Page 66 of Sacred Hearts

For tonight, at least, we’ve carved out a space where love transcends titles and traditions. Tomorrow will bring its challenges, its compromises, its necessary concealment. But for now, with the taste of salt on my lips and the memory of stars overhead, I am simply a man walking beside the one he loves, blessed by sea and sky and the grace of unexpected joy.

* * *

Morning light filters through the villa’s shutters, casting golden stripes across the rumpled bed sheets. I wake slowly, momentarily disoriented by the unfamiliar surroundings and the warm weight of Matteo’s arm draped across my chest. The events of last night—the beach, the stars, our declarations—flood back, bringing a smile to my face.

“You’re thinking too loudly,” Matteo mumbles, his voice rough with sleep. He burrows closer, pressing his face against my shoulder.

“Good morning to you too,” I laugh, running my fingers through his tousled hair.

He lifts his head, eyes still half-closed, and smiles lazily. “I could get used to this view.”

“The Mediterranean?” I tease.

“No.” He traces my jawline with his thumb. “You. Without the white collar and formal robes. Just you.”

The simple honesty of his words touches something deep within me. I lean down to kiss him, morning breath be damned.

“Hungry?” he asks when we finally separate.

“Starving,” I admit. “Nighttime beach activities apparently work up an appetite.”

Matteo laughs and slides from the bed with fluid grace. He pulls on a pair of loose linen pants that ride low on his narrow hips, revealing the defined muscles that form a tantalizing V. A thin trail of dark hair runs from his navel downward, disappearing beneath the waistband like an arrow pointing to hidden treasures. The morning light catches the contours of his bare torso as he stretches.

“I’ll make breakfast,” he says, running a hand through his tousled hair. “There’s a robe hanging in the bathroom if you’d like it.”

Twenty minutes later, freshly showered and wrapped in a soft linen robe, I pad into the kitchen to find Matteo at the stove, his bare back to me as he flips pancakes. Coffee percolates, filling the air with its rich aroma. A bowl of fresh fruit sits on the rustic wooden table, already set for two.

The domesticity of the scene nearly overwhelms me. This is what normal people have, I think. Ordinary mornings, ordinary happiness.

“Can I help?” I offer, coming up behind him and wrapping my arms around his waist. My hands slide up to explore the firm planes of his chest, feeling his muscles flex beneath my fingertips as he works at the stove. I press a kiss to the sensitive spot where his neck meets hisshoulder, breathing in his scent—a heady mixture of sleep-warm skin and something uniquely Matteo.

“You can pour the coffee,” he says, his voice catching slightly as my fingers graze his nipple. He turns his head to kiss my temple, his body leaning back into mine. “Though I should warn you—I’ve been told my pancakes are life-changing. You might start questioning all your theological certainties.”

I laugh, moving to the coffee pot. “That serious, hmm? More revelatory than the burning bush?”

“Moses never had my ricotta pancakes with lemon zest,” he says with mock solemnity.

We settle at the table, knees touching beneath it, the sea visible through open windows. The pancakes are indeed remarkable—light, slightly tangy from the ricotta, brightened by lemon. We eat in comfortable silence, occasionally feeding each other bites of fruit, stealing kisses between sips of coffee.

“I wish every morning could be like this,” I say, not realizing I’ve spoken aloud until Matteo reaches for my hand.

“One day,” he says with quiet conviction. “When this is over—the corruption, the reforms—we’ll find a way.”

The implausibility of his promise hangs between us, but neither of us challenges it. Sometimes hope, however unlikely, is necessary for survival.

The sound of tires on gravel interrupts our reverie. Matteo frowns, setting down his coffee cup.

“Lorenzo said they wouldn’t need me to leave until noon,” I say, suddenly anxious.

Matteo rises, moving cautiously to the window. His posture immediately relaxes, then tenses again in a different way.

“It’s not your security team,” he says, turning to me with an expression somewhere between amusement and horror. “It’s Sophia.”

“Your sister?” I nearly knock over my coffee. “Here? Now?”

Through the window, I can see two Swiss Guards at the gate speaking with Sophia. She’s gesturing emphatically, holding up what appears to be her government identification.

“They won’t let her in,” I say, feeling simultaneously relieved and guilty.

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