Page 38 of Sacred Hearts

“Yes,” I agree quietly. “But they’ve shown their hand. And now we know exactly what we’re facing.”

Sister Lucia glances behind us to ensure we’re not overheard. “You could have fought harder against these measures, Your Holiness.”

“Sometimes,” I tell her, “it’s better to let your opponent believe they’ve won the battle. It makes them careless about the war.”

* **

I adjust my robes for the tenth time as I enter the charity reception. The Vatican Museum glows with warm light, showcasing its treasures to Italy’s elite who have gathered for this fundraiser benefiting refugee children. Cardinals Antonelli and Visconti hover nearby, their new “security protocols” meaning I’m rarely without their watchful eyes.

“Your Holiness,” Cardinal Antonelli materializes at my elbow, “the Austrian ambassador is most eager to speak with you about their donation to the Vatican museums.”

“Of course,” I reply with practiced serenity, though inside I’m chafing at my handlers.

The evening proceeds with mechanical precision. I move from one donor to another, blessing their generosity while feeling the constant shadow of surveillance. The cardinals have been clever—keeping me visible to the public, accessible for ceremonial functions, yet completely isolated from anyone who might assist or further my investigations.

I’m midway through a conversation with a prominent Swiss banking executive when I see him enter. Matteo cuts an impressive figure in his tailored suit, his presence commanding attention without effort. Our eyes meet briefly across the room, and I feel that now-familiar flutter in my chest.

“Your Holiness?” The banker looks at me expectantly.

“Forgive me,” I say, returning my attention to him. “The plight of these poor children is never far from my thoughts, and your care for them is a blessing.”

An hour passes before I manage to break free from Antonelli’s orchestrated introductions. I find a moment of respite near an exhibit of Renaissance manuscripts, taking a deep breath away from the crowd.

“Quite remarkable, aren’t they?” Matteo’s voice comes from beside me, low and intimate. “Created in times of great turmoil and change, yet still speaking to us centuries later.”

I turn to him, careful to maintain a proper distance. “Prime Minister. I’m pleased you could attend.”

“I wouldn’t miss it.” His eyes hold mine a moment longer than protocol dictates. “Though I find myself wondering if you’re enjoying your own gala, Holy Father. You seem… constrained this evening.”

“Perceptive as always,” I murmur. “Recent security concerns have led to certain… adjustments.”

“So I’ve heard.” He gestures subtly toward Antonelli, who watches us from across the room. “Your cardinals have been quite protective lately.”

“Protective is one word for it,” I say with a small smile.

A woman approaches us—elegantly dressed, with intelligent eyes that miss nothing. “Your Holiness, Prime Minister,” she says with a respectful bow of her head. “Sophia Valentini, Protocol Officer. I hate to interrupt, but there seems to be some confusion about the viewing schedule for the garden exhibition.”

Matteo’s expression betrays nothing, but I notice a familial resemblance between them that confirms my suspicion—this is the sister he has spoken so much about in our nightly chats.

“Perhaps His Holiness might appreciate a moment to view the moonlit gardens before the official dignitary tour begins?” she suggests smoothly. “The night-blooming jasmine is particularly spectacular.”

“An excellent suggestion,” Matteo says. “I’ve heard the Vatican gardens are unparalleled by moonlight.”

I glance toward Antonelli, who has been momentarily cornered by an enthusiastic German donor. “I would welcome somefresh air,” I admit.

Sophia nods subtly. “If you’ll follow me, I can escort you through the private gallery entrance. Prime Minister, perhaps you’d care to join us? I believe there are security matters regarding the event that would benefit from your input.”

Her orchestration is flawless. Within minutes, we’re walking through a side door into the gardens, Sophia tactfully falling several paces behind.

“Your sister?” I ask quietly.

Matteo’s lips quirk upward. “Is it that obvious?”

“Only in the way she manages to be both respectful and completely in charge,” I reply, feeling a genuine smile form for the first time this evening.

The gardens are indeed beautiful, silver moonlight washing over ancient statues and fragrant blooms. We walk side by side, close enough to speak privately but maintaining appropriate distance for any watching eyes.

“I received your message about the new security measures,” Matteo says, his voice barely above a whisper. “They’re isolating you.”

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