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The Unexpected Pope

Marco

I stand frozen at the centre of the Sistine Chapel, my eyes fixed on Cardinal Gallo’s collapsed form.

One moment he’s standing tall in his crimson robes, the next—sprawled across the marble floor, face contorted in agony.

The Swiss Guards rush to his side while the other cardinals huddle in shocked whispers.

“Heart attack,” someone murmurs behind me.

Chaos erupts in the sacred space. Cardinals abandon decorum, their raised voices echoing beneath Michelangelo’s masterpiece.

The conclave has been deadlocked for eleven ballots—the conservatives behind Cardinal Lombardi, the progressives supporting Cardinal Ferreira.

Neither faction gaining the required two-thirds majority.

I observe the distinct reactions splitting along factional lines.

The Lombardi conservatives huddle tight, their whispers urgent and calculating.

Several make the sign of the cross, but their eyes dart strategically across the room—already assessing how Gallo’s absence shifts the voting math.

Cardinal Bianchi, Lombardi’s right hand, catches my gaze and nods curtly before turning back to their circle.

Across the chapel, Ferreira’s progressives react with genuine shock.

Cardinal Chen Wei from Hong Kong kneels in earnest prayer while Archbishop Gonzalez from Mexico City comforts a visibly shaken Cardinal Santos.

Their faction has lost no ally in Gallo, who leaned conservative, yet their humanity shows in this moment of crisis.

And I, Cardinal Marco Ricci, stand quietly in the shadows, casting my vote according to conscience while expecting nothing more than to return to my modest parish when this historic moment passes.

I’ve never aligned myself fully with either camp—finding Lombardi’s rigid traditionalism stifling, yet cautious of Ferreira’s eagerness to reshape doctrine.

This middle path has made me largely invisible to both factions, which has suited me perfectly until now.

The Irish Cardinal Sullivan approaches me, his weathered face grave. “This changes everything, Marco.”

“Gallo will recover,” I say, though the grim efficiency with which they carry him out suggests otherwise.

Sullivan shakes his head slightly. We’ve developed a close understanding and friendship over the past week—he being one of the few who sought my opinion on theological matters despite my youth. Where others dismissed me, he listened.

“The Holy Spirit works in mysterious ways.” Sullivan grips my shoulder. “The conclave needs resolution. Neither faction will yield, but perhaps they’ll accept a compromise.”

I laugh, the sound hollow in the vast chamber. “Surely you don’t mean—”

“Why not you?” His eyes hold mine. “Young enough to satisfy the progressives, traditional enough in your theology to appease the conservatives. Humble origins. Beloved by your congregation.”

“I’m thirty-one, Sullivan. Practically a child in this company.”

“Christ was thirty-three when he changed the world.” His voice drops lower. “And I’ve read your dissertation on the early church’s adaptability. You understand both tradition and evolution—exactly what the Church needs now.”

I shake my head, but Sullivan’s unwavering confidence unsettles me. Unlike the political cardinals who manoeuvre for influence, Sullivan has always struck me as a man guided by genuine faith. If he believes this possible…

“The Lombardi faction would never accept me,” I whisper. “They want someone who’ll maintain every tradition unquestioned.”

“They’re pragmatists beneath their rhetoric,” Sullivan counters. “With Gallo gone, they’ve lost their strongest voice. They fear Ferreira more than they fear a moderate like you.”

Before I can respond, Cardinal Rossi joins us. Then Ferreira himself. Within an hour, whispers of my name spread through the Chapel like incense.

“He’s very young, but his pastoral work is exemplary,” I overhear Cardinal Chen Wei telling a cluster of Asian prelates. “His programs for the homeless in Turin show true commitment to the marginalized.”

“Too young,” Cardinal Bianchi mutters to his allies. “But his writings on the sanctity of tradition show proper respect. And he’s Italian—the See returning to Rome after a Polish, German, and Argentinian pope would satisfy many.”

Cardinal Ferreira himself studies me from across the room, his keen eyes assessing. When we briefly pass each other near the altar, he murmurs, “You’ve never sought power, Marco. Perhaps that’s precisely why you should have it.”

The conversations swirl around me like smoke—some dismissive, others intrigued. “He’s never been tested,” argues Cardinal Meyer from Austria. “The Curia would devour him.”

“Or perhaps,” counters Sullivan, who seems to materialize whenever my candidacy is questioned, “he would bring fresh perspective to calcified thinking.”

When the next ballot is counted, I stare in disbelief as my name appears again and again.

Not enough for election, but suddenly a contender.

By the following morning, as the cardinals gather for the next vote, I feel the weight of their stares.

Some curious, some calculating, some already deferential—as if they can sense the winds shifting.

“Placetne tibi accipere munus Petri?” Cardinal Rossi asks when the final count confirms the unthinkable.

Do I accept the burden of Peter? My mouth goes dry. Memories cascade through my mind—the tiny kitchen in our home outside Naples where Mama stretches every lira to feed us, the crumbling parish church where I first feel God’s presence, the seminary where I hide my deepest self.

“Accepto,” I whisper, sealing my fate.

* * *

The cobblestone streets of Castellammare di Stabia glisten after rain, the air thick with salt from the Bay of Naples. I run through puddles, nine years old and heedless of my soaked sandals.

“Marco! Your shoes!” Mama calls from our doorway, her face lined with exhaustion after her shift at the cannery.

“Let him play, Maria,” Papa says, ruffling my hair as I skid to a stop. “The boy works hard enough at school.”

At dinner later that evening, huddled in our small kitchen, Papa coughs blood into his handkerchief.

Three months later, he is gone—lung disease from years in the shipyard.

Mama takes on a second job cleaning for the wealthy summer residents.

I start serving as an altar boy at the Chiesa di San Vincenzo.

Father Benetti notices my dedication, the way I linger after Mass to study the Latin texts. “You have a calling, young Marco,” he tells me one evening. “I see it in how you serve. ”

At fourteen, I know he is right about the calling. I also know something else—something I dare not speak aloud. When other boys talk of girls, my eyes stray to Paolo, who delivers bread each morning with flour dusting his dark curls.

I remember one summer dawn, helping Father Benetti prepare for early Mass.

Paolo arrives with the communion bread, his thin white shirt damp with sweat from his bicycle ride through town.

Sunlight streams through the stained glass, casting coloured patterns across his olive skin.

He laughs at something Father says, and the sound makes my stomach tighten.

“Try this,” Paolo says when Father steps away, breaking off a corner of non-consecrated bread. His fingers brush mine as he places it in my palm. “My mother added honey to the recipe.”

The sweetness melts on my tongue. Paolo watches my reaction, standing close enough that I can smell the yeast and flour on his clothes. “Good?” he asks, and I can only nod, my voice trapped somewhere between desire and shame.

That night, I kneel beside my bed until my knees bruise the floor, praying desperately for these feelings to pass. I beg God to make me normal, to let me desire what I should. When sleep finally comes, Paolo’s smile follows me into dreams that leave me twisted in sweat-soaked sheets by morning.

The seminary offers escape and purpose. I bury myself in theology, canon law, the writings of the Church Fathers. If I study hard enough, pray fervently enough, perhaps these sinful feelings and desires of the flesh will fade.

They never do. They simply go underground, like water carving caves beneath the earth’s surface—unseen but ever-present, shaping me in ways I cannot acknowledge even to myself.

* * *

“Habemus Papam!” The announcement thunders across St. Peter’s Square as thousands erupt in cheers.

I step onto the balcony, the weight of two thousand years of tradition draped across my shoulders in white vestments. Below, a sea of faces turns upward, cameras flash, and the faithful weep with joy.

“Annuntio vobis gaudium magnum,” Cardinal Rossi proclaims beside me. “I announce to you a great joy: We have a Pope!”

The crowd roars as he announces my papal name—Pius XIV, chosen to honour the tradition I respect while signalling my hope for a church that serves the poor and marginalized.

Later, after the rituals and blessings, after the congratulations of cardinals who mere days before had barely noticed me, I find myself alone in the papal apartment.

The opulence strikes me—gilded furniture, priceless art, thick carpets beneath my feet.

So far from Mama’s kitchen with its chipped tiles and faded curtains.

I cross to the window, gazing out at the lights of Rome. How has this happened? A compromise candidate, they call me. Young enough to be malleable, traditional enough to be trusted. If they only knew my thoughts, my private struggles, my dreams for reform.

I sink onto the edge of the massive bed, overwhelmed. My entire life has been preparation for service, but not this. Never this.

The memory of Cardinal Gallo’s collapsed form haunts me. Has the Holy Spirit truly intervened, or am I merely the beneficiary of political calculation and tragic timing?

* * *

Father Donato had caught me in the seminary library, tears streaming down my face at twenty-two.