Page 5 of Sacred Hearts

The chamber remains silent, but I can feel the attention sharpening, the air growing heavier with anticipation—or perhaps apprehension.

“This package will create unprecedented powers to investigate, prosecute, and penalize those who have treated Italy as their personal treasury. No one—” I emphasize these words, my gaze deliberately passing over the diplomatic section, “—no individual, no corporation, no institution will be exempt from scrutiny.”

A murmur ripples through the chamber. I continue, building my case point by point, statistic by statistic. I outline the cost of corruption—not just in euros, but in lost jobs, crumbling infrastructure, and diminished trust.

Twenty minutes into my address, I reach the most controversial section.

“Some have suggested that certain institutions should remain beyond the reach of these reforms due to their historical or spiritual significance. I respectfully disagree. The more central an institutionis to Italian life, the more transparent it must be. Faith should never be used as a shield for financial misconduct.”

Cardinal Bianchi shifts visibly in his seat. From the corner of my eye, I notice Giovanni touching his earpiece, his posture suddenly alert. But I’m too focused on my speech to register the warning.

“The Italy I believe in—the Italy I fight for—is one where—”

The crack of the gunshot cuts through my words like thunder. For a heartbeat, everything freezes. Then chaos erupts.

I never expected to die at thirty-three.

The thought flashes through my mind in that suspended moment between the crack of the gunshot and my security detail slamming me to the marble floor of parliament. The bullet kisses my cheek—a lover’s touch with death’s intent—before embedding itself in the ornate wall behind me.

Blood trickles warm down my face as bodies pile on top of me. The chamber erupts in screams and chaos.

“Get him out!” someone shouts.

“Stay down, sir!” Giovanni presses his weight against me.

But something burns inside me hotter than the graze on my face. I’ve spent my life fighting—fighting poverty, fighting corruption, fighting to make my voice heard. I won’t cower now.

“Help me up,” I demand.

“Prime Minister, we need to evacuate—”

“Help me up, now.” I push against the human shield of security personnel. “I’m finishing my speech.”

Giovanni’s face twists with professional horror. “Sir, there could be another shooter.”

“Then find them.” I touch my cheek, fingers coming away red. “But I’m not running.”

The chamber has partially emptied, panicked representatives fleeing for the exits while security locks down the building. Blood stains mywhite shirt collar, but I straighten my tie and return to the podium.

The microphone catches my laboured breathing as I grip the edges of the wooden stand. Those who remain—whether from courage or shock—stare back with wide eyes.

“Ladies and gentlemen of parliament,” I begin, my voice steadier than my hands, “it appears corruption in Italy has become so desperate it’s turned to violence.”

Murmurs ripple through the chamber.

“To whoever just tried to silence me—” I wipe blood from my cheek with my handkerchief, holding it up for all to see, “—you’ve failed. And to those who hired them, hear me clearly: Your days are numbered.”

The chamber erupts in applause—hesitant at first, then building to a roar. Even members of the opposition stand. Nothing unites Italians like defiance in the face of violence.

“This blood—” I press the handkerchief back to my face, “—only strengthens my resolve. The anti-corruption legislation before you isn’t just paper and ink. It’s the future of our country. Vote your conscience tomorrow, but know that Italy is watching.”

I finish my address amid thunderous applause, the pain in my cheek finally registering as adrenaline begins to fade. Security hustles me through back corridors to a waiting ambulance, but I’ve made my point. The assassination attempt that was meant to end my crusade has instead galvanized it.

* * *

“You’re an idiot,” Sophia says, dabbing antiseptic on my stitched cheek three hours later. My sister has always possessed the unique ability to make concern sound like scolding.

“The doctor already cleaned it,” I wince as she presses harder than necessary.

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