Shane and I exchange a quick glance, obeying to his soft, gentle order.
We remain silent until he speaks.

“…This is not the way I wanted to be welcomed by two old friends…”, he starts with a shy smile.

Shane is silently biting the inside of his cheek.

“…As I told you, Carmen, something happened. Something is happening. I wanted you guys to stay out of it but it’s not possible. That’s why I am here”, Dante says quietly.

I point my finger at the box on the table.

“What’s that?”.

Dante’s green eyes lift to mine and they stay. And stay. And stay.

“That’s a time bomb”.

Shane lets go a silent moan of shocked surprise as my eyes widen.

Dante tilts his head, observing the parallelepiped attentively.

“It’s okay. I’ve defused it. It’s harmless now”.

“Wha… What… A bomb? Inside our house?”, Shane stutters.

“Not exactly. It had been placed in the back yard. Actually, it didn’t have a huge destructive potential, but it was dangerous anyway, of course”.

“What’s happened, Dante?”, I ask weakly, “What’s happened to your face? Why are you here? Why is there a defused bomb on my table?”.

Dante licks his lips and blinks, trying to gather his thoughts.

“There will be no secrets, this time. I want you to listen to what I have to say. I’m going to tell you what’s happening”.

Flashback – Three days before – Milan, Italy

When the bomb explodes I am talking with my wife about the dinner she’s cooking for us, and about the weird cravings of her pregnancy.
Strawberry flavored ice cream, chestnuts and something else.
There is a loud, loud noise and the glass of the window bursts in pieces in the kitchen.
I can feel a small fragment of glass cutting my cheekbone as, instinctively, I bend over Cassandra forcing her to kneel down on the floor.
When the noise fades and only a few car alarms start to howl in the silent evening, I find myself staring shocked at my wife.
Into her eyes, I can see an identical look of paralyzed consternation.

“Dante…”, she whispers.

“Andiamo” [“Let’s go”], I reply simply, grabbing her hand and dragging her outside the apartment.

In the staircase there is a lot of dense, black smoke and a general stampede.
Mr. and Mrs. Rossi’s door is uprooted and lays in pieces on the marble floor.
Inside their apartment, there are sky high flames crackling and crepitating.
I grit my teeth and hold Cass’ hand stronger, dragging her down the stairs.
On the first floor landing, Mrs. Bono is coughing, her left hand clasped on the banister, the right holding her stick strongly.
She’s a seventy-year old widow, very sweet, a great cook with a gentle smile and small hazel eyes. When I grab her hand, her pale skin feels cold and frail as a tissue paper.
“Signor Dante…” [“Mister Dante…”], she murmurs croakily, her small eyes darting in confusion and shock behind the thick lens of her glasses.
“Signora Bono, venga con me… Andrà tutto bene” [“Mrs. Bono… Come with me. Everything’s gonna by fine”], I reply as calmly as I can, helping her down the stairs.