“How do they survive?” Nico asks.

“They’ve got freakishly good adaptive skills. They don’t need light. And they can function at a fraction of the oxygen level other mammals do. They get most of their food from eating the roots of vegetables while still in the dirt. And they have this awesome social structure where each nest has one queen rat who calls all the shots. How great a gig would that be? She doesn’t even have to see how ugly all the males are that she mates with. Kind of like Tinder for the blind.” Justine laughs. “And while most mice or rats live one to four years, even in captivity, naked mole rats can live up to thirty.”

Nico holds up a palm. “But surely, Justine, these creatures evolved over millions of years, not a few hundred?”

“My point is, McDreamy, this is what rats do. Adapt. They have this uncanny ability to maintain a steady-state population, even through cannibalism and infertility when need be. So, if you’re asking me whether a colony of rats who were living in a protected underground enclosure could survive hundreds of years down there? Then I’d say: hell, yeah!”

Alana hops up from the table. “Thanks, Justine.”

“Where are you off to now?” Justine grins. “Not another date?”

“Sort of.” Alana grins. “With a monk.”

Nico follows her out of the café and hails a cab for them. Alana shows the driver the address in the Sestri Ponente District on her cell phone.

“You are convinced?” Nico asks her.

“Of what?”

“That our outbreak comes from these rats the monks buried back centuries ago?”

“Not convinced, no, but leaning that way.”

“It does not explain Naples,” he points out.

“True. It doesn’t even explain Parco Serra Gropallo or much of the rest of the spread through Genoa. That required human intervention.” She bites her lip. “So it seems to me the next step is figuring out who else knew about the crypt and these rats.”

“Aside from Brother Silvio?”

“Yes.” Although at this point she’s not willing to discount anyone or anything.

After a quiet few moments, Nico reaches out and lays a hand on her forearm. “I meant what I said last night, Alana.”

“Which part?”

“All of it,” he says, his stare painfully intense.

There was a time when those same words might have melted her, but now they only evoke a pang of melancholy—the happy memory of a time that can never be recaptured. “Nico, what we had was incredibly special. But us? Now? That’s impossible.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Your home is here. If not with your wife, then, of course, still with your kids. Mine?” She shakes her head. “Mine is elsewhere.”

Nico releases her arm and flashes her a smile tinged with wounded bravado. “I suppose it’s for the best.” He lets go of her wrist. “I wouldn’t survive a week in Brussels, anyway. It’s so boring, it makes Genoa seem like Las Vegas.”

The cab drops them off at Brother Silvio’s building. They mount the steps to his apartment. The black-robed monk answers the door with as welcoming a smile as ever. Alana introduces Nico, and Silvio ushers them into his apartment. He again clears the papers from the chairs and insists that his guests take a seat, but he remains on his feet. “How can I be of assistance?”