Eventually Nico pulls the car over to the curb near an intersection. Alana checks her watch and realizes they’re a few minutes early. She scans the narrow street. An elderly woman sweeps the sidewalk in front of a café. Four screaming boys chase a soccer ball down the street. Two young black women in headscarves push strollers past. But she sees no sign of anyone who could be Emilio.

“Over there,” Nico says. Alana follows his gaze, but she has to squint to see the figure.

Someone is standing back in the shadow between two buildings, beckoning them with a hand held close to his chest. As they approach, he retreats from view.

They find Emilio wedged in the doorway of a building with his back against the entry. Dishes clatter somewhere behind him. The faint stench of garbage wafts over them. Emilio shuffles from foot to foot, his eyes constantly scouring the street. Alana wonders if he might be high.

Emilio motions at Nico with his chin but keeps his eyes on Alana. “Who is the man?” he asks in a thick Italian accent.

“Dr. Oliva. A doctor, like me. He is a specialist at Ospedale San Martino. Vittoria was one of his patients.”

Nico speaks to Emilio in a rapid-fire exchange that leaves Alana in the dark. “Please,” she finally interrupts. “English.”

“Sorry,” Nico says. “Emilio says there was something strange about the construction site. Like it was . . .” He turns to Emilio and says, “Maledetto,” and the boy nods vigorously. “Cursed. Apparently the old monk—the one we saw being escorted away from the site—he warned Emilio. Something about tampering with sacred grounds.”

“Sì, sì!” Emilio wipes his sweaty forehead. “Bad, very bad. As soon as he got sick! Brother Silvio speak true. Terribili segreti.”

“Terrible secrets,” Nico translates.

“And then he disappear!” Emilio cries. “Andato!”

“He?” Alana says. “Vittoria didn’t disappear, Emilio. She is dead.”

“Vittoria?” Emilio grimaces. “No, no. No. Not Vittoria. Yas!”

Alana glances at Nico who shakes his head, as bewildered as she is. “Who is Yas?” she asks.

“My friend, Yas,” Emilio says as if she should already know. “Yasin Ahmed. He works like me. At San Giovanni. Yas got sick before Vittoria!”

Chapter

Seventeen

Today is the seventh day of February. Three days have passed since my audience with the Archbishop, and his soldiers have yet to return for me. I expect them still. The Archbishop all but accused me of sorcery. In these turbulent times, there is hardly a more serious charge.

I returned to the market this morning in search of food and supplies. A quiet had fallen over it that was somehow more discomforting than the raucous hubbub of my previous visit. There were few vendors or shoppers and besides, little was available to purchase. The stalls were as barren as they had been after the last great drought.

On my way home, I passed the row houses that had been the target of such scrutiny. The doors and windows were still boarded shut. Not a single sound emanated from inside. But the terrible fetor seeping through the cracks told me all I needed to know about the fate of the residents.