Her legs tremble and another chill overcomes her. The ecstatic TV weatherwoman promised record temperatures for Genoa this morning. The bright April sun has already risen high over the rolling hills above the city, where the site is nestled, but Vittoria doesn’t seem to benefit from its warmth.

Maria warned her that she was too sick to work. Of course, Maria was like that, keeping their twins home at the first sniffle. Vittoria can’t help but smile to herself. Life hasn’t always been easy for two of them, living together in a city as traditional as Genoa, but Maria is still the best thing to have ever happened to her. And, as usual, Maria was right. Vittoria can’t remember ever feeling worse. Her breathing is inexplicably heavy. Each step is an effort. Her head is on fire. But it’s her armpit that bothers her most. The bluish lump under it has swollen to the size of a robin’s egg and throbs like a toothache. Even the light contact against her overalls is agonizing.

But Vittoria hasn’t missed a day’s work in twenty years. She’s certainly not about to take time off now, not when the crew is behind schedule and the boss is so worried over the financing. Her first order of business today is to permanently rid the site of this interloping monk before he scares other workers and puts them further behind. She should have had the security guards deal with him weeks ago, but now she will just have to do it herself. She squares her shoulders and marches toward Brother Silvio.

As she reaches close enough to inhale a whiff of his coffee, Vittoria has to pause to catch her breath. An invisible flame ignites her innards from toes to scalp. Her knees tremble so violently she half expects them to clatter.

The old monk tightens the cap on his thermos and leans forward in his chair. His eyes twinkle. “What is wrong, my dear?” he asks. “Can I be of assistance?”

“Yes! You can get the hell off my—” A sudden coughing fit silences her.

Vittoria feels phlegm climbing up her windpipe and shoots a hand to her mouth. For a moment or two, she can’t breathe at all. When the hacking finally subsides, she senses sticky warmth in her grip. Panic seizes her, even before she opens her palm and sees the wad of congealed blood.

Chapter

Two

The poor woman looks like death warmed over, Sonia Poletti thinks as she runs a gloved hand along the patient’s forearm in search of a vein. The skin is unnaturally cool to the touch, and the patient’s breathing is ragged despite the bulky mask that mists concentrated oxygen over her mouth and nose. Experience tells Sonia that the woman will soon wind up in the intensive care unit on a ventilator, but it’s not her place to comment.

Sonia assembles a rainbow array of color-topped test tubes on the stretcher beside the patient’s elbow. Once filled, each of them will be destined for a different analyzer, ranging from a highly sophisticated protein spectrometer to a plated slide under a pathologist’s microscope.