“Mi scusi, please. I look for Nancy Werlock? She is here, sì?”
I hear the man talking to Anastasia as I come out of my office. He’s well-dressed but has a scruffy beard and a wild mess of salt-and-pepper hair that looks like it hasn’t been near a comb for over a year.
“I’m Nancy,” I say.
“Ah, bene! I am Tommaso Mortellaro. We can speak elsewhere, sì?” He hands me a business card written in Italian with the seal of the College of Divinities emblazoned on it.
“Right this way.” I lead him into my office after telling Anastasia not to disturb us. “Theomancer Mortellaro, you’ve come a long way. How can I help you? Would you like something to drink?”
“Grazie. You are as kind as you are beautiful. Your profile image does you no justice.” He takes a seat across from my desk. “Your Latin? It i
