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“No?” He touches his bruised forehead gingerly. “I admit there are less painful ways to form alliances.”

“Is that what this is? An alliance?”

He considers me for a moment, his expression turning serious. “I think it’s becoming something more than that, don’t you?”

The question hangs between us, loaded with meaning I’m not ready to acknowledge. I focus instead on the practical matters at hand.

“We should establish a regular schedule,” I say. “For security briefings.”

“Weekly,” he suggests. “With emergency protocols if either of us uncovers something urgent.”

“Or if there are further attempts.”

He nods grimly. “Which there will be, once they realize we both survived.”

As he speaks, Matteo suddenly winces, his hand going to his side. He sways slightly, and I move without thinking, my arm around his waist to steady him.

“You’re more injured than you’ve admitted,” I say, guiding him to sit on one of the chapel’s ancient wooden benches.

“It’s nothing,” he insists, but allows me to support him. “Just bruised ribs from the impact.”

We remain close, my arm still holding him, his body warm against mine. The contact feels both forbidden and inevitable.

“This is… complicated, isn’t it?” Matteo says quietly, his eyes me eting mine. “What’s happening between us.”

My heart stutters. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I think you do.” His voice is gentle but certain. “I find myself thinking about our meetings far more than matters of state would justify.”

I should pull away. I should speak of duty and propriety and the boundaries of our positions. Instead, I remain exactly where I am, my body betraying what my words cannot acknowledge.

The ancient chapel seems to hold its breath around us. Outside these walls, we are Pope and Prime Minister, bound by duties that define our every action. But here, in this forgotten place, we are simply two men standing at the edge of something neither of us anticipated.

“In another life,” Matteo says softly, his eyes never leaving mine, “things might have been different between us.”

The words hang in the air, opening a door to possibilities I’ve never allowed myself to imagine.

“What would that life look like?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

His smile is tinged with sadness. “One where I could invite you to dinner without diplomatic protocol. Where we could debate theology and politics without the weight of nations and souls on our shoulders.” He pauses, his hand briefly touching mine.

“Where I could know Marco the man, not just Marco the Pope.”

“That sounds like a good life,” I admit, allowing myself this one moment of honesty.

“Yes,” he agrees. “It does.”

The candle flickers between us, casting shadows that seem to dance with all the words we cannot say. For a heartbeat, I let myself imagine that other life—one where vows and offices don’t stand between us, where the attraction I feel wouldn’t be a crisis of faith.

“We should go,” I say reluctantly, finally creating distance between us. “Being away too long will raise questions.”

“You’re right.” He gathers his documents reluctantly, tucking them into an inside pocket. “I’ll have my security chief contact Sister Lucia about the joint task force. He can be trusted.”

“And I’ll ensure the Vatican’s cooperation.”

We move toward the door, our temporary sanctuary coming to an end. Before opening it, Matteo turns to me.

“Marco,” he says quietly, “be careful. They’ll try again.”

“You too.” I resist the urge to touch his injured face, to offer comfort I have no right to give. “God be with you, Matteo.”

“And with you,” he replies, a small smile playing at his lips. “Though I think we might need more than divine intervention against these people.”

“Then it’s fortunate we have each other.”

As we step out into the night, returning to our separate worlds and the dangers that await us there, I feel something I haven’t experienced in a long time—the exhilarating certainty of having found an ally who understands exactly what I’m fighting for.

And if that alliance brings with it other feelings, more complicated and dangerous ones, I’ll face those too.

For now, we have a common enemy and a reason to stay connected. In these treacherous times, that may be blessing enough.

As our cars travel in opposite directions—his toward the heart of Rome, mine back to the Vatican—I touch my hand where it had supported him, still feeling the warmth of his body against mine.

I should be contemplating the corruption we’ve uncovered, the danger facing us both, the solemn responsibility I bear as Christ’s Vicar on Earth.

Instead, I find myself remembering the way his eyes held mine when he spoke of what’s “happening between us.” The way my body responded to his proximity. The almost painful restraint required not to move closer still.

God forgive me, but in that moment in the chapel, I wanted to be simply Marco—not His Holiness, not the Holy Father, not the successor to Peter. Just a man drawn to another man’s strength, intelligence, and conviction. Just Marco, free to act on the desires I’ve denied my entire life.

I close my eyes and pray for guidance, but the only answer I receive is the memory of Matteo’s words echoing in my mind: “I find myself thinking about our meetings far more than matters of state would justify.”

As do I, Matteo. Far more than I should allow myself to admit.