Balancing his phone between his ear and shoulder, he yanked at the buttons of his shirt.
‘Calling all units. Suspected arsonist. Green Vespa, registration beginning XJ68 just left the Moretti factory on Via Santa Maria, probably heading east, towards theautostrada.’
Shoving his phone back into his trouser pocket, he tore off his shirt, held it under the outdoor tap, tied it around his mouth and nose and entered the smoke-filled building, calling out as he went.
Flames danced along the beams above him, their fierce glare stinging his eyes, burning his nose.
The shelf unit, displaying jars of home-made strawberry jam and orange marmalade, crashed to the floor, sending Dario and his heart rate reeling.
Even if he could reach one of the fire extinguishers, the blaze was now so out of control, what difference would it make? A sensation of fear gripped his chest. A voice inside him was warning him to get the hell out of there before it was too late. He prayed that no one was trapped inside.
He about-turned, picking his way expeditiously through glowing embers, broken glass and falling debris.
Then, through the veil of smoke, came a loud, plaintive wail, followed by a shrill cry of distress.
He froze.
‘Can somebody help me? Please, please help me.’
‘Lucy! Lucy!’
Overwhelming relief rolled over her in waves. ‘Dario! Here!’ she squeaked, her voice wobbling pathetically. ‘Cellar. I… I can’t open the door.’
‘Hold on. I’m coming for you.’
Lucy sensed the foreboding in his voice. ‘Be careful…’
Her plea was drowned out by the loud rumble of falling debris and a long, deep, blood-curdling howl.
‘Dario! Are you okay? Dario?’
A few seconds passed, which seemed to Lucy like an eternity.
‘Stand back. I’m going to try and knock this door down.’
Lucy’s breath froze in her throat. His voice sounded different; jerky, slurred, like it was painful to speak.
The cellar door burst open, flooding the room with a great flaring of light and billowing smoke.
‘Hurry,’ Dario cried from the top of the stairs. ‘Hurry.’
As she took his hand her heart cried out in shock; his arm was red raw, where the skin had been ravaged.
Her gaze travelled up to his chest, his white T-shirt burnt and blackened with soot, his face, his handsome, chiselled face, spattered with blood, his usually expressive eyes distant, haunted, his thick, inky black hair ash. It took all her strength not to cry out in horror.
Dazed and in shock, they picked their way through the glowing embers, then scrambled and stumbled out of the building, retreating as far as they could before collapsing onto the gravel of the car park, coughing and retching.
Lucy looked over to Dario, broken and battered, eyes closed, moaning like a wounded animal. Heart-wrenching flashbacks of Jamie returning from war flooded her mind.
The sight of brave, strong, dependable men like Dario, like Jamie, suddenly brought to their knees, rendered weak, vulnerable, helpless and in torturous pain, was too much to bear.
The scream of distant sirens drew closer, slicing through the night air.
‘Dario, can you hear me?’ Her voice sounded muffled, like it didn’t belong to her. ‘You’re going to be okay. Help is on its way. Hang on. Please, please hang on.’
She wanted to hold him, to reassure him, but she felt detached from her body. Besides, she was scared, scared of making his pain worse.
If he suffers life-changing injuries or dies, I’ll never…
