Chapter 727: Proton

"Prime Minister, these plans are very bold."

Boseley nodded.

"It must be bold. Small skirmishes won't earn Germany's trust."

Xingdengbao was silent for a few seconds.

"But do you know what that means?"

Boseley nodded.

"I know. It means Italy will completely break with Britain and France. There's no way back."

"Your twenty divisions will face elite French troops on the French battlefield. They may suffer heavy losses, possibly be annihilated."

"I know."

"Your navy will confront the Royal Navy's Mediterranean fleet. They may not be able to leave port, and may never return."

"I know."

Xingdengbao looked at him, a flash of complex light passing through his eyes.

"Prime Minister, you are gambling."

Boseley smiled. That kind of smile reminded Xingdengbao of the soldiers in the Verdun trenches—smiles knowing they would die yet still charging forward.

"Marshal, I am indeed gambling. Gambling that Germany can win. Gambling that Lanfang will come. Gambling that Italy can get a share after the war."

He paused.

"If we don't gamble, Italy can only wait for death. If Britain and France win, they won't be grateful to us. If Germany wins, they will treat us as traitors. Every choice is a loss. Only by gambling is there a chance to win."

Xingdengbao fell silent.

The fire in the fireplace burned brighter, and the crackling of the wood was especially clear in the quiet living room.

After a long while, Xingdengbao spoke.

"Prime Minister, I see your sincerity. But it is not enough."

Boseley was startled for a moment.

"Marshal, what else do you want?"

Xingdengbao stood up and walked to the window. Outside, snow was still falling, the world a desolate expanse.

"We need a hostage."

Boseley's complexion changed.

"A hostage?"

Xingdengbao turned and looked at him.

"Yes. A hostage. One that will keep Italy from daring to betray."

Boseley's hand was trembling.

"Who?"

Xingdengbao's voice was calm, but each word cut like a knife.

"Italy's Crown Prince, His Highness Wengbeito."

The living room was dead silent.

Boseley sat there, motionless. In that instant his face lost all color, turning as white as the snow outside.

Hofmann watched him, a complex feeling welling up—pity, or something else? He didn't know.

Xingdengbao stood there, waiting for his answer.

After a long while, Boseley spoke. His voice was hoarse, unrecognizable as his own.

"Marshal, do you know what you are saying?"

Xingdengbao nodded.

"I know. The Crown Prince is a hostage. As long as he is in Berlin, Italy will not dare to betray."

Boseley sprang to his feet.

"He is Italy's future king! He is Italy's symbol! Sending him to Berlin—will the Parliament agree? Will the King agree? Will the Italian people agree?"

Xingdengbao looked at him, his gaze calm.

"Prime Minister, you just said that this Italian betrayal would be a betrayal of Britain and France. But what if you betray Germany again?"

Boseley opened his mouth, unable to speak.

Xingdengbao continued: "You showed me the plan, gave me promises, gave me the relocation scheme for twenty divisions. But these are only pieces of paper. Paper can be torn at any time."

He walked back to the sofa and sat down.

"I need something that can truly make me believe. Something that can convince Germany that Italy is sincere this time."

Boseley stood there, trembling all over.

He recalled Wengbeito's appearance. The twenty‑year‑old young man, tall and thin, with a shy smile that made his face flush when he spoke. He was the sole son of King Vittorio Emanuele III, the hope of the Italian royal family, the future in the hearts of countless Italians.

Sending him to Berlin—

That is the hostage.

That is handing the knife to the Germans, letting them place it on Italy's throat.

"Marshal," his voice trembled, "do you know how difficult this is?"

Xingdengbao nodded.

"I know. But this is the only guarantee I can accept."

He stood up and walked to Boseley's side.

"Prime Minister, you just said you are gambling. Since it is a gamble, there must be a stake. Your twenty divisions, your navy, your political statements—these are stakes. But they are not enough. The real stake should be your most precious thing."

He stared directly into Boseley's eyes.

"His Highness Weng Beito, you are the most precious thing."

Bose Li closed his eyes.

He recalled the king's words before departure: "Bose Li, no matter the price, we must make the Deguo people believe us. Italy has no way back now."

No matter the price.

He opened his eyes and looked at Xingdengbao.

"I need to consult the king."

Xingdengbao nodded.

"Very well. But I must tell you—Deguo has little patience. I need an answer before December 25th."

Bose Li nodded, turned, and walked toward the doorway.

After a few steps, he suddenly stopped and looked back at Xingdengbao.

"Marshal, if the king agrees, when will His Highness Weng Beito set out?"

Xingdengbao thought for a moment.

"January 1st. Together with your army."

Bose Li was silent for three seconds.

Then he pushed the door open and walked out.

When Bose Li left the villa, the snow fell even heavier.

Snowflakes drifted down from the sky, landing on his head, his shoulders, and the thick leather coat he wore. He stood there, head tilted upward, staring at the gray‑hazy sky, motionless.

His deputy, Jiasipalei, scrambled out of the car, raised a black umbrella, and ran to his side.

"Prime Minister, get in the car. The snow is too heavy."

Bose Li did not move.

He stood there, letting snowflakes fall on his face, into his eyes, turning into icy tears that streamed down.

Jiasipalei looked at his expression and was startled.

"Prime Minister, the talks went badly?"

Bose Li shook his head.

"The talks went well."

Jiasipalei was stunned.

"Went well? Then why did you—"

Bose Li looked at him and gave a wry smile.

"Jiasipalei, do you know what the Deguo want?"

Jiasipalei shook his head.

Bose Li's voice was soft, broken by the wind and snow.

"They want His Highness Weng Beito. As a hostage."

Jiasipalei's face turned white in an instant.

"What? The crown prince? This—"

Bose Li waved his hand, cutting him off.

"Get in the car. Return to Rome."

He turned toward the car. After a few steps, he suddenly stopped, glanced back at the villa shrouded in wind and snow.

At a second‑floor window, a vague figure stood there, looking this way.

Xingdengbao.

Bose Li stared at him for a long time.

Then he turned, got into the car, the door closed, the engine started, and the vehicle slowly left the white‑blanketed world.

Inside the car it was quiet, only the engine's roar and the wheels' creaking as they crushed the snow.