LITMIR.BIZ

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air. Forest fire? Building fire? He stopped the motorcycle, holding it upright with one foot on the ground. Every muscle tightened. He couldn’t move. He felt paralyzed. Where were the village’s firefighters? Why wasn’t someone responding? Had the alarm even been sounded?

      Seconds sped by.

      Instinct kicked in. He slowly started moving, lifting his foot from the ground as the bike picked up speed.

      He spotted a flicker of light where only darkness should be. He opened the throttle and raced toward the spot. In a moment, he recognized where he was—near the Bertatalis’ row of cottages beside the lake. The flickering light came from the last one—the one Mariella and the baby were in!

      He gunned the motor and leaned on the horn. In only a moment, lights went on in the Bertatalis’ main house. He didn’t stop, hoping they’d see the fire and respond. Seconds counted. Smoke inhalation could be fatal long before the actual flames touched anyone. Stopping near the cottage, he threw down the bike and raced to the door. He could see the fire through the living-room window almost consuming the entire area. The roof was already burning with flames escaping into the night. It would be fatal to enter that room.

      Running to the back, he tried to figure out which window was the bedroom. Pounding on the glass, he heard no response. He hit his fist against the glass, but nothing happened. Quickly looked for anything to help; there—a large branch of a tree had fallen. Praying the baby was not sleeping beneath the window, he swung it like a bat, shattering the glass.

      Smoke poured out. He could see the flames eagerly devouring the living room through the open bedroom door.

      “Mariella,” he shouted, levering himself up on the sill, brushing away glass shards, feeling the slight prick of a cut. He coughed in the smoky air.

      “Huh?”

      The sleepy voice responded. He jumped into the room and quickly assessed the situation. The door was open, the flames visible through the roiling smoke. Time was of the essence.

      “Get up,” he yelled, slamming shut the bedroom door, hoping it would hold the flames until he could get them out of the room. Where was Dante? He searched for the baby by touch in the smoke-filled room. There, near the wall, a cry sounded. He snatched up Dante and looked for Mariella. She was not responding. Had she already been overcome by smoke?

      Stepping quickly as the crackling sounded louder, he found her still in bed and dragged her up.

      “The cottage is on fire,” he said as calmly as he could, trying to get through to her. He heard the sirens. Finally. Fear closed his throat as he looked overhead. An explosion paralyzed him. Was the tunnel caving in? Were there more bombs? Why wasn’t his breathing mask working? He coughed in the smoke and moved toward the opening, pulling her with him. Echoes of men and women’s screams sounded. The baby began screaming. Where was the little boy? Where was Stephano? Who could have done such a thing? How long did they have until everyone was safe?

      “Cristiano?” Mariella’s voice broke through. She coughed as she stumbled beside him. “What happened?”

      “Don’t know. Get out.” They had reached the window and he scooped her up until she had her feet out the window, then pushed her gently until she jumped free. One leg over the sill, Dante in his arms, he didn’t hesitate. A bright show of sparks and fire exploded as part of the front roof collapsed. Jumping free, he grabbed her arm and pulled her away from the cottage, the baby wailing in his arms. Past and present merged. Cristiano didn’t stop running until he recognized the lake. Mariella kept up with him, coughing in the cold air.

      The village volunteer firefighters were on their way. The sirens pierced the dawn air. Cristiano fought to keep his mind focused on the present, to be by the lake, to ignore the clamoring of his mind to relive the terror of a day in May.

      In only moments the fire engine stopped, men scrambling to positions. Leaning against a tree, Cristiano stared at the fire, his throat tight. Tonight had not ended in tragedy.

      “All my things,” Mariella said, watching as the bedroom seemed to blossom with fire. “My laptop, my clothes. Dante’s clothes. How could this happen?” She had tears running down her face. A moment later she was coughing again, shivering in the dawn light.

      He pulled her closer, his arm around her shoulder, the baby screaming in his arms. “They are only things. You and the baby are safe, that’s what’s important.” He offered up a quick prayer that he’d been able to save them. He’d faced his worst fear and come through.

      Stephano and so many others hadn’t been as lucky.

      He watched the fire devour the cottage. In only moments it was completely engulfed in flames. He could feel the heat from where they stood.

      She shivered again and he looked at her. The fire gave plenty of illumination. Shrugging out of his jacket, he wrapped it around her and handed her the crying baby. Her feet were still bare and must be freezing in the cold. Without a word, he picked them both up and headed toward the Bertatalis’ main house. His ankle felt stiff, but it held. With grim satisfaction for the healing his body had done, he stepped carefully on the uneven ground, swinging wide around the burning cottage.

      She coughed and tried to comfort the crying baby.

      Signora Bertatali stood on the porch of her home, tears running down her cheek. When she saw Cristiano carrying Mariella and the baby, she hurried over.

      “Thank God they are safe. Cristiano, thank you. Let me take the baby,” she said, reaching out for Dante. “What happened?”

      “I don’t know,” he said. “I saw the fire from the road and came to get them.”

      Mariella flung one arm around his neck. “I was asleep. Cristiano woke me up. How could the fire start?” She coughed again so hard, he almost dropped her.

      “Try to take a deep slow breath. You’re suffering from smoke inhalation.”

      “I don’t know how this could happen. Oh, my dear, when I realized it was our cottage I feared the worst. Paolo has gone to help the firefighters. We’ll know more after they tell us. Come, inside where it’s warm. Did you leave the stove on or something?” Signora Bertatali asked, leading the way to her home. The warmth after the cold dawn felt wonderful. The baby stopped crying when in the light, blinking around, still looking as if he’d begin again in an instant.

      “No. I turned it off after dinner,” Mariella said.

      “Oh, your poor feet. They’re cut. Let me get some cloths and towels and take care of that,” Signora Bertatali exclaimed, hurrying into the back bathroom, still jiggling the baby, trying to comfort him.

      “I had to break a window to get into the bedroom. The living room was engulfed with flames when I arrived,” Cristiano said, lowering Mariella down on a chair and kneeling in front of her to examine her feet as she began coughing again. She drew his jacket closer. A deep cut with a glass shard still in her left foot was bleeding; there were minor cuts on her right foot that had already stopped.

      “This looks as if it needs stitches,” he said, taking one of the towels Signora Bertatali brought and, after pulling the glass out, wrapped her foot.

      The next while was chaotic. More volunteers arrived. Then the ambulance from Monta Correnti. Mariella and Dante were loaded up and taken to hospital while Cristiano stayed behind.

      “I’ll come to the hospital soon,” he said as they drove away.

      Now that the situation was under control, he watched from a distance until the fire was out. The adrenalin was wearing off. He could hear Stephano calling him. Feel the darkness closing in even as the sun broke on the horizon.

      Retrieving his motorcycle, he roared off once more—trying to outrace the past.

       Chapter Three

      MARIELLA braced herself against another bump as

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