, nor, he thought, would it be the last.
‘Your name?’ the interrogator asked, his voice dripping with boredom. The man could only speak basic Italian, but he didn’t need much more for the crude communications being drawn out in this small, windowless room.
Ettore tasted blood and tried to spit it out, only to find his jaw would not cooperate. It must be broken, he thought. The pain in the left side of his jaw and lower right ribs was excruciating. Blood trickled out of his mouth and dripped on the stone floor. His insolent silence was punctured by another blow to the stomach. Chained to a chair, he could not even buckle over. His bonds dug across his bare chest, deepening wounds that had alre
