Page 17

Gilded Cage

Marco

The next morning, I walk into the meeting room to find Cardinal Antonelli already seated at the head of the table—my seat. The symbolism isn’t lost on me. Flanking him are Cardinals Lombardi and Visconti, their faces set in expressions of grave concern that don’t quite reach their eyes.

James—Cardinal Sullivan—walks closely beside me, his presence reassuring. Sister Lucia stands quietly near the wall, officially here to take notes but I suspect her real purpose is to bear witness to whatever transpires.

“Your Holiness,” Antonelli rises, offering me the chair with a gesture that manages to be simultaneously deferential and condescending. “Thank you for joining us on such short notice.”

I take my rightful place, forcing Antonelli to shift to my right. “When I hear that an emergency meeting of the Curia has been called in my city without my knowledge, Cardinal, I naturally wish to understand why.”

“Of course, Holy Father.” Antonelli’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “We are deeply concerned about recent events. Monsignor Adessi’s murder— ”

“Murder that was initially presented to me as suicide,” I interrupt.

“A regrettable misunderstanding,” Lombardi interjects smoothly. “But one that highlights the grave security concerns we now face.”

“Indeed,” Antonelli continues. “The attempt on your life at the diplomatic dinner, now this. The College of Cardinals has a sacred duty to protect the Holy Father.”

Sullivan leans forward. “A duty we all take seriously, Cardinal. But I’m curious why this meeting was convened without discussion with the Pope’s office.”

“Time was of the essence,” Visconti says, his jowls quivering with feigned indignation. “We’ve prepared a comprehensive security protocol that requires immediate implementation.”

A folder slides across the table toward me. I open it to find a detailed plan that, on surface reading, appears focused on my protection. But as I scan the pages, the true intent becomes clear.

“You’re proposing to restrict my movements within the Vatican?” I ask, keeping my voice level despite the anger building inside me.

“For your safety, Holy Father,” Antonelli says smoothly. “All visitors to your private office would require advance security clearance. Your schedule would be managed through the Secretariat of State to minimize exposure—”

“To minimize my ability to continue my investigation into the Vatican Bank,” I finish for him.

The room falls silent. Lombardi and Visconti exchange glances.

“Your Holiness misunderstands,” Antonelli says finally. “These measures are solely for your protection.”

“And yet they effectively isolate me from anyone not approved by your office, Cardinal.” I close the folder. “They restrict my access to Vatican records and limit my ability to meet privately with anyone outside of a pre-approved list.”

“Security requires sacrifice, Holy Father,” Lombardi says with practiced sympathy. “After the tragic murder of Monsignor Adessi, we cannot risk—”

“Monsignor Adessi was murdered because he discovered financial irregularities,” I say bluntly. “Irregularities that implicate several foundations with ties to this very room.”

The temperature seems to drop several degrees. Visconti’s face flushes red.

“That is a serious accusation, Your Holiness,” Antonelli says, his voice dangerously soft.

“It is not an accusation, Cardinal. It is a fact I intend to prove.” I meet his gaze steadily. “Now, regarding these security measures—”

“They have already been implemented,” Visconti interrupts. “For your immediate protection.”

I feel James stiffen beside me. “Without papal approval?” he asks.

“With the authority of the Secretariat of State in matters of security,” Antonelli replies smoothly. “The Swiss Guard has been briefed. Additional security personnel have been assigned to your residence.”

“To protect me? Or to monitor me?” I ask quietly.

Antonelli spreads his hands. “Your Holiness, we serve the Church. Everything we do is to protect the institution and its leader.”

I glance toward Sister Lucia, whose face remains carefully neutral, though I can see the concern in her eyes. She gives me the slightest nod—a reminder that I’m not alone, that there are still those within these walls I can trust.

“I see I have little choice but to accept these measures,” I say finally. “For now.”

“A wise decision, Holy Father,” Lombardi says, unable to completely hide his satisfaction.

“However,” I continue, “I will require Cardinal Sullivan’s presence at all security briefings. And Sister Lucia will continue to serve as my theological advisor, with unrestricted access to my office. ”

I can see Antonelli calculating whether to object. “Of course,” he says finally. “Though all visitors will need to be logged for security purposes.”

“Naturally,” I agree, knowing that this gives them a record of everyone I meet with. “And I assume these restrictions apply equally to all Cardinals? Including yourselves?”

A moment of uncomfortable silence follows.

“The threat is specifically directed at Your Holiness,” Antonelli says carefully. “Our movements don’t require the same level of scrutiny.”

“How convenient,” James murmurs, just loudly enough to be heard.

I rise from my chair, signalling the end of the discussion. “I appreciate your concern for my safety, Cardinals. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have papal duties to attend to—unless those have also been restricted for my protection?”

The sarcasm isn’t lost on them, but they maintain their facade of deference as they stand.

“We serve at the pleasure of His Holiness,” Antonelli says with a slight bow.

As I leave the room, Sullivan and Sister Lucia falling in step beside me, I’m acutely aware of what just happened. They’ve created a gilded cage, using my own security as pretense to isolate me from allies and information.

“They’re moving faster than we anticipated,” James whispers as we walk down the corridor.

“Yes,” I agree quietly. “But they’ve shown their hand. And now we know exactly what we’re facing.”

Sister Lucia glances behind us to ensure we’re not overheard. “You could have fought harder against these measures, Your Holiness.”

“Sometimes,” I tell her, “it’s better to let your opponent believe they’ve won the battle. It makes them careless about the war.”

* * *

I adjust my robes for the tenth time as I enter the charity reception.

The Vatican Museum glows with warm light, showcasing its treasures to Italy’s elite who have gathered for this fundraiser benefiting refugee children.

Cardinals Antonelli and Visconti hover nearby, their new “security protocols” meaning I’m rarely without their watchful eyes.

“Your Holiness,” Cardinal Antonelli materializes at my elbow, “the Austrian ambassador is most eager to speak with you about their donation to the Vatican museums.”

“Of course,” I reply with practiced serenity, though inside I’m chafing at my handlers.

The evening proceeds with mechanical precision.

I move from one donor to another, blessing their generosity while feeling the constant shadow of surveillance.

The cardinals have been clever—keeping me visible to the public, accessible for ceremonial functions, yet completely isolated from anyone who might assist or further my investigations.

I’m midway through a conversation with a prominent Swiss banking executive when I see him enter. Matteo cuts an impressive figure in his tailored suit, his presence commanding attention without effort. Our eyes meet briefly across the room, and I feel that now-familiar flutter in my chest.

“Your Holiness?” The banker looks at me expectantly.

“Forgive me,” I say, returning my attention to him. “The plight of these poor children is never far from my thoughts, and your care for them is a blessing.”

An hour passes before I manage to break free from Antonelli’s orchestrated introductions. I find a moment of respite near an exhibit of Renaissance manuscripts, taking a deep breath away from the crowd .

“Quite remarkable, aren’t they?” Matteo’s voice comes from beside me, low and intimate. “Created in times of great turmoil and change, yet still speaking to us centuries later.”

I turn to him, careful to maintain a proper distance. “Prime Minister. I’m pleased you could attend.”

“I wouldn’t miss it.” His eyes hold mine a moment longer than protocol dictates. “Though I find myself wondering if you’re enjoying your own gala, Holy Father. You seem… constrained this evening.”

“Perceptive as always,” I murmur. “Recent security concerns have led to certain… adjustments.”

“So I’ve heard.” He gestures subtly toward Antonelli, who watches us from across the room. “Your cardinals have been quite protective lately.”

“Protective is one word for it,” I say with a small smile.

A woman approaches us—elegantly dressed, with intelligent eyes that miss nothing.

“Your Holiness, Prime Minister,” she says with a respectful bow of her head.

“Sophia Valentini, Protocol Officer. I hate to interrupt, but there seems to be some confusion about the viewing schedule for the garden exhibition.”

Matteo’s expression betrays nothing, but I notice a familial resemblance between them that confirms my suspicion—this is the sister he has spoken so much about in our nightly chats.

“Perhaps His Holiness might appreciate a moment to view the moonlit gardens before the official dignitary tour begins?” she suggests smoothly. “The night-blooming jasmine is particularly spectacular.”

“An excellent suggestion,” Matteo says. “I’ve heard the Vatican gardens are unparalleled by moonlight.”

I glance toward Antonelli, who has been momentarily cornered by an enthusiastic German donor. “I would welcome some fresh air,” I admit.

Sophia nods subtly. “If you’ll follow me, I can escort you through the private gallery entrance. Prime Minister, perhaps you’d care to join us? I believe there are security matters regarding the event that would benefit from your input.”