Page 1 of Sacred Hearts

I

Separate Worlds

1

The Unexpected Pope

Marco

I stand frozen at the centre of the Sistine Chapel, my eyes fixed on Cardinal Gallo’s collapsed form. One moment he’s standing tall in his crimson robes, the next—sprawled across the marble floor, face contorted in agony. The Swiss Guards rush to his side while the other cardinals huddle in shocked whispers.

“Heart attack,” someone murmurs behind me.

Chaos erupts in the sacred space. Cardinals abandon decorum, their raised voices echoing beneath Michelangelo’s masterpiece. The conclave has been deadlocked for eleven ballots—the conservatives behind Cardinal Lombardi, the progressives supporting Cardinal Ferreira. Neither faction gaining the required two-thirds majority.

I observe the distinct reactions splitting along factional lines. The Lombardi conservatives huddle tight, their whispers urgent and calculating. Several make the sign of the cross, but their eyes dart strategically across the room—already assessing how Gallo’s absence shifts the voting math. Cardinal Bianchi, Lombardi’s right hand, catches my gaze and nods curtly before turning back to their circle.

Across the chapel, Ferreira’s progressives react with genuine shock.Cardinal Chen Wei from Hong Kong kneels in earnest prayer while Archbishop Gonzalez from Mexico City comforts a visibly shaken Cardinal Santos. Their faction has lost no ally in Gallo, who leaned conservative, yet their humanity shows in this moment of crisis.

And I, Cardinal Marco Ricci, stand quietly in the shadows, casting my vote according to conscience while expecting nothing more than to return to my modest parish when this historic moment passes. I’ve never aligned myself fully with either camp—finding Lombardi’s rigid traditionalism stifling, yet cautious of Ferreira’s eagerness to reshape doctrine. This middle path has made me largely invisible to both factions, which has suited me perfectly until now.

The Irish Cardinal Sullivan approaches me, his weathered face grave. “This changes everything, Marco.”

“Gallo will recover,” I say, though the grim efficiency with which they carry him out suggests otherwise.

Sullivan shakes his head slightly. We’ve developed a close understanding and friendship over the past week—he being one of the few who sought my opinion on theological matters despite my youth. Where others dismissed me, he listened.

“The Holy Spirit works in mysterious ways.” Sullivan grips my shoulder. “The conclave needs resolution. Neither faction will yield, but perhaps they’ll accept a compromise.”

I laugh, the sound hollow in the vast chamber. “Surely you don’t mean—”

“Why not you?” His eyes hold mine. “Young enough to satisfy the progressives, traditional enough in your theology to appease the conservatives. Humble origins. Beloved by your congregation.”

“I’m thirty-one, Sullivan. Practically a child in this company.”

“Christ was thirty-three when he changed the world.” His voice drops lower. “And I’ve read your dissertation on the early church’s adaptability. You understand both tradition and evolution—exactlywhat the Church needs now.”

I shake my head, but Sullivan’s unwavering confidence unsettles me. Unlike the political cardinals who manoeuvre for influence, Sullivan has always struck me as a man guided by genuine faith. If he believes this possible…

“The Lombardi faction would never accept me,” I whisper. “They want someone who’ll maintain every tradition unquestioned.”

“They’re pragmatists beneath their rhetoric,” Sullivan counters. “With Gallo gone, they’ve lost their strongest voice. They fear Ferreira more than they fear a moderate like you.”

Before I can respond, Cardinal Rossi joins us. Then Ferreira himself. Within an hour, whispers of my name spread through the Chapel like incense.

“He’s very young, but his pastoral work is exemplary,” I overhear Cardinal Chen Wei telling a cluster of Asian prelates. “His programs for the homeless in Turin show true commitment to the marginalized.”

“Too young,” Cardinal Bianchi mutters to his allies. “But his writings on the sanctity of tradition show proper respect. And he’s Italian—the See returning to Rome after a Polish, German, and Argentinian pope would satisfy many.”

Cardinal Ferreira himself studies me from across the room, his keen eyes assessing. When we briefly pass each other near the altar, he murmurs, “You’ve never sought power, Marco. Perhaps that’s precisely why you should have it.”

The conversations swirl around me like smoke—some dismissive, others intrigued. “He’s never been tested,” argues Cardinal Meyer from Austria. “The Curia would devour him.”

“Or perhaps,” counters Sullivan, who seems to materialize whenever my candidacy is questioned, “he would bring fresh perspective to calcified thinking.”

When the next ballot is counted, I stare in disbelief as my nameappears again and again. Not enough for election, but suddenly a contender. By the following morning, as the cardinals gather for the next vote, I feel the weight of their stares. Some curious, some calculating, some already deferential—as if they can sense the winds shifting.

“Placetne tibi accipere munus Petri?” Cardinal Rossi asks when the final count confirms the unthinkable.

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