As for his marriage—or the end of it—Chiara had been right to demand he leave. Since he’d had his things at the villa sent for, he’d thrown himself into his work. But if he were in a position to change everything, there was only really one thing he would.
With this fragile knowledge in mind, Angelo stood and bade Walther farewell, then walked back up the river. He crossed the Talvera near the armoury and headed up the gentle slope to the yellow-facaded villa. Without thinking much more about it, he pressed the buzzer.
This time, Gina received him in the sitting room—the white modern furniture now revealed—and she waited, ankles crossed, in the white settee across from him, the sunlight distilled through the muslin curtains. She wore a black day dress, simple but effective. She was still in mourning, and if he had anything to do with it, that wouldn’t be the case much longer.
“Then let’s begin with what you know about being a politician, Angelo.” She reached over the silver tray to pour him a cup of coffee.
“Not a damned thing.”
Her laugh was short, surprised. “Well, honesty is not going to get you far, I can tell you that. Oh, maybe in the beginning. They’ll love you for it. And then they will crucify you.”
“I’m sitting here with you, Gina. If I can’t be honest with you, then we may as well not get started.”
She was focused on the cup, but inclined her head. She presented the coffee with both hands and a wicked grin to go along with it. “Careful. No spilling today.”
Angelo appreciated the quip. He sat back, resting the silver-plated cup and saucer in the palm of his left hand. A spray of yellow daffodils and white crocus fanned out on the mantel behind Gina’s head.
She eyed him, all the teasing melting away. “She filed for divorce?”
“She won’t get it. But not because I wouldn’t like to give it to her.”
“Yes. Well. The church is struggling to survive too. You do have to admit, Mussolini’s government has allowed Signora Grimani the choice to file at all. Isn’t that what your wife has always fought for? Equal rights and more freedom for women?”
“I’m still trying to figure you out,” Angelo said and leaned forward. “What side are you on?”
Her smile was tentative, sly. “I go where the wind blows and where I can best serve. Myself, of course.” She winked and fit the cup into its saucer and cradled it in her hands.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Then I’ll keep you guessing. What about you then? You want a bid for the senate. For the Blackshirts?”
“I doubt they’ll have me.”
She chuckled. “There is no other party, Minister. We must decide what your strategy is. Can you speak their language? And do your positions speak to those who will decide whether to appoint you? I cannot make my recommendations about how to proceed if I don’t know what it is you care about and whether you can—how shall I say?—submerse the issues you truly care about beneath the black waters. What is it that you care about, Angelo?”
Angelo considered this, sipped his coffee, burned the roof of his mouth, and set the cup back down. He gazed at Gina. Her. He cared about her. That was it. And he could imagine what her answer would be—a retort, challenging him to explain what it was she cared about.
“I’m not sure how to go about all this,” he said.
She tossed her head, black curls settling behind her shoulders. “The vast majority of the politicians in the house know how to go after their seats, and that is as far as they get. I suppose if we reverse this, you couldn’t do much worse. But I need to know you are ready. Why now, Angelo?”
“I’m not in this for the title, if that’s what you think. I want to have the ear of the prime minister, of Mussolini. Persuade him to make changes.”
“Such as?” She leaned back, eyes narrowed, but her tone was leading. She thought she knew what he was going to say.
“Removing stupid benches, for one,” he muttered.
“What?” She was truly perplexed, and he laughed.
Then Angelo remembered something his father once said, and he turned serious. “Power wants to stay within itself. The only way we can shake things up is if we break it up and redistribute it. That’s what I want to do. Put my hat in with the Fascists, but I want to start sending a new message. You said I have to be able to speak their language. What if I developed a new code?”
Gina’s face transformed from confusion to admiration. She raised a finger and waved it as if to say he had a point. “All right.” She grinned. “You might just be ready. It’s at least an idea.”
“So what’s stopping me from going out there and just campaigning for an appointment?”
“You’re a terrible judge of people.”
He laughed, stunned. Truer words had probably never been spoken about him. “That’s why I need you. That’s why I’m here.”
She placed her coffee on the table between them, crossed her legs, and appraised him. “Yes. Perhaps. Let’s leave it at that for now. Who else do you
