His eyes meet mine with an intensity that makes me look away. “Of course.”
To break the sudden tension, I gesture to the book. “My thoughts on love and relationships evolved considerably during my studies. Francis opened doors that many thought permanently closed.”
Matteo thumbs through the pages, pausing at my underlined passages and margin notes. “You were quite the rebellious seminarian, weren’t you? Some of these notes would most certainly raise eyebrows among your cardinals.”
“Which is why I thought you should see them. To understand where I truly stand.”
He nods slowly, then sets the book down. With a slight hesitation, he reaches for his collar and loosens it further.
“Speaking of understanding each other better…” He unbuttons his shirt just enough to reveal the upper portion of his chest, where an angry red scar curves along his collarbone. “The doctors say I was lucky. The bullet grazed my cheek and collarbone; two centimetres lower and we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
The wound is still healing—pink and tender against his olive skin. Without thinking, I reach toward it, stopping just short of contact.
“May I?” I ask, the words barely audible.
He nods once, his eyes never leaving mine.
My fingertips brush the raised edge of the scar. His skin is warm, surprisingly soft. I can feel his heartbeat quicken beneath my touch. A wave of sensation travels through my hand, up my arm, settling somewhere deep in my chest. The seminary never prepared me for this—the overwhelming intimacy of touching another’s wound, the sacred trust in his eyes as he allows it.
“In seminary, they taught us that suffering brings us closer to Christ,” I say quietly, my voice unsteady. “But I’ve always struggled with that teaching. There’s nothing divine about pain inflicted by human hatred.”
My fingers trace the scar’s path, and I’m caught in a violent undertowof conflicting emotions. Part of me—the priest, the man of Christ, the Pope—recognizes this as a pastoral moment, offering comfort to someone who has suffered. But another part—the man I’ve tried to subdue for years—thrills at the contact, wants to let my hand drift lower, to feel more of him.
Is this what temptation truly feels like? Not the obvious evil we’re warned about, but something that begins as compassion before transforming into desire? My theological training battles with the heat spreading through my body. I silently recite prayers I’ve known since childhood, but they dissolve before they’re complete, replaced by questions no confessor could absolve.
“Is that why you became a priest? To ease suffering?” Matteo asks, his voice lower than before.
“Partly.” My fingers linger longer than necessary, betraying me. I should pull away—my position, my vows, everything I’ve dedicated my life to demands it—yet I remain, committing this moment to memory: the texture of his skin, the rhythm of his pulse, the warmth between us. “And to understand love in all its forms.”
The words hang between us, laden with meanings I dare not examine too closely. In my years of service, I’ve blessed countless marriages, counselled devoted couples, spoken of God’s love in homilies and private consultations. But this—this feels like standing at the edge of an abyss, simultaneously terrified and longing to fall.
When I finally withdraw my hand, the absence of contact feels like a loss. My fingertips tingle with phantom sensation, as if they’ve touched something sacred or forbidden—perhaps both. I flex my hand at my side, trying to dispel the feeling, knowing it will linger for hours.
“Your Holiness—” he begins.
“Marco,” I correct him. “Please, when we’re alone, I’m just Marco.”
“Marco,” he repeats, and hearing my name in his voice doessomething strange to my chest. “I think we’re both searching for similar truths, just through different paths.”
The door opens abruptly, and Cardinal Sullivan appears. “The room is clear, Your Holiness, Prime Minister. We can proceed with the meeting.”
The moment shatters like glass. Matteo and I step apart, though I don’t recall when we’d moved so close together.
The full security teams rejoin us in the conference room, along with our respective advisors. The formal meeting begins with discussions of the coordinated break-ins, the stolen financial documents, and theories about who might benefit from disrupting our investigations.
But throughout the diplomatic exchange, I remain acutely aware of Matteo across the table—the way his hands gesture when he speaks, how his brow furrows in concentration, the occasional glance he sends my way when others are speaking.
“The timing of these breaches can’t be coincidental,” Matteo is saying. “Both occurred within hours of our teams exchanging information about the Vatican Bank’s connections to several companies under investigation.”
Cardinal Antonelli, who insisted on attending despite my reservations, interjects, “The Holy See maintains its sovereignty and the right to conduct its own internal investigations without government interference.”
“With respect, Cardinal,” Matteo responds, his voice cooling, “when those investigations involve Italian citizens and businesses operating on Italian soil, cooperation becomes necessary, not optional.”
I raise my hand slightly, silencing further debate. “The Prime Minister is right. If we have nothing to hide, we have nothing to fear from cooperation. Christ himself said the truth will set us free.”
Antonelli’s face tightens, but he says nothing more.
The meeting continues for another hour, with agreements reachedon enhanced security measures and limited information sharing between our financial investigators. Throughout, I sense Matteo’s eyes on me when I speak, and find my own gaze drawn to him more often than propriety would suggest.
