Page 63 of Sacred Hearts

The property sits on a secluded stretch of coastline, a modest villa nestled among pines that slope down to a private beach. Security lights illuminate the perimeter, but the house itself appears warmly lit and welcoming.

“The Prime Minister’s family has owned this for generations,” Lorenzo explains as we approach. “It’s been secured and swept for surveillance. You’ll be safe here, Your Holiness.”

The car stops, and I see a figure standing in the doorway—Matteo, dressed casually in a simple shirt and trousers, looking more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him.

Lorenzo turns to me. “We’ll maintain a perimeter, Your Holiness. Complete privacy, but absolute security.”

“Thank you, Lorenzo.” I squeeze his shoulder. “For everything.”

Lorenzo turns to me, his eyes meeting mine with unwavering conviction. “The oath I took was to protect the Pope, Your Holiness,” he says quietly. “But my loyalty is to you—Marco Ricci—the man who has shown me what true faith looks like. I would follow you beyondthese walls and any others.”

I step from the car, and Matteo comes forward to greet me. No cameras, no aides, no protocols—just two men meeting under a star-filled sky.

“Marco.” He says my name like a prayer.

“Matteo.” My voice catches.

He leads me inside, closing the door on the world outside. The villa is simple but beautiful—terracotta floors, whitewashed walls, windows that frame the moonlit Mediterranean.

“You look exhausted,” he says, studying my face.

“It’s been… challenging.” I manage a smile. “But I’m here now.”

He takes my hand, a gesture that still thrills me with its simplicity and daring. “Are you hungry? I’ve prepared something simple.”

The kitchen opens onto a terrace overlooking the sea. A small table is set with candles, wine, and plates of antipasti. It’s so ordinary, so domestic that I feel tears pricking my eyes.

“What is it?” Matteo asks, concerned.

“This.” I gesture at the table, the room, everything. “It’s so normal. I’d forgotten what normal feels like.”

He pours wine into two glasses. “That’s why I wanted you here. Away from the Vatican, from the constant scrutiny. Just for one night.”

We eat, talk, laugh—about ordinary things at first, then gradually about the investigation, the reforms I’m planning, the resistance we’re both facing. The wine loosens my tongue, or perhaps it’s just the freedom of being away from listening ears.

“I’ve been thinking about the synod,” I tell him. “Not just as a discussion of homosexuality and marriage, but as a fundamental reexamination of how the Church understands love itself.”

Matteo listens intently as I share my vision—a Church that embraces all forms of authentic love as expressions of the divine, that recognizes the sacred in human connection regardless of gender or orientation.

“It’s revolutionary,” he says softly.

“It’s returning to the essence,” I counter. “Before centuries of human interpretation buried the simple truth that love—all love—comes from God.”

* * *

Later, we walk along the beach, shoes discarded, feeling the cool sand between our toes. The moon hangs full and luminous above us, casting a silver path across the water that seems to lead to infinity.

“I used to come here as a child,” Matteo says, his voice soft against the rhythmic percussion of waves. “When things were difficult at home.”

“Were they often difficult?” I ask, watching how the moonlight catches in his dark hair, silvering the edges.

He nods, looking out at the horizon. “My father drank. He had… expectations for his only son that I could never meet. Too sensitive, too bookish.” His laugh is hollow. “Too gay, though neither of us had words for that then.”

I take his hand, encouraging him to continue, savouring the warmth of his skin against mine.

“The sea became my sanctuary,” he continues, squeezing my fingers. “Out here, watching the waves, I could imagine another life. One where I wasn’t constantly disappointing him.”

The moon casts a silver path across the water, illuminating Matteo’s face as he turns to me with unguarded emotion. The usual sharp lines of his expression have softened, revealing the vulnerability he shows to so few.

---