June 2023. I’m in a piazza with my girlfriend in a small Tuscan village, sweating and sipping Campari. The light is golden, the prosciutto and olives perfect. I marvel at the old clock tower and a statue of Garibaldi pointing to a blue sky. My pocket buzzes: a text from a neighbour asking if I am okay. Police are outside my Berlin apartment, with the door badly damaged and kicked in.
I call the subletter, Misha, immediately. “What the hell is going on?”
