Page 10

Cardinal’s Sin

Marco

I sit stiffly in the formal reception room, watching security personnel methodically sweep every corner with their electronic devices.

The Vatican’s own security team moves with practiced precision alongside the Italian protective detail—two groups circling each other like wary cats sharing territory.

“Your Holiness, we’ve found another one.” Father Tomás approaches, holding up a tiny listening device between gloved fingers. “That makes three.”

My stomach tightens. “Where was this one?”

“Behind the painting of Saint Peter.” He gestures toward the ornate gilded frame that has hung in this room since before I was born.

The Italian security chief—a stern woman with silver-streaked hair pulled into a severe bun—exchanges glances with Cardinal Sullivan. “We found similar devices at the anti-corruption headquarters this morning,” she says. “Sophisticated. Military grade.”

Cardinal Sullivan’s face darkens. “Coming after the break-ins at both our financial offices and the Prime Minister’s anti-corruption task force…”

I don’t need him to finish the thought. Someone is coordinating attacks against both the Vatican and the Italian government—specifically targeting our financial investigations.

The security chief checks her watch. “The Prime Minister has arrived, Your Holiness, but we recommend moving this meeting to the secure conference room in the lower level. It was swept this morning and has remained sealed, though we will still want to quickly check it again to be certain.”

“Very well.” I rise, adjusting my white cassock. Despite weeks in the papal garments, they still feel borrowed, like I’m playing dress-up in clothes meant for someone else.

The secure conference room is smaller and lacks the grandeur of the state rooms above.

No fresco-ed ceilings or marble columns—just reinforced concrete walls, a plain wooden table, and chairs that value function over form.

It reminds me of university seminar rooms where I once debated theology as a young seminarian.

When Matteo Valentini enters, he brings with him the same crackling energy I remember from our previous meeting. He wears a perfectly tailored navy suit, his dark hair slightly tousled as if he’s run his hands through it in frustration.

“Your Holiness.” He bows slightly, the formality at odds with the directness of his gaze.

“Prime Minister. I apologize for the change in venue.”

“Given the circumstances, I think we can dispense with protocol.” He loosens his tie slightly. “My security team is telling me we’ve both been compromised. I wasn’t aware of the break in to the governmental offices until just now.”

Before I can respond, the security chiefs approach us.

“Your Holiness, Prime Minister,” Cardinal Sullivan says, “we need to conduct one final sweep of this room with both teams present. Would you mind stepping into the antechamber for a moment? It shouldn’t take more than ten minutes. ”

The antechamber is barely more than a glorified closet—a small room with two chairs and a side table that serves as a waiting area before entering the conference space. As the door closes behind us, leaving Matteo and me alone, the room suddenly feels much smaller than it is.

The confined space intensifies everything—the soft ticking of the antique clock, the subtle notes of Matteo’s cologne mingling with the ancient scent of leather-bound books, even the sound of our breathing.

I notice details I shouldn’t: the way his suit jacket pulls slightly across his shoulders when he moves, the strong line of his jaw, the dark lashes that frame his expressive eyes.

My training taught me to observe God’s creation with appreciation, but this feels different—more visceral, more dangerous.

“I brought something for you,” I say, reaching into the folds of my cassock. “After our last conversation about Church teachings, I thought you might find this interesting.”

I withdraw a small, leather-bound book, its spine cracked from years of use. The gilt lettering has mostly worn away, but the title is still visible: “Amoris Laetitia: The Joy of Love.”

“Pope Francis’s exhortation on love and family,” I explain. “But this is my personal copy from seminary. My annotations might interest you, particularly regarding Chapter Eight on accompanying those in… complex situations.”

Matteo takes the book, our fingers brushing as it passes between us. A jolt—like static electricity but warmer—travels up my arm. I pull my hand back too quickly, nearly dropping the book.

“Careful,” he says, steadying the text. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, just—” I pause, uncertain how to explain a reaction I don’t understand myself. “Static electricity, I suppose.”

His eyes meet mine with an intensity that makes me look away. “Of course. ”

To break the sudden tension, I gesture to the book. “My thoughts on love and relationships evolved considerably during my studies. Francis opened doors that many thought permanently closed.”

Matteo thumbs through the pages, pausing at my underlined passages and margin notes. “You were quite the rebellious seminarian, weren’t you? Some of these notes would most certainly raise eyebrows among your cardinals.”

“Which is why I thought you should see them. To understand where I truly stand.”

He nods slowly, then sets the book down. With a slight hesitation, he reaches for his collar and loosens it further.

“Speaking of understanding each other better…” He unbuttons his shirt just enough to reveal the upper portion of his chest, where an angry red scar curves along his collarbone.

“The doctors say I was lucky. The bullet grazed my cheek and collarbone; two centimetres lower and we wouldn’t be having this conversation. ”

The wound is still healing—pink and tender against his olive skin. Without thinking, I reach toward it, stopping just short of contact.

“May I?” I ask, the words barely audible.

He nods once, his eyes never leaving mine.

My fingertips brush the raised edge of the scar.

His skin is warm, surprisingly soft. I can feel his heartbeat quicken beneath my touch.

A wave of sensation travels through my hand, up my arm, settling somewhere deep in my chest. The seminary never prepared me for this—the overwhelming intimacy of touching another’s wound, the sacred trust in his eyes as he allows it.

“In seminary, they taught us that suffering brings us closer to Christ,” I say quietly, my voice unsteady. “But I’ve always struggled with that teaching. There’s nothing divine about pain inflicted by human hatred.”

My fingers trace the scar’s path, and I’m caught in a violent undertow of conflicting emotions.

Part of me—the priest, the man of Christ, the Pope—recognizes this as a pastoral moment, offering comfort to someone who has suffered.

But another part—the man I’ve tried to subdue for years—thrills at the contact, wants to let my hand drift lower, to feel more of him.

Is this what temptation truly feels like?

Not the obvious evil we’re warned about, but something that begins as compassion before transforming into desire?

My theological training battles with the heat spreading through my body.

I silently recite prayers I’ve known since childhood, but they dissolve before they’re complete, replaced by questions no confessor could absolve.

“Is that why you became a priest? To ease suffering?” Matteo asks, his voice lower than before.

“Partly.” My fingers linger longer than necessary, betraying me.

I should pull away—my position, my vows, everything I’ve dedicated my life to demands it—yet I remain, committing this moment to memory: the texture of his skin, the rhythm of his pulse, the warmth between us.

“And to understand love in all its forms.”

The words hang between us, laden with meanings I dare not examine too closely.

In my years of service, I’ve blessed countless marriages, counselled devoted couples, spoken of God’s love in homilies and private consultations.

But this—this feels like standing at the edge of an abyss, simultaneously terrified and longing to fall.

When I finally withdraw my hand, the absence of contact feels like a loss. My fingertips tingle with phantom sensation, as if they’ve touched something sacred or forbidden—perhaps both. I flex my hand at my side, trying to dispel the feeling, knowing it will linger for hours.

“Your Holiness—” he begins.

“Marco,” I correct him. “Please, when we’re alone, I’m just Marco.”

“Marco,” he repeats, and hearing my name in his voice does something strange to my chest. “I think we’re both searching for similar truths, just through different paths.”

The door opens abruptly, and Cardinal Sullivan appears. “The room is clear, Your Holiness, Prime Minister. We can proceed with the meeting.”

The moment shatters like glass. Matteo and I step apart, though I don’t recall when we’d moved so close together.

The full security teams rejoin us in the conference room, along with our respective advisors. The formal meeting begins with discussions of the coordinated break-ins, the stolen financial documents, and theories about who might benefit from disrupting our investigations.

But throughout the diplomatic exchange, I remain acutely aware of Matteo across the table—the way his hands gesture when he speaks, how his brow furrows in concentration, the occasional glance he sends my way when others are speaking.

“The timing of these breaches can’t be coincidental,” Matteo is saying. “Both occurred within hours of our teams exchanging information about the Vatican Bank’s connections to several companies under investigation.”

Cardinal Antonelli, who insisted on attending despite my reservations, interjects, “The Holy See maintains its sovereignty and the right to conduct its own internal investigations without government interference.”

“With respect, Cardinal,” Matteo responds, his voice cooling, “when those investigations involve Italian citizens and businesses operating on Italian soil, cooperation becomes necessary, not optional.”

I raise my hand slightly, silencing further debate. “The Prime Minister is right. If we have nothing to hide, we have nothing to fear from cooperation. Christ himself said the truth will set us free.”

Antonelli’s face tightens, but he says nothing more.

The meeting continues for another hour, with agreements reached on enhanced security measures and limited information sharing between our financial investigators. Throughout, I sense Matteo’s eyes on me when I speak, and find my own gaze drawn to him more often than propriety would suggest.

When we finally conclude, I walk with him toward the exit where his security detail waits.

“I’d like to keep your book a while longer, if I may,” he says quietly as we walk. “Your marginalia is… illuminating.”

“Keep it as long as you wish. Some of those thoughts have evolved since I wrote them, but the questions remain the same.”

“And have you found answers to those questions?”

I pause, choosing my words carefully. “I’ve found that the more I learn, the more I realize how little I truly know—especially about matters of the heart.”

Something flickers across his face—recognition, perhaps, or shared understanding. Before he can respond, shouting erupts ahead of us.

“Breach! We have a breach!” The security teams surge forward, surrounding us instantly.

Through the chaos, I glimpse a man being tackled to the ground by a Swiss Guard, a camera clattering across the marble floor. Matteo’s security chief is on him immediately, pinning him as others secure the area.

“A photographer,” Cardinal Sullivan reports, his face ashen. “Somehow he got past all the Vatican checkpoints with false credentials.”

The Italian security chief approaches, holding up the camera. “He was taking photos of you both. The memory card is already being analyzed.”

Matteo’s expression hardens. “This is the third security breach in two days. Someone is watching us very closely.”

“The question is who,” I say quietly. “And what exactly are they hoping to see? ”

His eyes meet mine, and in that moment, I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing I am—that perhaps they already saw too much.

“I’ll have my team increase security for our next meeting,” he says formally, for the benefit of those around us.

“Yes,” I agree, maintaining the same professional distance. “That would be wise.”

But as he leaves, surrounded by his protective detail, I find myself touching my fingers to my lips, remembering the feel of his skin beneath them. Whatever current passed between us in that small room cannot be unseen or unfelt.

I stare at my hand, the same hand that blesses the faithful, that consecrates the Eucharist, that bears the Fisherman’s Ring.

Now it carries the memory of Matteo’s heartbeat, his warmth, the texture of his skin.

The dichotomy is overwhelming—am I two separate beings inhabiting one body?

The Holy Father, successor to Peter, and Marco Ricci, a man with desires I’ve spent a lifetime trying to ignore?

Tonight, I know I will lie awake, replaying those moments in the antechamber.

I will question whether my touch lingered from compassion or desire.

I will wonder if the quickening of my pulse was spiritual connection or something far more human.

I will pray for guidance while knowing exactly what Church doctrine would say about the thoughts I cannot seem to control.

And that, I fear, may be more dangerous than any security breach—this awakening of feelings that have no place in the life I’ve chosen, in the role I’ve been called to fill.

The photographer’s intrusion suddenly seems like divine intervention, a warning that even in private moments, I am never truly alone, never free to simply be a man rather than a symbol.

Yet even as I form these thoughts, I find myself anticipating our next meeting with an eagerness that has nothing to do with matters of state or Church. And therein lies my greatest peril.