"We know where Mussolini is!" Carlino shouted as he burst into Luciano's tent. "He's in Dongo, Lombardia. Umberto found him trying to run to Switzerland, and Walter's sure its him!"

Luciano's face darkened to a frightening degree at the news. "Tell Lazzaro and Audisio" Italy could sense Walter Audisio's killing intent from miles away, "to wait until I get there. By car, it'll take me less than an hour to get to Lombardia. They just have to hold off on executing the bastard for that long."

"So you can kill him?"

Luciano gave his brother a 'well, duh' look. It was only all he'd been talking about for the past two years.

Ignoring the look and on the verge of tears, Carlino continued, "If you kill him, you'll disappear."

It wasn't like Luciano hadn't thought about that. Even though he had all of the real Feliciano's memories, he was really only two years old. He'd spent his whole life fighting against Fascist Italy, against himself, and now, he didn't even get to enjoy the peace he and his brothers, and his friends, had helped to bring about.

But they were wasting time. "I'm sorry, Seborga" His brother's eyes widened, tears streaming down his cheeks because he knew that he'd never be able to change Luciano's mind. The former Fascist nation stared down at the only one who'd acknowledged him as an existence separate Feliciano since the beginning, and smiled, fondly stroking his brother's hair before he burst out of the tent, running to catch the fastest train to Lombardia.

That was the last time he saw his little brother.

Benito Mussolini has a stern face with a soft chin. Italy realized how incredibly docile the he'd become as he approached Walter Audisio, the man who'd confirmed the Duce's identity and watched him as they waited the personification of Fascist Italy to arrive. Of course, Walter didn't now that, but he did know the boy in casual, worn clothes was supposed to be a very important and influential member of the Italian resistance.

More disconcerting than the boy's young age, were his eyes. There was an unnatural red tint in his eyes that Walter had learned to associate with bloodlust in Italian men. It was a rare sight, but as the tan boy before him proved, it existed.

Next to the bound Mussolini was his mistress, Clara Petacci. Her cropped, curly hair, fashionable in Italy, wasn't enough to make up for the bags under her sunken eyes. There was a dead look about her, suggesting she may have known what awaited her. Maybe she hadn't known when she fell in love with Benito, the great and powerful Duce, but she must have then.

When Luciano asked for Walter's gun, he protested, saying that killing the Duce would make him famous and kids had no use for guns. He knew he'd lose eventually, but he wanted the glory killing the Duce would bring too badly for him to give up the right immediately. After all, it was him who'd confirmed the identity of Mussolini, not the boy.

"If you want, you can kill the mistress" Clara started at this, her eyes darting back and forth between the two men discussing her death, resembling in all honesty a rabbit caught in a trap. "And then tell everyone you killed Mussolini. No one will no you didn't except me, and I won't be telling anyone anything about this encounter."

"You offer me the woman" Audisio replied. "Do you think me a savage, that I would take pleasure in extinguishing the life of a woman?"

"Then I will do both, and you will take the credit." The expression on the boy's- No, man's face suggested that he was completely serious. It was impossible to keep thinking of him as a boy after hearing him speak of murder with such a flat, earnest tone.

Finally, painfully, Walter handed over his pistol.

As a mercy to the women, Luciano shot her first. Then, as enraged as a man could be, Benito Mussolini ripped open his shirt, yelling, "Shoot me in the chest!"

Italy obliged. Twice.

Once the deed was done, Walter collected the bodies, loading them into a nearby truck bound for Milan. This left Luciano to his own devices.

It was a strange feeling, being without a boss, without a purpose. Fascist Italy no longer existed now that Benito Mussolini was dead. His hands tingled. The feeling traveled up his arms and down his legs until his knees shook and he found that he could no longer carry his own wait. The Duce's blood stained the ground where he fell.

Seborga would probably be all right without him, he thought to himself, and his sorella would finally be better. He'd really wanted to see her one last time, but this was all right. Well, it wasn't all right. But it was enough.

The tingling traveled over his chest until he felt as light as air. He didn't think he was breathing anymore, but that had ceased to matter sometime ago.

His pants collapsed to the ground as his legs disappeared, followed by his shirt. There was nothing left of him but his thoughts as the tingling reached his face. He wanted to speak, to say something before he was completely gone, to leave something of him in this world behind, but it was too late.

The tingling reached the top of his head, and then, under the great expanse of a blue sky, he didn't feel anything anymore.

North Italy woke up in his old bedroom at Hungary's house, with tears in his eyes for a brother he couldn't remember. A hand reached up to touch the wet droplets on his cheeks, and even as he tried to wipe them away, for some reason, they just kept falling.

The End