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Assassination Attempt

Marco

I sit motionless in my chair, watching as Cardinal Fabrizio slumps forward into his plate, his body convulsing violently. The diplomatic dinner—meant to celebrate improved Vatican-Russian relations—erupts into chaos around me.

“Il Cardinale! Aiuto!” someone shouts.

My security detail surrounds me instantly, pulling me away from the table as medical staff rush to Fabrizio. My head swims with confusion until Archbishop Chen appears at my side, his face ashen.

“Your Holiness, Cardinal Fabrizio tasted your dessert as protocol requires.”

The realization hits me like a physical blow. The dessert meant for me—the tiramisu I’d been looking forward to all evening—now sits innocently beside Fabrizio’s contorted body.

“Will he survive?” I ask, my voice barely audible over the commotion.

Chen’s expression tells me everything before he speaks. “The doctors are doing everything possible, but his reaction is severe.”

Hours later, I kneel beside Fabrizio’s hospital bed in the Vatican medical facility.

His breathing is laboured, face still flushed with fever, but the doctors say he’s stabilized.

The toxicology report confirmed what we already suspected: a concentrated dose of a rare toxin, nearly undetectable in food.

“It was meant for me,” I whisper, clasping his limp hand. “I’m so sorry.”

Sister Lucia stands beside me, her usual stoic demeanour replaced with barely contained fury. “This was professional, Your Holiness. Not some random act.”

“How did they access the kitchen? The Vatican’s security—”

“Has been thoroughly compromised, it seems” she finishes. “Someone inside must have helped.”

I feel the weight of betrayal pressing down on me. Another enemy within these sacred walls. Another reminder that my position makes me both powerful and vulnerable in ways I never imagined.

My phone vibrates in my pocket—an unusual occurrence this late. Few people have my private number. The screen shows a message from an unlisted contact, but I recognize the secure messaging app installed by Vatican intelligence after the threatening note I received weeks ago.

The message is brief: Car accident. Minor injuries. Same pattern. Need to meet. Secure location only. -M

M. Matteo Valentini. My heart races, though I tell myself it’s concern rather than something more complicated.

I look up at Sister Lucia. “I need to arrange a meeting outside the Vatican. Completely secure, completely private.”

Her eyebrows rise slightly, but she asks no questions. “I know a place.”

* * *

The monastery sits nestled in the hills outside Rome, its ancient stone walls promising discretion and safety. Abandoned decades ago, it’s now occasionally used by Vatican security for sensitive matters—its existence known to only a handful of people.

I pace the small chapel, my footsteps echoing against worn stone floors. The single candle I’ve lit casts long shadows across faded frescoes. No electricity, no cameras, no recording devices possible. My Swiss Guard security team swept the building twice before leaving us with a secure perimeter.

The heavy wooden door creaks open, and Matteo enters alone. Even in the dim light, I can see the bruise darkening his forehead and the careful way he holds himself, favouring his right side.

“You’re hurt,” I say, moving toward him instinctively.

“Nothing serious. The car hit the guardrail at relatively low speed.” His voice is steady, but I detect the strain beneath it. “My driver noticed the brakes failing and managed to reduce our speed before impact.”

“Thank God.” The relief I feel is profound, almost overwhelming.

“Not God. Good Italian engineering and a vigilant driver.” He attempts a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “And you? I heard rumours about an incident at the Russian dinner.”

“Cardinal Fabrizio is fighting for his life after tasting my dessert.”

Matteo’s expression darkens. “Poison? Professional?”

I nod. “The timing is what concerns me most. Yesterday, I received the preliminary findings from the Vatican Bank audit.”

Understanding flashes across his face. “And I just received a confidential report from our financial crimes unit yesterday morning.”

We move to a small wooden table where I’ve placed two folders. One bears the papal seal, the other the emblem of the Italian government. Without speaking, we exchange them.

As I scan the contents of his folder, my blood runs cold.

Lists of shell companies, money laundering operations, property holdings used to hide assets—all connected to figures within the Italian government.

Names I recognize from news reports and diplomatic functions.

But what truly stops my breath is seeing these same entities linked to Vatican investments.

“The Lombardi Foundation,” I murmur, pointing to a highlighted section. “It’s one of our largest charitable trusts. Cardinal Lombardi oversees it personally.”

Matteo nods grimly. “And it’s laundering money for the Calabrian mafia through these property developments.” He taps another document. “Which connect to Minister Russo’s family businesses.”

“Your Finance Minister?”

“The same one who’s been leading opposition to my anti-corruption legislation.” His jaw tightens. “And look here—these offshore accounts? They match the ‘untouchable accounts’ Monsignor Adessi mentioned in his suicide note.”

I flip through more pages, connecting more dots. “These Vatican investment vehicles—they’re all approved by the Financial Council. Cardinal Antonelli chairs that council.”

“The same Cardinal who objected so strongly to our cooperation?” Matteo’s eyes meet mine.

“The very same.”

We continue comparing notes, laying out documents side by side, creating a map of corruption that spans both our institutions.

Shell companies in Malta connecting to Vatican-backed development projects.

Offshore accounts linking Italian political donors to Church charities.

A pattern emerges—money flowing between Church and State in ways designed to be untraceable.

“This is bigger than either of us realized,” I say finally, sitting back in my chair. “They’re not separate investigations. It’s one network with tentacles in both the Church and Italian government.”

Matteo runs a hand through his hair, wincing slightly as he touches his bruised forehead. “And now they’re trying to eliminate both of us.”

“Because we’re both pulling at different threads of the same tapestry.”

“And if we pull hard enough, the entire thing unravels.” He stands, pacing the small chapel with renewed energy despite his injuries. “This explains the escalation. First threats, now actual attempts on our lives.”

I watch him move, admiring his resilience. “We’ve become dangerous to them.”

“We’ve become lethal.” He turns to me, eyes bright with determination. “Separately, we might have uncovered pieces, but together—”

“Together we can expose the entire network.” I finish his thought, feeling a surge of purpose that borders on exhilaration.

“This is why they tried to stop our meetings,” he says. “They feared exactly this—us comparing notes, joining forces.”

I stand too, energy coursing through me despite the late hour and the stress of the day. “They should be afraid.”

Matteo laughs suddenly—a genuine sound that echoes through the chapel. “Listen to us. The Pope and the Prime Minister, plotting like revolutionaries.”

“Isn’t that what we are? You with your anti-corruption crusade, me with my financial reforms? We’re both trying to overturn entrenched systems.”

“And making powerful enemies in the process.” His expression sobers. “Enemies willing to kill us.”

I move closer to him, drawn by shared purpose and something more complicated I don’t dare name. “Then we need to protect each other.”

“How do you propose we do that?”

“Share security information. Coordinate our protective details.” I hesitate, then add, “Create a secure channel between us that bypasses our respective bureaucracies.”

“You don’t trust your own people?”

“Do you trust yours? ”

He considers this, then shakes his head. “Not all of them. Not anymore.”

“Then we trust each other.” I offer my hand, the formal gesture at odds with the intensity between us. “Complete transparency between us. No intermediaries.”

He takes my hand, his grip firm and warm. “Agreed.”

The contact lingers longer than necessary, neither of us pulling away. In this abandoned monastery, with ancient saints looking down from faded frescoes, we stand as unlikely allies—the progressive Pope and the reformist Prime Minister, both targeted by the very institutions we lead.

“I should arrange secure phones,” he says finally, releasing my hand. “Untraceable.”

“Sister Lucia can help with that. She has contacts outside official channels.”

“The nun who came with you? She doesn’t seem like the type to have underworld connections.”

I smile. “There’s more to Sister Lucia than meets the eye. Much like there’s more to you, Matteo.”

I gesture to the documents spread between us. “What’s our next move?”

“We need to be careful. If we move too quickly, they’ll know we’re onto them.” He begins gathering the papers, organizing them methodically. “I suggest we continue our investigations separately but share everything we find.”

“Which gives us a legitimate reason to maintain regular contact.”

“Exactly. Official meetings when necessary, but we’ll need a secure way to communicate between those times.”

I nod, already thinking of possibilities. “We could use the pretext of coordinating security after these incidents. No one would question that. ”

“A joint security task force,” he agrees. “With direct communication between us as a necessary component.”

“It would allow us to meet privately without raising suspicions.”

Matteo smiles, a flash of something playful despite our grim circumstances. “Who would have thought assassination attempts could be so convenient?”

I laugh despite myself. “I wouldn’t go that far.”