The cavernous space is lit only by selected reading lamps, creating pools of golden light among the shadows. Ancient volumes line the walls, silent witnesses to centuries of papal history. I wonder briefly how many of my predecessors faced crises of faith within these walls, how many wrestled with human desires while bearing divine responsibilities.
I arrange the documents on the central table, spreading out financial records, connection diagrams, and the notes I’ve compiled. The evidence is damning—a network of corruption spanning Church and State, using charitable foundations to launder money, manipulating development projects to enrich the powerful while exploiting the poor.
The soft click of the door interrupts my thoughts. Matteo enters, nodding to the guard who closes the door behind him. He’s dressed more casually than usual—dark slacks and a blue shirt open at the collar, no tie. The bruises from the car accident have faded to yellow shadows on his forehead.
“You’ve been busy,” he says, surveying the documents I’ve arranged.
“As have you.” I gesture to the portfolio he carries. “New discoveries?”
He nods, setting his materials beside mine. “More evidence of financial transfers from Russo’s family trust to offshore accounts that match the ‘untouchable accounts’ Monsignor Adessi mentioned.”
For the next hour, we work methodically, connecting evidence from both our investigations, building a comprehensive map of the corruption network. The concentration required keeps us focused, professional, though I’m acutely aware of his proximity each time he leans across the table or stands beside me to examine a document.
“Cardinal Antonelli’s offshore accounts connect directly to three shell companies in Cyprus.” I slide another document across the antique desk where Matteo sits, his jacket now discarded, sleeves rolled up, and tie absent. “The transaction patterns match perfectly with the deposits to Russo’s family trust.”
Matteo rubs his eyes, fatigue evident in the dark circles beneath them. “We’ve got them. The evidence is overwhelming.”
“And yet not enough for a conviction without risking massive retaliation.” I collapse into the chair opposite him, the weight of our discoveries pressing down on my shoulders.
The library feels different at night—more intimate, the soft glow of reading lamps creating islands of light in the darkness. Matteo looks different too, vulnerable without his public persona, his usual confidence softened by exhaustion.
“Coffee?” I offer, gesturing to the silver carafe a nervous attendant left before I dismissed him.
“Something stronger, if you have it.” Matteo’s smile is weary but genuine.
I cross to a hidden panel in the bookcase and reveal a small cabinet. “One of my predecessors had this installed. Apparently, theological debates can require fortification.”
I return with two crystal tumblers containing amber liquid. Our fingers brush as I hand him his glass, and I feel that same unexpected spark that’s been haunting me since our first meeting.
“To unlikely allies.” Matteo raises his glass.
“To truth, however uncomfortable.” I touch my glass to his, the crystal singing softly.
The brandy burns pleasantly as it slides down my throat. We sit in companionable silence for a moment, the tension of the past weeks settling around us.
“We need to coordinate the announcements,” Matteo finally says. “The timing must be perfect—simultaneous revelations from both the Vatican and the government. No warning, no leaks.”
“I’ve prepared a statement condemning the misuse of Church funds and announcing a complete restructuring of Vatican financial oversight.”
“And I’ll announce the arrests and the emergency legislation simultaneously.” Matteo stands, stretching his back. “They won’t have time to hide their assets or flee.”
I watch him move to the window, gazing out at the moonlit gardens. His silhouette is striking against the night sky, and I find myself studying the lines of his shoulders, the way his hair curls slightly at the nape of his neck.
“Do you ever wonder what your life would have been if you’d chosen differently?” Matteo asks suddenly, still facing the window.
“Every day since they put this ring on my finger.” I twist the papal ring absently. “Though I believed I was following my path. I just never imagined it would lead here.”
Matteo turns, leaning against the windowsill. “I always knew I wanted to change Italy, but I pictured myself doing it from the streets, not the Palazzo Chigi.”
“And yet here we are, both carrying burdens we never anticipated.”
“The loneliest men in Rome.” Matteo’s laugh holds no humour.
I rise and join him at the window, standing close enough to sense his warmth without touching. “Is that how you feel? Lonely?”
His eyes meet mine, unguarded in a way I’ve never seen before. “Desperately. I’m surrounded by people constantly—staff, security, ministers, reporters—and yet completely alone.”
“The higher you climb, the fewer true companions you find.”
