“Marco?” His voice fills my ear, and tears spring to my eyes.
“Matteo,” I whisper. “Thank God.”
“Are you alright? Sullivan says they’ve practically imprisoned you.”
“I’m physically fine, but isolated. They’re moving to force myresignation tomorrow. And you?”
“Fighting for my political life,” he says with a grim laugh. “The no-confidence vote is scheduled for the day after tomorrow. But I’m not backing down, Marco. I won’t apologize for loving you.”
His words fill me with warmth and resolve. “Nor I you.”
“Sullivan and my Justice Minister have been coordinating. We have evidence linking Antonelli and Visconti directly to the Vatican Bank corruption. If we release it—”
“It could tear the Church apart,” I finish.
“Yes. But it might save your pontificate.”
I close my eyes, weighing the options. “What about Colonel Reichlin? Sullivan says he’s been deceived.”
“We’re working on that. My intelligence service has analyzed the threats he received. They’re sophisticated forgeries. If we can prove that to him—”
“Then the Swiss Guard might return to their proper duty,” I finish. “Protecting the Pope, not ignoring his imprisonment.”
“Exactly.”
We talk strategy for several minutes, then fall into a moment of silence.
“Marco,” he says finally, “whatever you decide, know that I stand with you. In love, in faith, in purpose.”
“As do I with you,” I whisper.
After we disconnect, I kneel in prayer, but this time with clarity rather than confusion. The path forward has revealed itself—not resignation, not defiance, but truth.
* * *
Morning brings Cardinal Sullivan himself to my door, accompanied by Captain Lombardi.
“Your Holiness,” Sullivan embraces me, his aged face lined with worry. “We haven’t much time. The College convenes in two hours.”
“You’ve spoken with Reichlin?”
“Not yet. But we’ve prepared evidence showing the fabricated nature of the threats. Lombardi will present it to him directly.”
I nod to the young captain. “Be careful. Much depends on you.”
“I understand, Holy Father.”
After Lombardi departs, Sullivan and I discuss my plan. His eyes widen as I explain what I intend.
“It’s risky,” he warns. “They could still force a vote.”
“They could,” I agree. “But they’ll do so in the light, not darkness. Before the world, not behind closed doors.”
Sullivan studies me, then nods slowly. “You’ve found your way through this wilderness.”
“Not my way,” I correct him. “God’s way. Through truth, not fear.”
As the hour approaches for the College to convene, I dress not in the formal papal vestments they expect, but in a simple white cassock. No regalia, no trappings of office—just the basic garment of my role.
