“Will he survive?” I ask, my voice barely audible over the commotion.
Chen’s expression tells me everything before he speaks. “The doctors are doing everything possible, but his reaction is severe.”
Hours later, I kneel beside Fabrizio’s hospital bed in the Vatican medical facility. His breathing is laboured, face still flushed with fever,but the doctors say he’s stabilized. The toxicology report confirmed what we already suspected: a concentrated dose of a rare toxin, nearly undetectable in food.
“It was meant for me,” I whisper, clasping his limp hand. “I’m so sorry.”
Sister Lucia stands beside me, her usual stoic demeanour replaced with barely contained fury. “This was professional, Your Holiness. Not some random act.”
“How did they access the kitchen? The Vatican’s security—”
“Has been thoroughly compromised, it seems” she finishes. “Someone inside must have helped.”
I feel the weight of betrayal pressing down on me. Another enemy within these sacred walls. Another reminder that my position makes me both powerful and vulnerable in ways I never imagined.
My phone vibrates in my pocket—an unusual occurrence this late. Few people have my private number. The screen shows a message from an unlisted contact, but I recognize the secure messaging app installed by Vatican intelligence after the threatening note I received weeks ago.
The message is brief:Car accident. Minor injuries. Same pattern. Need to meet. Secure location only. -M
M. Matteo Valentini. My heart races, though I tell myself it’s concern rather than something more complicated.
I look up at Sister Lucia. “I need to arrange a meeting outside the Vatican. Completely secure, completely private.”
Her eyebrows rise slightly, but she asks no questions. “I know a place.”
* * *
The monastery sits nestled in the hills outside Rome, its ancient stonewalls promising discretion and safety. Abandoned decades ago, it’s now occasionally used by Vatican security for sensitive matters—its existence known to only a handful of people.
I pace the small chapel, my footsteps echoing against worn stone floors. The single candle I’ve lit casts long shadows across faded frescoes. No electricity, no cameras, no recording devices possible. My Swiss Guard security team swept the building twice before leaving us with a secure perimeter.
The heavy wooden door creaks open, and Matteo enters alone. Even in the dim light, I can see the bruise darkening his forehead and the careful way he holds himself, favouring his right side.
“You’re hurt,” I say, moving toward him instinctively.
“Nothing serious. The car hit the guardrail at relatively low speed.” His voice is steady, but I detect the strain beneath it. “My driver noticed the brakes failing and managed to reduce our speed before impact.”
“Thank God.” The relief I feel is profound, almost overwhelming.
“Not God. Good Italian engineering and a vigilant driver.” He attempts a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “And you? I heard rumours about an incident at the Russian dinner.”
“Cardinal Fabrizio is fighting for his life after tasting my dessert.”
Matteo’s expression darkens. “Poison? Professional?”
I nod. “The timing is what concerns me most. Yesterday, I received the preliminary findings from the Vatican Bank audit.”
Understanding flashes across his face. “And I just received a confidential report from our financial crimes unit yesterday morning.”
We move to a small wooden table where I’ve placed two folders. One bears the papal seal, the other the emblem of the Italian government. Without speaking, we exchange them.
As I scan the contents of his folder, my blood runs cold. Lists of shell companies, money laundering operations, property holdings used tohide assets—all connected to figures within the Italian government. Names I recognize from news reports and diplomatic functions. But what truly stops my breath is seeing these same entities linked to Vatican investments.
“The Lombardi Foundation,” I murmur, pointing to a highlighted section. “It’s one of our largest charitable trusts. Cardinal Lombardi oversees it personally.”
Matteo nods grimly. “And it’s laundering money for the Calabrian mafia through these property developments.” He taps another document. “Which connect to Minister Russo’s family businesses.”
“Your Finance Minister?”
