“Signori,” he begins, voice low, almost tender. “You are not citizens. You are not workers. You are combatants . The war didn’t end in ’18. It simply moved into our streets.”

That night, the squadristi force-feed the socialist mayor castor oil, strip him naked, and march him through the village. The peasants watch in silence. Then a child laughs. Then an old woman spits on the mayor’s back.

Mussolini’s train departs for Rome. In the darkness of the compartment, his reflection splits into two: the journalist, the soldier, the bully, the poet. He leans his forehead against the cold glass.

The crowd erupts. Not applause—howls. A man in a black fez stabs a table with a dagger. Another throws a bottle at a portrait of Karl Marx. Mussolini watches, impassive. Inside, he feels nothing. That is his secret.