As they head toward a cluster of trailers, a diminutive man in a black robe approaches from the opposite direction. He is flanked on either side by two lanky security guards; the contrast in their relative statures is striking. Neither of the guards has a hand on the balding monk, but it’s obvious they are escorting him off the site. The monk smiles at Alana and Nico as they pass, and his bright eyes light with amusement, as if the three of them are in on the same inside joke.

Up close, the excavated pit is even more expansive than Alana had anticipated. It cuts deep into the hillside. Slabs of concrete foundation crisscross its base, interspersed with mounds of rubble, piles of lumber, and stacks of rebar. Men in yellow hard hats work in groups while bulldozers rumble back and forth. Saws hum and drills screech. The ground vibrates from the heavy machinery.

The door to one of the nearby trailers flies open and a young man steps out, haphazardly straightening his hard hat. He doesn’t make eye contact as he bustles past Alana, but his acne-riddled face is flushed and sweaty.

Two more men emerge from the trailer. One is dressed in construction gear, while the other wears a black suit. Trim, with silver hair, the older man possesses an air of easy authority. As soon he spots Nico, he bounds over with open arms and greets him with a hug and a kiss to both cheeks. Amid much laughter, they chat in rapid-fire Italian while the younger man stands off to the side.

Finally, Nico turns to Alana and extends his hand. “Marcello, please, Dr. Alana Vaughn.”

Zanetti clasps her hand in both of his. “It is a pleasure, Dr. Vaughn.” His accent is thicker than Nico’s. “Nico tells me good things. Such good things.”

Although she’s pleased to hear Nico has been discussing her with his wife’s uncle, she also feels irrationally annoyed, as if he’d disclosed an actual secret between them. “Thank you, Mr. Zanetti.”

He squeezes her hand once more before letting go. “Marcello. I insist. Only Marcello for someone of your reputation and your presence, my dear.”

“Alana.” She smiles, appreciating his Old World charm but wondering how many times the same line has passed his lips.

“Marcello, we were hoping you might tell us about Vittoria Fornero,” Nico prompts.

Zanetti’s face saddens. “I knew Vittoria for years. Her father, Bruno, was one of my original foremen. He used to bring her to the sites when she was just a girl. She apprenticed under him. As good as Bruno was, Vittoria was even better. The best. And it was never easy for her. Here in Italy, construction is still a man’s world.”

Alana nods sympathetically. “No one on the site had any inkling she was sick?”

Zanetti waves the suggestion away. “She never said a word. Not one. And she didn’t miss a moment of work until her . . . collapse.”

Alana still fails to understand how someone with active plague could slog through a day of construction work. “When was the last time you saw her?”