Chapter 1

A day in 2020
Friday morning

No more reheated coffee.
Something inside me starts to rise—an agitation with no name, climbing together with a dull, dirty ache lodged deep in the pit of my stomach. I go up and down the stairs without purpose, searching for a corner, a posture, a breath that might loosen the grip around my sternum. I step out onto the terrace. I’d like a cigarette, but it would be pointless.
Back to the kitchen. Nothing changes.
A thin slice of panic begins to open in me.

Vera intercepts me.
“What’s wrong?”
“Stomach pain. Strong. A constant weight in my chest—worse by the minute. I feel awful.”
Maybe it’s the esophagitis they found last week.
She studies me, shakes her head once, and calls one-one-two.
I object, or try to, but the pain steals my breath. Even my protest comes out thin, collapsing on itself.
“Give it a moment, it’ll pass,” I manage to whisper. I’m bent beside the bed as the pain spreads outward, climbing up toward my jaw.

Three paramedics move quickly around my bare chest. “Do we have a razor?”
Orange and yellow uniforms, masked faces.
It feels surreal to see one of them—a tall, dark-haired kid—standing on my mattress with his heavy boots.
My eyes fill.
“Stay with me, Riccardo,” one says. The voice is firm, but warm. “Riccarddo, answer me, please.”
A forest of cables, electrodes, adhesive pads grows across my skin. They wrap me in a silver and gold blanket. Carefully they carry the stretcher down the stairs. “Turn. Slow. Watch the step.”

It’s Friday. I had only just returned from two days of travel abroad.
Strange how fortune works—this heart attack choosing home rather than a highway.

Morphine softens the edges of the pain, but only a little. I’m lucid. Present. My hands shake—from the cold, from fear.
The ambulance siren tears open the morning as the nurse relays my condition to cardiology. They’re waiting for me.
My phone slips from my hand. In pandemic times, it’s the only bridge to my family.
“Don’t worry, we’ll put it right here,” she says. But I think of Walter, and the messages I sent him that never received an answer.

Red code.
In the ER they bypass admission entirely. A young doctor examines me instantly, performs a quick ultrasound.
“On your side, please.”
The ECG is unclear.
“I’m sending you straight to angiography.”

They lift me onto the machine’s table—effortless, practiced, almost cinematic. Both arms are ready.
The doctor explains: “We’ll see if we can enter from the wrist or the groin. Stay still.”
Despite everything, curiosity pulls me toward the screen. I can’t look away.

A large monitor displays my coronary arteries. My right arm is immobilized.
I don’t feel the probe entering, but I watch the coil unspool it deeper into the artery. Local anesthesia muffles everything except the awareness of what is happening inside me—of a wire threading the core of my life.

The machine’s whir is cut short by voices in the adjoining monitor room. “Good. Keep pressure. Stop.”
They discuss the size and brand of the stent.
A sudden resurgence of pain forces a half-cry out of me.
“It will pass,” the doctor says. “We’re deforming now—eighteen atmospheres. We’re opening the artery, restoring a passage blocked at ninety-five percent. Hold still.”
Her tone leaves no space for fear. Yet a tear still escapes.

Two arteries need work, but today they’ll treat the left circumflex—the one that betrayed me.
There’s a third. They’ll see about that one.
The coil turns, muttering its metallic complaints.

The stock of balloon catheters is almost beautiful—bright packages, neatly arranged.
I catch myself counting them.
Inventory value has always been one of my obsessions. Even here, even now, the thought persists.

When I leave the room, the doctor from the monitor station meets my eyes.
“All good. We’ll operate again Wednesday—one more artery. The third should respond to medication.”

Recovery.
Exhaustion.
The bandage around my wrist is so tight it aches. Why the right arm, the one farthest from the heart? I’ll check later, I promise myself. The beige elastic compresses the entry hole, encouraging the clot. A needle sits above it, limiting every movement.

The shift is changing.
I thank everyone: eight blue scrubs from the first team who came to greet me—mostly nurses—and the new team entering to meet the latest arrival.
All these people… for me?
I’m not used to care—not like this.
It feels unreal, like a kindness addressed to someone else.

I cry openly. A young nurse dries my face. I wish I remembered her name.

Enough, Riccardo.
Enough hurting yourself. Enough hatred.
God, how could you dance on the edge of this Armageddon?
And what if this had been the end?

Only now do you understand how fiercely you cling to life.
You can walk away from everything and everyone—but not from the damage you inflicted on yourself.

In silence, in the ticking of the monitors, I let out a scream that never reaches the air.
I am wounded—truly wounded this time.
Wounded in the heart.