“Not for me, thanks,” Alana says. “We’re in a bit of hurry, Marcello.”

“Nico?” Zanetti asks.

He shakes his head.

“Nico, since when do you say no to a glass of Barolo—”

“This is not a social call.”

Unfazed, Zanetti sits down in the chair across from them. “They seldom are with you, these days.”

Nico eyes him with a sternness he hardly recognizes in his nephew-in-law. “What have you done, Marcello?”

“Done?” The hair on Zanetti’s neck bristles. “With what?”

“The construction site.”

“Not as much as I would like. This wild goose chase—searching the site and questioning my employees—has already cost me two days in delays. That is a fortune in my business.” Zanetti breathes slowly, swallowing his annoyance. “And for what?”

“You destroyed evidence, didn’t you?” Nico snaps.

Zanetti squints, as if genuinely confused by the accusation. “What are you saying, Nico?”

“The rats! You got rid of every last trace of them.”

“Chi vi ha detto—”

“English, Marcello, please!”

“Who told you this? The Chinese lady?”

“Justine is a world expert,” Alana says. “She claims the site has been tampered with to eliminate all trace of rodents.”

“Why would I do that?”

“To cover up the source of the plague,” Nico says.

Zanetti hops to his feet. “It was that worker Yasin Ahmed! It’s all over the news. He brought the plague to my site. Gave it to poor Vittoria. They say it’s terrorism!”

“Maybe, maybe not.” Nico rises to his feet, too. “Either way, someone cleared the site.”

“Not me!”

Nico raises his finger. “First you tell us no one else was sick at the site besides Vittoria, when clearly this missing worker already was—”

“I didn’t know about Yasin until later!”

“And then you refuse to cooperate with the WHO’s search of the site,” Nico continues. “By the time they get a court order—presto!—the rats are gone.”

Zanetti glares at Nico while his mind races as he considers his options.

Alana rests a hand on Nico’s arm and then turns to Zanetti. “Marcello, is it possible someone else could have done this without you knowing?”

Zanetti weighs his words carefully before speaking. “I do not believe my team would act without my permission.”

“Someone did, Marcello,” Nico says. “And I doubt it was without your permission.”

“E tu devi sempre saperne più degli altri . . .” Zanetti mutters.

“I wish I always knew better, Marcello,” Nico says icily. “Especially when it came to you and your family.”

“Nico, we better go,” Alana says. “Sergio’s waiting.”

Nico and Alana turn for the door without another word. Zanetti stands motionless as he watches them leave.

What exactly do you know? he thinks with growing alarm.

Chapter

Twenty-Six

Today is the seventeenth day of February. And I, Rafael Pasqua, have lived eight days longer than I expected to.

It is also the first day I have vigor enough to contribute again to my diary. My grip on the quill is still weak, and each word is an effort to construct. However, I feel compelled to document my experience while it is still fresh in mind. I have no memory of the first three of those eight days, as I was unconscious with delirium. To account for them, I will have to rely on the recollections of others.