“The doctor doesn’t know you’ll scratch at it in your sleep.” She caps the bottle and steps back, arms crossed over her chest. “You could have died today, Matteo.”
“But I didn’t.”
“Pure luck.”
“I prefer to call it divine intervention.” I attempt a smile but stop when it pulls at my stitches.
We stand in the kitchen of my apartment—a modest space considering my position. The security detail has swept it twice before allowing me to return, and now two agents stand outside my door. The bulletproof windows are drawn shut against the night, but I can still hear the crowd gathered below. Supporters have been arriving since news of the attempt broke.
“You should see the polls,” I say, checking my phone. “Approval rating up twelve points already.”
Sophia snatches the device from my hand. “Is that all you care about? Polls?”
“Of course not. But if this pushes the anti-corruption package through—”
“Always the work.” She slams my phone down on the counter. “When was the last time you did anything else? When was the last time you even had a date?”
I turn away, opening the refrigerator though I’m not hungry. “I don’t have time for that.”
“It’s been years, Matteo.”
“Two. Maybe three.”
“Five. That architect from Milan, remember? You stood him up for a budget meeting.”
I close the refrigerator. “The country needed me.”
“And what do you need?” Her voice softens as she places a hand on my shoulder. “You’re thirty-three, little brother. Not exactly theyoungest prime minister anymore.”
“Still the youngest in Italian history,” I correct her.
“And what good is making history if you’re alone?”
I have no answer for that. The truth is, relationships complicate things. My sexuality isn’t exactly a secret, but it isn’t front-page news either. Most Italians probably have no idea their prime minister is gay, and I prefer it that way. My work comes first—always has. Anything else would be a distraction.
“The package goes to vote tomorrow,” I say, changing the subject. “If it passes, we can finally go after the banking cartels, the offshore accounts, the shell companies laundering money through—”
“Through charities, foundations, and religious organizations. I’ve heard this speech.” Sophia sighs, recognizing my deflection but allowing it. “Just promise me you’ll be more careful.”
“I promise.” I kiss her forehead. “Now go home to your husband and kids. My niece and nephew deserve to have their mama at home with them. One of us should have a life.”
After she leaves, I pour myself two fingers of scotch and settle at my desk with the intelligence briefing that arrived while I was at the hospital. The folder is marked “Preliminary” and “Eyes Only,” but I’d demanded immediate information, no matter how incomplete.
The bullet has been traced to a Czech-made weapon, favoured by Eastern European contract killers. Professional job. The suspected shooter escaped in the chaos, but security cameras caught a partial image—male, approximately 175 cm, athletic build.
I flip to the next page, and my hand freezes mid-turn.
“Financial connections of interest,” the heading reads. Below is a complex web of transactions, shell companies, and intermediaries. But one name jumps out, highlighted by my intelligence chief: “Vatican Bank adjacent interests.”
I set down my glass. The Catholic Church and I have an uneasyrelationship at best. My anti-corruption platform has always carefully avoided direct confrontation with the Church’s financial empire, focusing instead on corporate and political corruption. Not because I fear the Church, but because battling such a powerful institution requires perfect timing and irrefutable evidence.
The phone rings, interrupting my thoughts. My intelligence chief, Dottore Esposito.
“I see you’ve received the briefing,” he says without preamble when I answer.
“Is this solid?” I ask.
“Preliminary, as noted. But the money trail is… concerning. Someone with access to accounts connected to Vatican financial interests transferred funds through three separate shells before they disappeared into numbered accounts in Liechtenstein.”
