“Sì, sì. My little passion. I was the librarian at our monastery. We monks love to collect writing! Hoarders, you might call us.” He chortles. “The diocese, they took away the most precious volumes. But the bishop, he trusts me to sort and catalog the rest.”

“How long did you live at the monastery?” Alana asks.

“For more years than either of you have walked on this earth. I had a good run—is that not how you say it in America? So did San Giovanni. Six more years, and she would have seen her eight hundredth birthday.”

“It’s amazing the Church let them tear it down,” Alana says.

“Yes, but like me, San Giovanni was not in very good shape.” Silvio smiles. “During the war, she was hit by a stray bomb. Part of the arcade collapsed. Besides, she was always a basic working monastery with none of the architectural charm of, say, the Cervara Abbey up north. Or the old San Fruttuoso Abbey in Camogli.” His eyes light. “Have you ever been? Now, there is a structure that pays proper tribute to God in her—”

“Brother Silvio,” Byron interrupts. “Do you remember a young carpenter at the construction site? His name is Emilio.”

“With the angry skin, yes? A nervous boy, but very respectful.”

“Exactly,” Alana says. “He told us that you had warned him about the site.”

“Perhaps”—Silvio smiles, amused—“Emilio is being a little dramatic, no? I told him the grounds were hallowed. I still believe this to be so.”

“As in cursed?”

“I am a simple man of the church,” Silvio replies vaguely. “As such, I am quite superstitious.”

“How so?”

“I do not believe it can be such a good thing to tear down a house of worship to build a skyscraper.” His smile falters for a moment. “Can it really be what God intended?”

Alana has no interest in a theological debate. “How about rodents? Were they ever an issue at San Giovanni?”

“An issue? How do you mean?”

“Any infestations of mice or rats? Do you remember seeing many of them inside the monastery or on the grounds?”

“I would hear the patter of the odd mouse sometimes. But I do not remember encountering any rats.”

“What about another construction worker, Yasin Ahmed?” Byron asks. “Do you remember him?”

“I do not believe so,” Silvio says.

“A boy of about Emilio’s age,” Alana prompts. “North African. His family is from Tunisia.”

“Sì! I do remember him. He was with Emilio. The boy, he said nothing. But his color was not good. Sweating. He did not look so well. Not well at all. I even offered him aspirin, but he would not take it.”

“When was this?” Byron asks.

“Last week.” Silvio stops to think. “I cannot remember precisely, but it was two or three days before the woman in charge collapsed. This boy, Yasin? He looked just the same as her. It was the plague for both of them, no?”

Byron shoots Alana a warning glance. “The woman, yes,” she says. “We still don’t know about Yasin.”