Page 20 of Sacred Hearts

Looking forward to continuing our discussion on matters both practical and theological.

I hesitate before sending it, surprised at my own eagerness to return to the Vatican. There’s something about Marco Ricci that pulls at me—his quiet conviction, his unexpected courage in challenging centuries of tradition. Or perhaps something more personal I’m not ready to examine.

I send the message, then turn back to the political crisis at hand, though my thoughts keep straying to tomorrow’s meeting and the young Pope with the thoughtful eyes.

6

Cardinal’s Sin

Marco

I sit stiffly in the formal reception room, watching security personnel methodically sweep every corner with their electronic devices. The Vatican’s own security team moves with practiced precision alongside the Italian protective detail—two groups circling each other like wary cats sharing territory.

“Your Holiness, we’ve found another one.” Father Tomás approaches, holding up a tiny listening device between gloved fingers. “That makes three.”

My stomach tightens. “Where was this one?”

“Behind the painting of Saint Peter.” He gestures toward the ornate gilded frame that has hung in this room since before I was born.

The Italian security chief—a stern woman with silver-streaked hair pulled into a severe bun—exchanges glances with Cardinal Sullivan. “We found similar devices at the anti-corruption headquarters this morning,” she says. “Sophisticated. Military grade.”

Cardinal Sullivan’s face darkens. “Coming after the break-ins at both our financial offices and the Prime Minister’s anti-corruption task force…”

I don’t need him to finish the thought. Someone is coordinatingattacks against both the Vatican and the Italian government—specifically targeting our financial investigations.

The security chief checks her watch. “The Prime Minister has arrived, Your Holiness, but we recommend moving this meeting to the secure conference room in the lower level. It was swept this morning and has remained sealed, though we will still want to quickly check it again to be certain.”

“Very well.” I rise, adjusting my white cassock. Despite weeks in the papal garments, they still feel borrowed, like I’m playing dress-up in clothes meant for someone else.

The secure conference room is smaller and lacks the grandeur of the state rooms above. No fresco-ed ceilings or marble columns—just reinforced concrete walls, a plain wooden table, and chairs that value function over form. It reminds me of university seminar rooms where I once debated theology as a young seminarian.

When Matteo Valentini enters, he brings with him the same crackling energy I remember from our previous meeting. He wears a perfectly tailored navy suit, his dark hair slightly tousled as if he’s run his hands through it in frustration.

“Your Holiness.” He bows slightly, the formality at odds with the directness of his gaze.

“Prime Minister. I apologize for the change in venue.”

“Given the circumstances, I think we can dispense with protocol.” He loosens his tie slightly. “My security team is telling me we’ve both been compromised. I wasn’t aware of the break in to the governmental offices until just now.”

Before I can respond, the security chiefs approach us.

“Your Holiness, Prime Minister,” Cardinal Sullivan says, “we need to conduct one final sweep of this room with both teams present. Would you mind stepping into the antechamber for a moment? It shouldn’t take more than ten minutes.”

The antechamber is barely more than a glorified closet—a small room with two chairs and a side table that serves as a waiting area before entering the conference space. As the door closes behind us, leaving Matteo and me alone, the room suddenly feels much smaller than it is.

The confined space intensifies everything—the soft ticking of the antique clock, the subtle notes of Matteo’s cologne mingling with the ancient scent of leather-bound books, even the sound of our breathing. I notice details I shouldn’t: the way his suit jacket pulls slightly across his shoulders when he moves, the strong line of his jaw, the dark lashes that frame his expressive eyes. My training taught me to observe God’s creation with appreciation, but this feels different—more visceral, more dangerous.

“I brought something for you,” I say, reaching into the folds of my cassock. “After our last conversation about Church teachings, I thought you might find this interesting.”

I withdraw a small, leather-bound book, its spine cracked from years of use. The gilt lettering has mostly worn away, but the title is still visible: “Amoris Laetitia: The Joy of Love.”

“Pope Francis’s exhortation on love and family,” I explain. “But this is my personal copy from seminary. My annotations might interest you, particularly regarding Chapter Eight on accompanying those in… complex situations.”

Matteo takes the book, our fingers brushing as it passes between us. A jolt—like static electricity but warmer—travels up my arm. I pull my hand back too quickly, nearly dropping the book.

“Careful,” he says, steadying the text. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, just—” I pause, uncertain how to explain a reaction I don’t understand myself. “Static electricity, I suppose.”

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