Page 18

Her orchestration is flawless. Within minutes, we’re walking through a side door into the gardens, Sophia tactfully falling several paces behind.

“Your sister?” I ask quietly.

Matteo’s lips quirk upward. “Is it that obvious?”

“Only in the way she manages to be both respectful and completely in charge,” I reply, feeling a genuine smile form for the first time this evening.

The gardens are indeed beautiful, silver moonlight washing over ancient statues and fragrant blooms. We walk side by side, close enough to speak privately but maintaining appropriate distance for any watching eyes.

“I received your message about the new security measures,” Matteo says, his voice barely above a whisper. “They’re isolating you.”

“Effectively,” I confirm. “Every meeting scrutinized, every visitor logged. They’ve even restricted my access to certain areas of the Vatican Archives.”

“Our joint task force has been stonewalled as well. Requests for documentation from the Vatican Bank are being redirected through diplomatic channels that lead nowhere.”

We pause near a fountain, its gentle splash providing cover for our conversation. “They’re buying time,” I say. “The question is, for what?”

Before Matteo can answer, I notice a figure approaching—a Swiss Guard officer, his uniform distinctive even in the dim light. My heart sinks, assuming Antonelli has sent someone to retrieve me.

“Your Holiness,” the guard says with a crisp bow. “Captain Lorenzo Lombardi. Cardinal Sullivan asked me to inform you that Cardinal Antonelli is looking for you. He’s currently searching the east wing.”

I sigh. “Thank you, Captain. I suppose I should return.”

“If I may, Holy Father,” Lombardi says, his voice lowered, “Cardinal Sullivan suggested you might prefer to continue your discussion undisturbed. There is a private meditation garden beyond the old seminary that remains unlocked. It’s not on the regular patrol route.”

I study him carefully. “You’re a Lombardi? Any relation to Cardinal Lombardi?”

A flicker of emotion crosses his face. “Distant cousins, Your Holiness. But I assure you, my loyalty is to the office of the Pope, not to family connections.”

Something in his direct gaze convinces me. “Thank you, Captain. Could you ensure we’re not followed?”

“Of course, Holy Father.” He gestures toward a narrow path. “This way, please.”

Sophia steps forward. “I’ll redirect any inquiries, Prime Minister. The official garden tour begins in forty minutes.”

Matteo nods. “Thank you, Sophia.”

Captain Lombardi leads us along winding paths, through a small gate concealed by ivy, and finally into a secluded garden enclosed by ancient walls. A simple stone bench sits beneath an olive tree, with a small fountain murmuring nearby.

“This garden dates to the 16th century,” Lombardi explains.

“It was created as a private retreat for Pope Sixtus V. Few even remember it exists now.” He steps back with a respectful bow.

“I’ll ensure you’re not disturbed, Your Holiness.

When you wish to return, simply follow the path to the left of the fountain.

It will lead you to the main courtyard.”

“Thank you, Captain,” I say, genuinely moved by this unexpected alliance.

Once Lombardi disappears, we’re truly alone for the first time since that night at Castel Sant’Angelo. The realization sends a tremor through me.

“How did you know you could trust him?” Matteo asks, looking after the departed guard.

“I didn’t,” I admit. “But Cardinal Sullivan does, and I’ve come to trust James with my life.”

We stand in silence for a moment, the night air heavy with jasmine and unspoken words. Moonlight filters through olive branches, casting dappled shadows across Matteo’s face.

“How are you really?” he asks finally, his voice gentle.

The simple question—the first anyone has asked me in days that isn’t about policy or protocol—breaks something loose inside me.

“Trapped,” I confess. “Watched. Every move I make is observed and reported. They smile and bow and call me Holy Father while systematically cutting me off from anyone who might help me expose them.”

Matteo steps closer. “You’re not alone in this fight, Marco.”

The sound of my name—my real name, not my title—sends a shiver through me. How long has it been since anyone called me simply Marco?

“Sometimes it feels that way,” I say quietly. “The weight of it all—the Church, the corruption, these robes…” I gesture at my formal attire.

“I understand isolation,” Matteo says. “To be surrounded by people yet completely alone. To wear a mask so convincing that sometimes you forget what lies beneath it.”

“What happens when the mask becomes impossible to maintain?” I ask, the question meant as much for myself as for him.

He moves closer still, close enough that I can see the faint scar on his cheek from the assassination attempt. “Then perhaps it’s time to trust someone with the truth beneath it.”

My heart pounds against my ribs. Every teaching, every vow I’ve taken tells me to step back, to maintain distance, to remember my sacred office. But something deeper—something that feels more like truth than any doctrine—keeps me rooted in place.

“Matteo…” His name falls from my lips like a prayer.

His hand rises slowly, giving me every chance to retreat, before gently touching my cheek. The contact sends an electric current through my body, awakening nerve endings I didn’t know existed. My skin burns beneath his touch, a flush spreading from my face down my neck and chest.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers, his voice rough with restraint.

I should. Everything I’ve been taught, everything I’ve sworn to uphold demands that I step away. But my body betrays my mind’s hesitation. I find myself leaning into his touch, my eyes fluttering closed as his thumb traces the line of my jaw, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

“I can’t,” I breathe, the confession tearing from somewhere deep inside me.

When his lips meet mine, it’s gentle at first—questioning, tentative.

But that initial contact breaks something loose within me, a dam of desire long held in check.

My hands, trembling with both fear and need, rise to his shoulders, feeling the solid strength beneath expensive fabric.

The kiss deepens, his tongue teasing the seam of my lips until they part in surrender.

A sound escapes me—half gasp, half moan—as his arms encircle me, drawing me against the hard plane of his chest. My fingers thread through his thick hair, something I’ve imagined doing since our first meeting though I never admitted it even to myself.

The texture is silk against my skin, another sensation to overwhelm my starved senses.

Heat pools low in my belly as his mouth grows more insistent, claiming mine with a hunger that matches my own.

My heart hammers so violently I’m certain he must feel it where our chests press together.

When we finally break apart, both breathing heavily, I see my own wonder and desire reflected in the darkness of his eyes.

“I’ve thought about this since that night in the Castel Sant’Angelo,” he confesses, his voice husky as his forehead rests against mine. “I know we said we wouldn’t do this, but I can’t resist this need any longer.”

“It is impossible,” I say, even as my hands refuse to release him, fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulders as if afraid he’ll disappear. “Everything about this is impossible.”

“And yet here we are.” His smile is tender, his eyes holding mine without shame or doubt. “Perhaps some impossibilities are worth embracing.”

This time when our lips meet, there’s no hesitation, only certainty.

His hands move beneath my outer robes, finding the man beneath the papal garments.

The heat of his palms through the thin fabric of my cassock sends shivers racing along my spine.

My own hands explore the strong lines of his back and shoulders, marvelling at the difference between his body and mine—the firmness where I am soft, the breadth where I am narrow.

Each touch feels like revelation, each kiss a sacrament of its own kind.

When his mouth leaves mine to trail along my jaw to my neck, I tilt my head back in surrender, exposing my throat to his exploration.

The gentle scrape of his stubble against my sensitive skin draws another gasp from me, my body arching instinctively into his.

Time loses meaning in this hidden garden.

We sink onto the stone bench, locked in an embrace that speaks of more than physical desire—it carries the weight of recognition, of finding in another the reflection of your own hidden truth.

His thigh presses against mine as we sit facing each other, the contact even through layers of clothing sending waves of pleasure through me that I’ve spent a lifetime denying.

“Marco,” he murmurs against my neck, the sound of my name on his lips sending tremors through me. His hand cups my face, thumb brushing over my lower lip, swollen from his kisses. “Tell me this isn’t just for tonight.”

I pull back enough to see his face, to trace the strong line of his jaw with trembling fingers.

My body still hums with arousal, every nerve ending alive in a way I’ve never experienced.

The physical desire is overwhelming, but what terrifies me more is the emotional connection—the sense of rightness, of completion I feel in his arms.

“How could it be?” I manage, my voice unsteady. “Whatever this is between us—it’s not something I can walk away from, even though I should.”

“Then don’t,” he says simply, capturing my hand and pressing a kiss to my palm, then to the inside of my wrist where my pulse races beneath his lips. “We’ll find a way.”