The first thing I notice when I walk outside the building is that I can finally breathe freely, that the smoke is not chocking me anymore.
A bunch of people on the sidewalk is looking in awe at the burning apartment on the third floor and I swallow hard.
I drag Mrs. Bono and Cassandra towards the parked cars on the street. My wife is speechless, completely shocked.
Somebody puts a blanket over Mrs. Bono’s shoulders and I cup Cassandra’s face with my hands.

“Devo tornare dentro” [“I have to go back inside”], I say, looking at her straight in the eyes.

She shakes her head weekly.

“No. Non devi. Chiama la Polizia” [“No. You don’t have to. Call the Police”].

“Lo farò ma devo comunque tornare dentro, qualcuno potrebbe avere bisogno d’aiuto” [“I will but I need to go back inside anyway. Somebody may need help”], I reply, flipping my cell phone open and dialing 113.

“Dante… è pericoloso, resta qui, ti prego” [“Dante… it’s dangerous, please stay here”], she replies with pleading eyes and I shake my head no.

“Non posso” [“I can’t”], I say quietly, staring at her.

She stares back at me and whatever she was about to say, is dying on her lips. Eventually, she just nods her head, closing her eyes as a single tear rolls down her cheek.

“Aspettami qui. Tornerò subito. Tu aspettami qui, non ti muovere. Okay?” [“Just wait for me. I’ll be right back. You just wait for me here, don’t move. Okay?”], I frantically whisper into her ear, brushing her back.

She nods her head again, swallowing hard, and lets me go.
I go back into the building again, covering my mouth with the collar of my shirt.
I climb up the stairs two steps at time, trying hard to make it fast, trying hard to recollect all the rights things to do when there’s fire and smoke and panic.
Rossi’s apartment is completely disintegrated, and as soon as I walk into the hall the unmistakable smell of blood and burned flesh hits me like a hammer blow.

Mr. Rossi, or better, what remains of him, lays on his stomach on the carpet in the living room. His right arm is missing, his head is covered with blood.
I kneel down beside him, wincing, touching his neck, checking his pulse.
No pulse.
He’s definitely dead.
A flashback of him appears before my eyes – around fifty, accountant, he worked just a couple of blocks from here. He was nice and shy. I didn’t know him very well but I know he had a wife.
So I get up and start looking for her.
I find her in the bedroom, partially lying under an old-fashioned wood dresser.
She’s staring at the ceiling, her breath is shaky and uneven. Her chin is covered in blood. Her right hand brushes absent-mindedly her stomach. Her right foot looks almost carbonized.
I kneel down beside her and her dark eyes dart briefly in my direction. But she can’t see me.