Page 10 of Sacred Hearts

Something that feels, despite all protocol violations, strangely right.

4

Vatican Whispers

Marco

The morning dawns crisp and clear, the kind of autumn day that seems to crystallize the Vatican gardens into something from a Renaissance painting. I’ve taken to walking the grounds alone during early hours before my schedule becomes consumed with meetings and audiences. The Swiss Guard has secured the Vatican gardens, which allows me to roam freely without their oversight. These solitary moments help me prepare spiritually for the day ahead.

I follow the gravel path past the Lourdes Grotto, breathing in the scent of cypress and freshly turned earth. The gardeners won’t arrive for another hour, and the silence feels sacred—a rare commodity in my new life.

As I round the bend near the medieval wall, something disrupts the perfect composition of the scene. A dark shape lies crumpled beneath an ancient oak tree. At first, I think perhaps a groundskeeper has left equipment, but as I draw closer, my steps falter.

A man in a dark suit lies face-down on the grass.

“Hello?” I call, hurrying forward. “Are you all right?”

No response. When I reach him, I kneel and gently turn him over, then recoil in shock. Monsignor Adessi, one of the Vatican Bank’ssenior financial controllers, stares up at the sky with sightless eyes. His face has taken on the waxy pallor of death, lips slightly blue.

“Oh God,” I whisper, making the sign of the cross. My fingers go to his neck, searching for a pulse I already know won’t be there.

A small glass vial lies beside his outstretched hand. Near it, partially tucked beneath his body, is a folded piece of paper. With trembling fingers, I carefully extract it, some instinct telling me to read it before others arrive.

The handwriting is shaky but recognizable as Adessi’s precise script:

I cannot continue to be part of this. The untouchable accounts must remain so, or everything collapses. Forgive me.

I stare at the note, reading it twice more before folding it and slipping it into my pocket. My heart pounds against my ribs. This note implies corruption, possibly criminal activity. I should immediately hand it to the authorities, yet something holds me back. If Adessi was involved in something dangerous enough to die for, who else might be implicated? Who can I trust with this information?

The weight of the paper seems to burn through my pocket. I am the Pope—God’s representative on earth—yet here I am, concealing evidence. Is this how my papacy begins? With secrets and suspicion?

I pull out my phone and quickly call the Swiss Guard headquarters. “This is the Holy Father. I need immediate assistance in the eastern garden, near the medieval wall. There’s been… a death.” My voice sounds strangely calm despite the turmoil inside me.

After ending the call, I look down at Adessi’s still form and feel a surge of compassion. Whatever his sins, he was a child of God. I kneel beside him again, making the sign of the cross over his body.

“Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord,” I whisper, my voice catching. “And let perpetual light shine upon him. May his soul, and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace.”

I remain kneeling, adding a personal prayer. “Lord, guide methrough what is to come. Help me understand what drove this man to despair, and give me the wisdom to bring truth to light without causing more harm.”

As I finish, I hear the crunch of boots on gravel. Two members of the Swiss Guard round the corner, responding to my call. Their expressions shift from respectful greeting to alarm as they spot the body.

“Your Holiness, please step back,” the senior guard says, hurrying forward while the other speaks urgently into his radio.

I rise slowly, my knees stiff from the cold ground. “His name is Monsignor Adessi. I found him just minutes ago.”

Within moments, the quiet garden transforms into a scene of controlled chaos. Vatican security, medical personnel, and police converge. I answer their questions mechanically, explaining how I discovered the body during my morning walk. I say nothing about the note.

As they prepare to move the body, I request a moment for a final blessing. In that brief, solemn pause, the weight of my new responsibility crashes down upon me. Less than a month as Pope, and already death stalks the Vatican gardens.

Why this, Lord?I pray silently.Why now, when I’ve barely begun? I’m still learning to be Pope, and now I must be detective as well? I’m thirty-one years old, thrust into this ancient office, surrounded by men who’ve navigated Vatican politics longer than I’ve been alive. How am I to know whom to trust?

No divine answer comes, only the whisper of wind through cypress trees and the murmured conversations of officials securing the scene. Perhaps this silence is my answer—this burden is mine to bear, however unprepared I might feel.

* **

“Suicide is a mortal sin, Your Holiness,” Cardinal Lombardi intones gravely. “But in cases of severe mental distress, the Church acknowledges diminished culpability.”

We sit in the small conference room adjacent to my office. Four hours have passed since I discovered Monsignor Adessi’s body. Vatican police have cordoned off the area, and his remains have been taken for examination, though the cause seems clear—poison self-administered.

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