“Mr. Speaker, I request the Prime Minister be allowed to continue without interruption.” Her voice carries authority as the respected chair of the Ethics Committee. “These are serious allegations that deserve our full attention.”
Several other centrists murmur agreement. The mood in the chamber shifts subtly—from outright hostility to cautious attention.
“As for my relationship with Pope Pius XIV—yes, his name is Marco Ricci, and yes, I love him.” My voice catches slightly on the word “love,” a rare crack in my political facade. I pause, gathering myself. “I won’t deny it or apologize for it. Two consenting adults finding connection in a world that often feels isolating and cold—is this really what frightens you?”
The chamber grows quieter, some members leaning forward to listen. I notice younger MPs from across the political spectrum exchanging glances, some nodding slightly.
“It’s time for Italy to enter the twenty-first century. To recognize that love comes in many forms, all equally valid, all equally human. The Italy I believe in doesn’t force its citizens to choose between their heart and their service to the nation.”
Domenico Russo, a veteran legislator known for his conservative views, stands slowly. The chamber falls silent, anticipating condemnation from this traditional voice.
“Mr. Prime Minister,” he begins, his voice gravelly with age, “I have served in this chamber for thirty-five years. I was raised in a different time, with different values.” He pauses, and I brace myself for the attack. “But my granddaughter came out to me last year. She is the light of my life, and nothing changed that day.” His eyes meet mine. “I cannot in good conscience condemn you for something I accept in my own family.”
A murmur of surprise ripples through the chamber. Russo sits, nodding to me respectfully.
The atmosphere has transformed. What began as a tribunal now feels like something else—a moment of national reckoning.
“But if you wish to remove me for loving another person, that is your right. Vote your conscience. Just know that the investigation into corruption will continue with or without me.”
I gesture to Justice Minister Gabriella, who stands and approaches with a large box of documents. Her steps are measured, deliberate, the click of her heels on marble punctuating the silence.
“These files contain evidence against twenty-seven current members of this parliament, fifteen senators, and thirty-two government officials. Copies have already been delivered to prosecutors throughout Italy and to the international authorities.”
The doors at the back of the chamber open with a heavy thud that echoes throughout the room. Police officers in uniform file in silently, positioning themselves around the perimeter. Their presence sends an electric current through the assembly—this is no longer political theatre but something far more consequential.
Several MPs rise in alarm. Others remain frozen in their seats. A few begin edging toward exits only to find uniformed officers blocking their path.
“The evidence is overwhelming and has been independently verified. No matter what happens with today’s vote, there will be accountability for all those identified.”
Carlos realizes what’s happening before anyone else. He bolts for a side door but finds two officers blocking his path. Panic flashes across his face—the look of a man watching his carefully constructed world collapse.
“What is this?” he shouts, his voice cracking. “You can’t—”
A senior police official steps forward, unfolding an official document. “Carlos Rossi, by order of the Italian judiciary, you are under arrest for corruption, money laundering, conspiracy, and obstruction of justice.”
The chamber erupts. Some members stand on their chairs to get a better view. Others shout questions or protestations. A few sit in stunned silence, perhaps mentally reviewing their own financial dealings.
Carlos backs away. “This is a coup! Valentini is trying to seize absolute power!”
“The warrants were issued by independent judges after reviewingevidence gathered over the past months,” I explain, maintaining my composure though my heart races with vindication. “I have no control over the judiciary, as you well know.”
Carlos knocks over chairs as he retreats from advancing officers. “You’ll regret this, Matteo! When this is over, I’ll destroy you!”
“The evidence will speak for itself, Carlos.”
Officers move through the chamber, reading names from warrants. Finance Minister Russo slumps in his chair as he’s arrested, all bravado evaporated. Minister Bianchi attempts to flee but is quickly apprehended, his protests and screams echoing off the ornate ceiling. Several parliamentarians from various parties are handcuffed and led away.
The scene is unprecedented in modern Italian politics—elected officials being arrested on the parliament floor. Journalists in the press gallery scramble to capture every moment, their cameras flashing like lightning in a storm.
Carlos makes a final, desperate move, climbing onto his desk. “This man is sleeping with the Pope!” he screams, pointing at me. “The Prime Minister and the Holy Father are homosexuals! This is the real scandal! Not some fabricated corruption charges!”
Elena Ferretti stands again. “We’ve all seen the photos, Carlos. We don’t need your commentary.”
“And some of us don’t care who the Prime Minister loves,” adds another member, a young progressive who has been silent until now. “We care about who’s stealing from the Italian people.”
To my surprise, a ripple of applause follows his statement, starting small but growing. Not universal, but substantial enough to matter.
Carlos’s face contorts with rage as officers pull him down from the desk. “You’re all fools! He’s bewitched you!”
