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“What troubles you, Marco?” he asked, sitting beside me.

I couldn’t tell him about the letter from home—Mama’s illness, the mounting bills—nor about the deeper anguish: the handsome seminarian from Florence who’d brushed my hand during Vespers, igniting feelings I’d fought to suppress.

“I fear I’m not worthy,” I whispered instead.

“None of us are.” His smile was kind. “That’s the mystery of vocation. God calls the unworthy and makes them instruments of grace.”

I throw myself into my studies after that night. Graduate with honours. Am ordained at twenty-three and sent to a struggling parish in Turin where addiction, unemployment, and poverty ravage the community.

There, I find my voice. My homilies speak to the dignity of all people. I establish programs for the homeless, the addicted, the forgotten. When the Archbishop visits, he finds a transformed parish full of live and vigour—and marks me for advancement.

By twenty-six, I am the youngest bishop in Italy. At twenty-eight, elevated to cardinal—a political appointment, many whisper, to balance the increasingly conservative Curia with a young moderate voice.

And now I am Holy Father to over a billion Catholics worldwide.

* * *

I loosen the stiff collar at my throat, finally alone after the endless ceremonial duties of the day.

My personal belongings will arrive tomorrow from my quarters at the conclave.

For tonight, I have only what the papal household has provided—nightclothes laid out by unseen hands, toiletries arranged in the marble bathroom.

Exhaustion pulls at me as I prepare for bed. The sheets are crisp, the mattress firmer than expected. I reach to turn off the bedside lamp when something catches my eye—a folded paper on the pillow.

I hadn’t noticed it earlier. Perhaps a welcome note from the household staff? I unfold it, expecting pleasantries.

The handwriting is elegant, the ink blue-black:

The white smoke rises for the wrong man. Beware the enemies within these sacred walls. They will not allow a reformer to sit long on Peter’s throne.

My blood turns cold. I read it again, then again. No signature. No indication of who has accessed the papal apartments to leave this warning.

I set the note on the nightstand with trembling fingers. The silence of the vast apartment presses in around me. Somewhere beyond these walls, someone has already marked my papacy for destruction.

My mind races through who could have accessed these rooms. The papal apartments were sealed after Benedict’s resignation and Francis’s decision to live elsewhere.

They would have been reopened and prepared only after my election—a matter of hours ago.

That narrows the list: household staff, a few senior Curia officials, perhaps the Swiss Guard commander himself.

I mentally catalogue potential allies and enemies.

Cardinal Sullivan stands foremost among those I trust—his support during the conclave was genuine, his counsel practical without being politically calculating.

Archbishop Chen Wei has shown me nothing but respect and friendship, valuing my theological perspectives during the conclave despite my youth.

Sister Maria Francisca from the communications office greeted my election with unfeigned enthusiasm.

But the list of those I don’t know well enough to trust is far longer.

Cardinal Bianchi accepted my election with a tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

Monsignor Ferrante from the Secretariat of State watched me throughout the day with an inscrutable expression.

And Cardinal Rossi, who announced my election to the world, has already subtly reminded me twice of the “valuable guidance” the Curia stands ready to provide to such a “youthful pontiff. ”

Is it because they suspect my secret? Or because they know and fear the changes I’ve only just begun to envision for the Church?

The note implies the latter. “They will not allow a reformer to sit long on Peter’s throne.

” But I’ve been careful never to openly position myself as a radical.

My homilies emphasize tradition alongside compassion.

My writings affirm doctrine while suggesting pastoral flexibility.

Have I revealed too much of my true inner thinking?

Or does someone see through the careful outward balance I’ve maintained?

I run my finger along the elegant script. The phrasing suggests someone educated, perhaps older—“sit long on Peter’s throne” has an archaic quality. Not a threat from a progressive disappointed by my selection, but a warning from someone who believes I might actually attempt reform.

A warning from an ally, then? Or a veiled threat disguised as concern?

I slip from the bed and move to the window, drawing back heavy curtains.

The eternal city spreads before me, a tapestry of lights and shadows.

In one of those buildings, Mama watches the news of her son’s elevation with disbelieving joy.

In others, the cardinals who voted for me plot their next moves in the endless Vatican chess game.

The tiara—symbolic now, no longer worn—weighs on me nonetheless. The burden of Peter. The keys to the kingdom.

I press my forehead against the cool glass, alone with my secrets, my fears, and a warning that confirms my deepest anxiety: I was never meant for this throne, and forces beyond my understanding already work to remove me from it.