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Midnight Meetings

Marco

The secure phone buzzes discreetly in my desk drawer.

Two weeks since our meeting at the chapel, and I’ve grown accustomed to the quiet vibration that signals a message from Matteo.

Our “joint security task force” has provided the perfect cover for our continued communication—a necessity born of danger that has evolved into something I look forward to more than I should.

I glance at my office door to ensure it’s closed before retrieving the device. Father Tomás believes it’s merely a dedicated line for Vatican security updates.

New financial connections discovered between Antonelli’s foundation and Russo’s family holdings. Need to discuss. Usual time tonight?

My fingers hover over the screen. These exchanges began as purely professional—sharing discoveries about the corruption network we’re mapping together.

But lately, our conversations have drifted beyond investigations into more personal territory.

Last night, we spent an hour discussing my theological studies in seminary, his childhood in Naples.

The ease of our communication should worry me more than it does.

I’ll be available. Library access secured. No staff after 10 pm .

I send the reply, then pause before adding:

Found records of Vatican investments in Calabrian development projects. Suspicious transaction patterns. Will bring documentation.

There’s a moment’s hesitation before his response appears:

Looking forward to it. Both the documents and the company.

Something warm unfurls in my chest at his words.

I should focus solely on the corruption we’re uncovering, the danger still threatening both of us.

Instead, I find myself counting the hours until our meeting, anticipating not just the exchange of information but the man himself—his incisive mind, his unwavering conviction, the way his eyes hold mine when we speak of things beyond politics and finance.

This growing connection between us exists in a space I’ve never allowed myself to explore—somewhere between friendship and something deeper I dare not name.

I tell myself it’s the natural result of facing danger together, of being the only two people who fully understand the scope of what we’re uncovering.

But in the quiet moments before sleep, I know there’s more to it—something I’ve spent a lifetime denying, something that terrifies me more than any corruption or conspiracy.

* * *

Sister Lucia enters after a brief knock, her sharp eyes missing nothing as I slip the secure phone back into my drawer.

“Your Holiness, the documents you requested from the archives.” She places a leather portfolio on my desk. “Financial records from the Lombardi Foundation dating back ten years.”

“Thank you, Sister.” I gesture for her to sit. “Have you reviewed them?”

“Thoroughly.” Her expression is grim. “The pattern is consistent with what the Prime Minister’s team discovered. Funds moving through the foundation into development projects in Calabria, then disappearing into shell companies.”

I open the portfolio, scanning the first page. “And Cardinal Antonelli approved all these transactions?”

“His signature appears on every authorization.” She leans forward slightly. “Your Holiness, these investments began under Pope Benedict and continued through Francis’s papacy. The corruption network has survived multiple attempts at reform.”

“Which means they’re entrenched and organized.” I close the portfolio. “And likely aware we’re investigating.”

“Almost certainly.” Sister Lucia’s voice lowers. “There have been unusual access attempts to the secure server room. Nothing successful yet, but they’re probing our defences.”

“Increase security, but discreetly. I don’t want to alert them that we’re aware of their attempts.”

She nods. “And your meeting with the Prime Minister tonight?”

I keep my expression neutral. “A necessary coordination of our investigations.”

“Of course.” Something in her tone suggests she understands more than I’ve said. “I’ve arranged for the library to be cleared after nine. The security cameras will experience a ‘technical malfunction’ between ten and midnight.”

“Is that necessary?”

“For your safety, yes.” Her eyes meet mine directly. “And for your privacy.”

Heat rises to my face. “Sister Lucia—”

“Your Holiness,” she interrupts gently, “I’ve served the Church for forty years. I’ve seen the toll that isolation takes on those who bear the greatest burdens. Whatever comfort you find in these difficult times is between you and God.”

I’m speechless, uncertain how to respond to her implicit understanding.

“The security detail will remain at the outer doors only,” she continues professionally. “I’ll ensure Father Tomás is occupied with the delegation from Austria.”

After she leaves, I sit motionless, her words echoing in my mind. Whatever comfort you find… Has my growing attachment to Matteo been so obvious? Or is Sister Lucia simply more perceptive than most?

I reach for my rosary, fingers moving automatically over the familiar beads.

These past two weeks have changed something fundamental between Matteo and me.

What began as necessary cooperation has evolved into late-night conversations that range far beyond our investigations—discussions of faith and doubt, purpose and meaning, the weight of our respective offices.

Last night, via our secure connection, he told me about his father’s death from cancer and the struggle to receive proper medical treatment, how it shaped his determination to fight corruption.

I shared my struggles in seminary, the loneliness of being younger than my peers, always set apart.

We’ve revealed vulnerabilities to each other that few others have seen.

And with each conversation, each meeting, the space between us has grown smaller, charged with something I’ve spent a lifetime pretending doesn’t exist.

Tonight will be different, I tell myself. Tonight we’ll focus solely on the investigation. I will maintain appropriate boundaries. I will remember my vows, my position, my responsibilities.

But even as I form these resolutions, I know how easily they dissolve in Matteo’s presence.

* * *

By evening, the Vatican settles into its nighttime rhythm. The tourists are gone, the administrative offices empty. Only the Swiss Guard remains vigilant at their posts as I make my way through the corridors toward the library, the leather portfolio tucked under my arm.

The cavernous space is lit only by selected reading lamps, creating pools of golden light among the shadows.

Ancient volumes line the walls, silent witnesses to centuries of papal history.

I wonder briefly how many of my predecessors faced crises of faith within these walls, how many wrestled with human desires while bearing divine responsibilities.

I arrange the documents on the central table, spreading out financial records, connection diagrams, and the notes I’ve compiled.

The evidence is damning—a network of corruption spanning Church and State, using charitable foundations to launder money, manipulating development projects to enrich the powerful while exploiting the poor.

The soft click of the door interrupts my thoughts. Matteo enters, nodding to the guard who closes the door behind him. He’s dressed more casually than usual—dark slacks and a blue shirt open at the collar, no tie. The bruises from the car accident have faded to yellow shadows on his forehead.

“You’ve been busy,” he says, surveying the documents I’ve arranged.

“As have you.” I gesture to the portfolio he carries. “New discoveries?”

He nods, setting his materials beside mine. “More evidence of financial transfers from Russo’s family trust to offshore accounts that match the ‘untouchable accounts’ Monsignor Adessi mentioned.”

For the next hour, we work methodically, connecting evidence from both our investigations, building a comprehensive map of the corruption network.

The concentration required keeps us focused, professional, though I’m acutely aware of his proximity each time he leans across the table or stands beside me to examine a document .

“Cardinal Antonelli’s offshore accounts connect directly to three shell companies in Cyprus.

” I slide another document across the antique desk where Matteo sits, his jacket now discarded, sleeves rolled up, and tie absent.

“The transaction patterns match perfectly with the deposits to Russo’s family trust.”

Matteo rubs his eyes, fatigue evident in the dark circles beneath them. “We’ve got them. The evidence is overwhelming.”

“And yet not enough for a conviction without risking massive retaliation.” I collapse into the chair opposite him, the weight of our discoveries pressing down on my shoulders.

The library feels different at night—more intimate, the soft glow of reading lamps creating islands of light in the darkness. Matteo looks different too, vulnerable without his public persona, his usual confidence softened by exhaustion.

“Coffee?” I offer, gesturing to the silver carafe a nervous attendant left before I dismissed him.

“Something stronger, if you have it.” Matteo’s smile is weary but genuine.

I cross to a hidden panel in the bookcase and reveal a small cabinet. “One of my predecessors had this installed. Apparently, theological debates can require fortification.”

I return with two crystal tumblers containing amber liquid. Our fingers brush as I hand him his glass, and I feel that same unexpected spark that’s been haunting me since our first meeting.

“To unlikely allies.” Matteo raises his glass.

“To truth, however uncomfortable.” I touch my glass to his, the crystal singing softly.

The brandy burns pleasantly as it slides down my throat. We sit in companionable silence for a moment, the tension of the past weeks settling around us.