Page 78 of Sacred Hearts

Carlos collects his papers. “Those of you who value decency and traditional leadership know where to stand.” He looks pointedly at several ministers. “I won’t be the only resignation today.”

As if on cue, Russo, Bianchi, and Ferrara stand. Esposito watches them with narrowed eyes as they gather their things.

“You realize,” Carlos says, pausing at the door, “that by this time tomorrow, I’ll be forming a new government. The President will have no choice but to ask me once your no-confidence vote fails.”

I laugh, genuinely laugh. “You’ve miscalculated, Carlos. As usual.”

He frowns. “We’ll see.”

“Yes, we will. And while we’re being so honest today—you’ve always been a shitty politician with expensive tastes. That’s a dangerous combination.”

Carlos’s face darkens. He gestures to his followers, and they file out behind him, the door closing with a decisive click.

The room exhales collectively. Seven ministers remain seated, looking at me with expressions ranging from shock to admiration.

Gabriella breaks the silence with a bark of laughter. “I never thought I’d see the day when someone finally put that snake in his place. About bloody time, Matteo.”

“That was…” Transportation Minister Romano searches for words, “refreshing, Prime Minister. Some might call it unprofessional, but I call it honest. Those corrupt bastards have been smirking behind our backs for too long.”

I straighten my jacket, flexing my hand. My knuckles are redfrom where they connected with the wall. “I apologize for losing my composure.”

“Don’t,” Agriculture Minister Vitale says firmly. “Carlos deserved worse than what he got. What he’s done to you and the Pope is unconscionable. Using someone’s personal life as a political weapon—it’s despicable.”

“You just did what many of us have wanted to do for years,” Gabriella adds, patting my shoulder. “And you stayed on your feet while they crawled away like the cowards they are.”

I look around at the faces of those who remained. “Thank you—all of you—for standing with me.”

“It’s not just standing with you,” Defence Minister Conti says quietly. “It’s standing for what’s right. The corruption legislation is right. And as for your personal life…” He shrugs. “My sister has been with her partner Giulia for twenty years. Love is love. Those hypocrites out there have mistresses and secret families while pointing fingers at others.”

I nod, unexpectedly moved. “Thank you, Antonio.”

“So what now?” asks Health Minister Rizzo, leaning forward. “Carlos isn’t wrong about the no-confidence vote, but I’d rather resign than serve in any government he forms.”

“No, but he’s wrong about the numbers,” Gabriella says, checking her phone with a satisfied smile. “I’ve been counting. We have enough support to survive it—barely, but enough. Those four aren’t the only corrupt ones, but they’re the stupidest.”

I take my seat again, the adrenaline of confrontation giving way to focused determination. “We need to talk strategy. Carlos has played his hand, but we still hold cards he doesn’t know about.”

“Including evidence of his corruption?” Interior Minister Belli asks, eyes gleaming.

“Precisely.” I lean forward. “Now, here’s what we’re going to do…”

20

Trapped

Marco

The heavy oak door closes behind Cardinal Antonelli with a sound that feels more final than it should. I stand motionless in the centre of my papal apartment as the distinct click of a key turning in the lock echoes through the room. Not a request, not a suggestion—a imprisonment disguised as protection.

“For your own safety, Your Holiness,” Antonelli had said mere moments ago, his voice a masterpiece of false concern. “The situation outside is volatile. Protesters, journalists, the faithful in turmoil—we cannot guarantee your security if you insist on moving freely.”

I cross to the door and test the handle. Locked, as I suspected. I press my ear against the polished wood and hear the murmur of unfamiliar voices—not my usual Swiss Guard detail, but men I don’t recognize, speaking in hushed tones.

My apartments, once a sanctuary, have become a prison overnight.

I move to the heavy curtains and pull them back slightly. The windows that normally offer sweeping views of St. Peter’s Square have been sealed shut—another “security measure” implemented while I slept. Through a narrow gap in the fabric, I can see the square below teeming with people. Signs wave in the air, though I’m too far away toread their messages. Are they calling for my resignation? My defence? Both, perhaps.

Three attempts to use my phone this morning revealed the service disconnected. My computer has been removed “for maintenance.” Even the television has been disabled—its screen black and unresponsive when I press the power button.

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