Page 31 of Sacred Hearts

The silence of the library offers no answer. Only the distant ticking of the ancient clock and my own ragged breathing disturb the stillness.

I rise unsteadily and move to the window where Matteo stood minutes before. The Vatican gardens stretch below, peaceful under moonlight, unaware of the crisis unfolding within these walls. Within me.

“What kind of Pope am I?” I whisper to my reflection in the glass. The man staring back seems a stranger—flushed cheeks, bright eyes, lips still sensitive from their first kiss. “What kind of example?”

Shame and confusion war within me, but beneath them something else stirs—a sense of authenticity I’ve never known before. For one brief moment in Matteo’s arms, the walls between my public self and private self had crumbled. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t performing a role or fulfilling expectations. I was simply Marco—fully present, fully alive.

This realization terrifies me more than anything.

I return to my knees, clutching my rosary so tightly the beads dig painfully into my palm.

“Help me, Lord,” I plead, no longer certain what I’m asking for—strength to resist temptation, or courage to face a truth I’ve denied my entire life.

But even as I beg God for absolution, Matteo’s touch lingers on my skin, and I know with terrifying certainty that no amount of prayer will erase the truth I’ve spent a lifetime hiding—not from myself, not anymore.

The most frightening thought of all comes unbidden: What if this feeling isn’t the sin I’ve been taught to believe it is? What if, in pushing it away, I’ve been denying not just myself, but God’s own design?

I cross myself, seeking comfort in the ritual that has anchored me since childhood. Tonight, for the first time, it brings no peace.

9

Ubi amor, ibi Deus est

Marco

I wake before dawn, my sleep haunted by dreams I dare not remember. The papal apartments feel like a prison this morning, the weight of centuries of tradition pressing down on me. I dress quickly, dismissing the attendants who normally help with the formal papal garments. Today, I need simplicity—black cassock, plain cross. The man, not the office.

Sister Lucia meets me in the corridor, her eyes carefully avoiding mine as if she can sense my inner turmoil.

“Your Holiness, I’ve prepared the archival materials you requested.”

“Thank you, Sister.” My voice sounds hollow even to my own ears. “Any word from the Italian authorities?”

“Prime Minister Valentini’s office sent a secure message.” She hands me a sealed envelope. “They’re executing search warrants this morning.”

I nod, not trusting myself to speak at the mention of Matteo’s name. Three days have passed since our encounter in the library, three days of avoiding each other while our investigations proceed on parallel tracks. Three days of kneeling in prayer until my knees bruise against the marble floors.

“I’ll be in the Secret Archives until noon. No interruptions, please.”

The Vatican Secret Archives—properly the Apostolic Archive—houses millennia of the Church’s most sensitive documents. As Pope, I have access to materials no other living soul can view. Today, I’m hunting through financial records dating back to the 1970s, when the first whispers of Vatican Bank improprieties emerged.

Hours pass as I trace a complex web of shell companies, offshore accounts, and suspicious investments. My eyes burn from squinting at faded ledgers and microfilm records. A pattern emerges—the same names appearing across decades, Cardinal Lombardi’s charitable foundation serving as the nexus for funds flowing between organized crime, corrupt politicians, and Church officials.

“They’ve been hiding in plain sight,” I murmur, pushing back from the desk and rubbing my temples.

My phone buzzes—the secure device Matteo and I now use to communicate. My heart races traitorously as I read his message:

Raids underway. Multiple arrests. Evidence secured linking Lombardi Foundation to Calabrian ‘Ndrangheta. Dangerous times ahead. Stay safe.

No personal words. Nothing to acknowledge what passed between us. Just the cold facts of our investigation. It’s better this way, I tell myself, even as disappointment floods through me.

I leave the archives with a file of documents tucked securely under my arm. Sister Lucia waits outside, her face grave.

“Cardinal Sullivan requests an urgent meeting, Your Holiness.”

“Tell him I’ll see him after vespers. There’s somewhere I need to go first.”

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