Page 25 of Sacred Hearts

I gesture to the documents spread between us. “What’s our next move?”

“We need to be careful. If we move too quickly, they’ll know we’re onto them.” He begins gathering the papers, organizing them methodically. “I suggest we continue our investigations separately but share everything we find.”

“Which gives us a legitimate reason to maintain regular contact.”

“Exactly. Official meetings when necessary, but we’ll need a secure way to communicate between those times.”

I nod, already thinking of possibilities. “We could use the pretext of coordinating security after these incidents. No one would question that.”

“A joint security task force,” he agrees. “With direct communication between us as a necessary component.”

“It would allow us to meet privately without raising suspicions.”

Matteo smiles, a flash of something playful despite our grim circumstances. “Who would have thought assassination attempts could be so convenient?”

I laugh despite myself. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“No?” He touches his bruised forehead gingerly. “I admit there are less painful ways to form alliances.”

“Is that what this is? An alliance?”

He considers me for a moment, his expression turning serious. “I think it’s becoming something more than that, don’t you?”

The question hangs between us, loaded with meaning I’m not ready to acknowledge. I focus instead on the practical matters at hand.

“We should establish a regular schedule,” I say. “For security briefings.”

“Weekly,” he suggests. “With emergency protocols if either of us uncovers something urgent.”

“Or if there are further attempts.”

He nods grimly. “Which there will be, once they realize we both survived.”

As he speaks, Matteo suddenly winces, his hand going to his side. He sways slightly, and I move without thinking, my arm around his waist to steady him.

“You’re more injured than you’ve admitted,” I say, guiding him to sit on one of the chapel’s ancient wooden benches.

“It’s nothing,” he insists, but allows me to support him. “Just bruised ribs from the impact.”

We remain close, my arm still holding him, his body warm against mine. The contact feels both forbidden and inevitable.

“This is… complicated, isn’t it?” Matteo says quietly, his eyes meeting mine. “What’s happening between us.”

My heart stutters. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I think you do.” His voice is gentle but certain. “I find myself thinking about our meetings far more than matters of state would justify.”

I should pull away. I should speak of duty and propriety and the boundaries of our positions. Instead, I remain exactly where I am, my body betraying what my words cannot acknowledge.

The ancient chapel seems to hold its breath around us. Outside these walls, we are Pope and Prime Minister, bound by duties that define our every action. But here, in this forgotten place, we are simply two men standing at the edge of something neither of us anticipated.

“In another life,” Matteo says softly, his eyes never leaving mine, “things might have been different between us.”

The words hang in the air, opening a door to possibilities I’ve never allowed myself to imagine.

“What would that life look like?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

His smile is tinged with sadness. “One where I could invite you to dinner without diplomatic protocol. Where we could debate theology and politics without the weight of nations and souls on our shoulders.” He pauses, his hand briefly touching mine. “Where I could know Marco the man, not just Marco the Pope.”

---