Page 34 of Sacred Hearts

The silence that answers me is profound. No thunderbolt of divine revelation, no voice from the heavens. Just the quiet space and centuries of human struggle captured in the art surrounding me.

I trace my fingers over an inscription carved into the altar rail:Ubi amor, ibi Deus est. Where love is, there God is.

“What kind of love, Lord?” I ask. “And how can I know?”

My phone buzzes, interrupting my prayer. Another message from Matteo:

Need to see you. Not official business. Secure location. Tonight?

My heart pounds as I type back a single word:Where?

His response comes quickly:Castel Sant’Angelo. Midnight. Passageway entrance behind St. Peter’s.

I should refuse. I should maintain distance. But my fingers type:I’ll be there.

* * *

The day passes in a blur of meetings. Cardinal Sullivan confirms what our investigation has uncovered—decades of financial malfeasance, with Cardinal Lombardi at the centre of a vast money laundering operation.

“The Italian authorities have seized documents that implicate half the Curia,” Sullivan tells me, his Irish accent thickening with emotion. “This could destroy the Church, Your Holiness.”

“Or purify it,” I counter. “Christ drove the money changers from the temple. Perhaps it’s time we did the same.”

By evening, news of the raids dominates every channel. I watch from my private study as footage shows police leading away administrators from Lombardi’s foundation. The cardinal himself is conspicuously absent—reportedly in a private hospital suffering from “physical exhaustion.”

Sister Lucia appears at precisely eleven thirty, carrying a plain black cassock and a small flashlight.

“The tunnel entrance hasn’t been used in decades, Your Holiness,”she says, helping me change from my formal robes. “But it remains secure. The Swiss Guard commander has been informed of your movement, but not your destination.”

“Thank you, Sister.” I hesitate, then ask, “Do you know why I’m going?”

Her eyes meet mine, gentle but unflinching. “I serve the Pope, Your Holiness. But I serve God first. And God sees the heart, not the collar.”

I feel tears threatening. “Pray for me, Sister.”

“Always, Holy Father.”

The passageway behind St. Peter’s is narrow and damp, smelling of centuries of stone and secrets. My flashlight casts dancing shadows as I follow the ancient tunnel that connects the Vatican to Castel Sant’Angelo—the papal escape route during times of siege and danger.

Built in the early 16th century by Pope Alexander VI, this corridor has witnessed the flight of pontiffs during the most desperate hours of Church history. Pope Clement VII fled through here when Emperor Charles V’s troops sacked Rome in 1527, abandoning the Vatican as soldiers slaughtered the one hundred and forty-seven Swiss Guards on the steps of St. Peter’s.

I trail my fingers along the rough stone walls, feeling the weight of history. How many of my predecessors walked this same path, caught between duty and survival? How many felt, as I do now, the crushing burden of an office that demands everything while allowing nothing in return?

The tunnel feels like a perfect metaphor for my current state—caught between two worlds, travelling in darkness, neither fully in the Vatican nor fully outside it. A liminal space where the strict boundaries that define my existence momentarily blur.

I pause halfway, leaning against the wall to catch my breath. The air is thick with moisture and centuries of dust. Above me, the faithful sleep in their beds, believing in a Church guided by divine purpose andunwavering moral clarity. If they could see me now—their Holy Father slipping through hidden passages to meet a man who has awakened feelings I’ve denied my entire life—would their faith survive?

Yet I continue forward, drawn not just by the investigation we share but by Matteo himself—his courage, his conviction, the brief connection that felt more honest than anything I’ve experienced in years of religious service.

The tunnel gradually ascends, leading into the fortress that once protected popes from external enemies. Now I seek protection from enemies within, using the same secret path built for escape. The irony isn’t lost on me as I climb the narrow stairs toward our meeting place.

The tunnel opens into a small chamber within the castle walls. Matteo waits there, dressed in casual clothing, his face half-hidden in shadow.

“Marco,” he says simply, and the sound of my name—not my title—in his voice makes my chest tighten.

“Matteo.” I stay near the tunnel entrance, afraid to move closer. “Your message said this wasn’t official.”

“It isn’t.” He steps forward, into the pool of light from my flashlight. I see dark circles under his eyes, a new tension in his jaw. “I received another threat this morning. This one mentioned you by name.”

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