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Ubi amor, ibi Deus est

Marco

I wake before dawn, my sleep haunted by dreams I dare not remember.

The papal apartments feel like a prison this morning, the weight of centuries of tradition pressing down on me.

I dress quickly, dismissing the attendants who normally help with the formal papal garments.

Today, I need simplicity—black cassock, plain cross. The man, not the office.

Sister Lucia meets me in the corridor, her eyes carefully avoiding mine as if she can sense my inner turmoil.

“Your Holiness, I’ve prepared the archival materials you requested.”

“Thank you, Sister.” My voice sounds hollow even to my own ears. “Any word from the Italian authorities?”

“Prime Minister Valentini’s office sent a secure message.” She hands me a sealed envelope. “They’re executing search warrants this morning.”

I nod, not trusting myself to speak at the mention of Matteo’s name. Three days have passed since our encounter in the library, three days of avoiding each other while our investigations proceed on parallel tracks. Three days of kneeling in prayer until my knees bruise against the marble floors .

“I’ll be in the Secret Archives until noon. No interruptions, please.”

The Vatican Secret Archives—properly the Apostolic Archive—houses millennia of the Church’s most sensitive documents.

As Pope, I have access to materials no other living soul can view.

Today, I’m hunting through financial records dating back to the 1970s, when the first whispers of Vatican Bank improprieties emerged.

Hours pass as I trace a complex web of shell companies, offshore accounts, and suspicious investments.

My eyes burn from squinting at faded ledgers and microfilm records.

A pattern emerges—the same names appearing across decades, Cardinal Lombardi’s charitable foundation serving as the nexus for funds flowing between organized crime, corrupt politicians, and Church officials.

“They’ve been hiding in plain sight,” I murmur, pushing back from the desk and rubbing my temples.

My phone buzzes—the secure device Matteo and I now use to communicate. My heart races traitorously as I read his message:

Raids underway. Multiple arrests. Evidence secured linking Lombardi Foundation to Calabrian ‘Ndrangheta. Dangerous times ahead. Stay safe.

No personal words. Nothing to acknowledge what passed between us. Just the cold facts of our investigation. It’s better this way, I tell myself, even as disappointment floods through me.

I leave the archives with a file of documents tucked securely under my arm. Sister Lucia waits outside, her face grave.

“Cardinal Sullivan requests an urgent meeting, Your Holiness.”

“Tell him I’ll see him after vespers. There’s somewhere I need to go first.”

* * *

The corridor leading to my private apartments feels longer than usual this evening.

Two Swiss Guards follow at a discreet distance— a security measure the head of the Swiss Guard, Colonel Reichlin, insisted upon after the latest threats.

Their presence should be reassuring, but instead it underscores the reality that danger lurks even within these sacred walls.

As I round the corner near the Sala Clementina, I spot Cardinal Visconti in hushed conversation with Monsignor Ferrante, the Vatican’s chief diplomatic officer. They fall silent as I approach, their expressions shifting to practiced neutrality.

“Your Holiness.” Visconti bows slightly. “We were just discussing the unfortunate media coverage of today’s… police activities.”

“Unfortunate but necessary, wouldn’t you say, Eminence?” I keep my tone pleasant despite the tension crackling between us. “Financial transparency serves the Church’s mission.”

“Transparency, yes. Public scandal, no.” Visconti’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Cardinal Antonelli has asked me to request a private audience with you regarding the direction these investigations are taking.”

“Of course. My office is always open to both of you, Cardinal.”

“He was thinking somewhere more… discreet.” His gaze flickers to the guards behind me. “The matters he wishes to discuss are sensitive.”

Warning bells sound in my mind. “I find my office perfectly suitable for any conversation between brothers in Christ.”

Visconti steps closer, lowering his voice. “Your Holiness, there are aspects to these financial arrangements that touch on Vatican diplomatic relations—matters beyond the understanding of someone so new to the Chair of Peter.”

“Then I look forward to being educated,” I reply, maintaining my calm despite the implied condescension. “Tomorrow, perhaps? After morning Mass?”

A flash of frustration crosses his face before he masters it.

“As you wish. Though Cardinal Antonelli instructed me to caution against sharing any further information with the Italian authorities before you speak. Prime Minister Valentini’s…

motivations may not align with the Church’s best interests. ”

The way he says Matteo’s name sends a chill through me—a subtle emphasis that suggests knowledge, or at least suspicion, of something beyond official cooperation.

“I appreciate Cardinal Antonelli’s concern for the Church, Eminence.” I begin to move past him, but he shifts slightly, blocking my path.

“We all want what’s best for you, Your Holiness.” His hand touches my arm briefly, the gesture seeming supportive while his fingers press with unnecessary force. “Cardinal Antonelli asked me to remind you that these are dangerous times. Even Popes are not immune to… accidents.”

Our eyes meet, the threat hanging in the air between us, dressed as concern but unmistakable in its intent.

“I place my faith in God’s protection, Cardinal.” I step deliberately around him. “And in the knowledge that Christ’s Church has survived far worse threats than financial scandal.”

As I continue down the corridor, I feel his eyes boring into my back. The guards move closer, sensing the tension, and I silently thank Colonel Reichlin for insisting on their presence.

* * *

Cardinal Sullivan meets me in the small antechamber adjoining my office, his face grave. The documents I’ve gathered from the Secret Archives and further documents Sullivan has provided lie spread across the table between us.

“It’s worse than we thought, Your Holiness.” Sullivan’s voice is tight with controlled anger. “The Lombardi Foundation has been laundering money for the ‘Ndrangheta since the 1980s.”

“Show me,” I say, pulling my chair closer.

Sullivan points to a series of transaction records. “These development projects in Calabria—on paper, they’re affordable housing initiatives. In reality, they’re ghost constructions. The money goes in but nothing gets built.”

“And the Vatican’s involvement?”

“The Lombardi Foundation receives ‘charitable donations’ from these shell companies.” He slides another document toward me.

“The money is ‘invested’ in these development projects, then filtered back through offshore accounts in Malta, Cyprus, and Liechtenstein before returning to the original donors—cleaned and untraceable.”

I study the complex web of transactions, my stomach tightening. “Cardinal Antonelli’s signature is on all of these authorizations.”

“As chair of the Financial Council, yes.” Sullivan hesitates. “But there’s more, Your Holiness. These quarterly payments to something called ‘Pastoral Outreach Services’—they correspond exactly with deposits to accounts linked to three Italian cabinet ministers, including Finance Minister Russo.”

“Bribes,” I say flatly.

“Systematic ones. Dating back decades.” Sullivan runs a hand through his silver hair. “This isn’t just a few corrupt individuals, Marco. It’s an entire parallel system operating within both the Church and the Italian government.”

“And Monsignor Adessi discovered it.”

“He was preparing a complete dossier for Pope Francis when Francis died. Then the conclave happened, you were elected, and Adessi…” Sullivan doesn’t need to finish the sentence.

I rise, moving to the window. The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across St. Peter’s Square, where tourists snap photos, unaware of the darkness festering within these sacred walls .

“Cardinal Visconti approached me this morning,” I say quietly. “He’s Antonelli’s closest ally on the Financial Council.”

Sullivan’s expression darkens. “What did he want?”

“He suggested I was ‘overextending myself’ with these investigations, that perhaps my ‘youth and inexperience’ were leading me to ‘unfortunate conclusions.’”

“A warning?”

“Thinly veiled.” I turn back to face him. “He mentioned that my frequent meetings with Prime Minister Valentini might create ‘misunderstandings’ about Vatican independence.”

“They’re getting nervous.”

“They should be.”

As I gather the documents to return to my office, Sullivan places a hand on my arm. “Be careful, Marco. I’ve served under three Popes. I’ve seen how the Curia operates when it feels threatened.”

“I’m not afraid of Cardinal Visconti or his master Antonelli.”

“You should be.” Sullivan’s blue eyes hold mine. “There are rumours that Adessi wasn’t the first to die for getting too close to these accounts.”

The warning settles heavily between us. I nod once, acknowledging the danger without surrendering to it.

“Keep Sister Lucia close,” Sullivan adds. “There are few in the Vatican I trust completely, but she’s one of them.”

* * *

I make my way through the labyrinthine corridors of the Vatican, nodding to the Swiss Guards who snap to attention as I pass. Few know of my destination—a small chapel hidden deep within the Apostolic Palace, seldom used and all but forgotten by the current Curia.