Page 7 of Sacred Hearts

“That doesn’t mean the Church ordered a hit.”

“Of course not, Prime Minister. But it could mean someone with Church connections did.”

I rub my temples, careful to avoid my stitches. “The new Pope—Pius XIV—he’s young, progressive by all accounts. This doesn’t fit.”

“Perhaps not the Pope himself,” Esposito says carefully. “But the Vatican is more than one man.”

The implications hang heavy between us. If elements within the Vatican are connected to an assassination attempt on Italy’s prime minister, the political and religious fallout would be unprecedented.

“Keep digging,” I say finally. “But quietly. I want absolute proof before we even whisper about this.”

“Understood, sir. And Prime Minister? Perhaps consider additional security measures.”

“Already arranged. Goodnight, Dottore.”

I hang up and return to the window, pulling back the curtain just enough to see the crowd still gathered below. Candles flicker in thedarkness, their holders keeping vigil for me—a man they believe in.

The stitches on my cheek pull as I frown. I’ve built my career fighting corruption in government and business. I’ve taken on powerful enemies and survived—literally, as of today. But the Church? That’s different. That requires careful consideration.

I let the curtain fall closed and return to my desk, pulling out a fresh notepad. At the top, I write “Vatican Finances” and underline it twice. Below, I begin jotting questions, connections, possible avenues of investigation.

If elements within the Vatican have tried to kill me, they’ve made a critical error. They’ve missed. And Matteo Valentini does not forgive. Nor does he forget.

Tomorrow, the anti-corruption package will pass—the assassination attempt has guaranteed it. And then, perhaps, it will be time to follow the money trail straight to the Holy See’s doorstep.

3

First Meeting

Marco

I watch the morning light filter through the tall windows of the Apostolic Palace, casting geometric patterns across the ornate floor. Three days as Pope, and everything still feels like a dream—or perhaps a divine joke. I adjust the white zucchetto atop my head for the tenth time that morning. The small skullcap refuses to sit comfortably, much like my new title.

“Your Holiness.” Cardinal Antonelli’s voice pulls me from my thoughts. “Prime Minister Valentini will arrive in thirty minutes. The traditional protocol for such visits is—”

“I remember the briefing, Eminence.” I smile to soften my interruption. “Twenty minutes of formal pleasantries, discussion of diplomatic relations, a photo opportunity, and then we part ways with mutual assurances of cooperation.”

Antonelli nods, his weathered face betraying nothing. “The Prime Minister is… unconventional. But he respects tradition when it comes to Vatican relations.”

I suppress a smile. “Unconventional” seems to be the cardinal’s preferred euphemism for the youngest Prime Minister in Italian history—a man who’s survived an assassination attempt mere daysafter my own elevation.

“I’ve prepared notes on appropriate topics,” Antonelli continues, offering a leather portfolio. “And topics to avoid.”

I accept the folder but set it aside without opening it. “Thank you, Eminence. I’ll receive the Prime Minister in the library rather than the formal reception hall.”

Antonelli’s expression tightens. “Your Holiness, the protocol—”

“Will adapt to my preference for a more comfortable setting.” I meet his gaze steadily. “We’re both new to our positions. Perhaps a less formal environment will foster genuine dialogue.”

After Antonelli departs—his disapproval evident in the stiffness of his shoulders—I retreat to my private chapel. Kneeling before the simple wooden crucifix, I close my eyes.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I whisper to God. “Guide my words today.”

* * *

The Vatican Library’s private study exudes centuries of solemn wisdom. Leather-bound volumes line the walls, their gilded spines catching the light from tall windows. I’ve chosen two simple chairs positioned at a comfortable angle rather than across a desk—another break from protocol that has made my staff exchange worried glances.

When the heavy doors open, I rise to greet Italy’s Prime Minister.

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