When we finally conclude, I walk with him toward the exit where his security detail waits.
“I’d like to keep your book a while longer, if I may,” he says quietly as we walk. “Your marginalia is… illuminating.”
“Keep it as long as you wish. Some of those thoughts have evolved since I wrote them, but the questions remain the same.”
“And have you found answers to those questions?”
I pause, choosing my words carefully. “I’ve found that the more I learn, the more I realize how little I truly know—especially about matters of the heart.”
Something flickers across his face—recognition, perhaps, or shared understanding. Before he can respond, shouting erupts ahead of us.
“Breach! We have a breach!” The security teams surge forward, surrounding us instantly.
Through the chaos, I glimpse a man being tackled to the ground by a Swiss Guard, a camera clattering across the marble floor. Matteo’s security chief is on him immediately, pinning him as others secure the area.
“A photographer,” Cardinal Sullivan reports, his face ashen. “Somehow he got past all the Vatican checkpoints with false credentials.”
The Italian security chief approaches, holding up the camera. “He was taking photos of you both. The memory card is already being analyzed.”
Matteo’s expression hardens. “This is the third security breach in two days. Someone is watching us very closely.”
“The question is who,” I say quietly. “And what exactly are they hoping to see?”
His eyes meet mine, and in that moment, I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing I am—that perhaps they already saw too much.
“I’ll have my team increase security for our next meeting,” he says formally, for the benefit of those around us.
“Yes,” I agree, maintaining the same professional distance. “That would be wise.”
But as he leaves, surrounded by his protective detail, I find myself touching my fingers to my lips, remembering the feel of his skin beneath them. Whatever current passed between us in that small room cannot be unseen or unfelt.
I stare at my hand, the same hand that blesses the faithful, that consecrates the Eucharist, that bears the Fisherman’s Ring. Now it carries the memory of Matteo’s heartbeat, his warmth, the texture of his skin. The dichotomy is overwhelming—am I two separate beings inhabiting one body? The Holy Father, successor to Peter, and Marco Ricci, a man with desires I’ve spent a lifetime trying to ignore?
Tonight, I know I will lie awake, replaying those moments in the antechamber. I will question whether my touch lingered from compassion or desire. I will wonder if the quickening of my pulse was spiritual connection or something far more human. I will pray for guidance while knowing exactly what Church doctrine would say about the thoughts I cannot seem to control.
And that, I fear, may be more dangerous than any security breach—this awakening of feelings that have no place in the life I’ve chosen, in the role I’ve been called to fill. The photographer’s intrusion suddenly seems like divine intervention, a warning that even in private moments, I am never truly alone, never free to simply be a man rather than a symbol.
Yet even as I form these thoughts, I find myself anticipating our next meeting with an eagerness that has nothing to do with matters of state or Church. And therein lies my greatest peril.
II
Converging Paths
7
Assassination Attempt
Marco
I sit motionless in my chair, watching as Cardinal Fabrizio slumps forward into his plate, his body convulsing violently. The diplomatic dinner—meant to celebrate improved Vatican-Russian relations—erupts into chaos around me.
“Il Cardinale! Aiuto!” someone shouts.
My security detail surrounds me instantly, pulling me away from the table as medical staff rush to Fabrizio. My head swims with confusion until Archbishop Chen appears at my side, his face ashen.
“Your Holiness, Cardinal Fabrizio tasted your dessert as protocol requires.”
The realization hits me like a physical blow. The dessert meant for me—the tiramisu I’d been looking forward to all evening—now sits innocently beside Fabrizio’s contorted body.
