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Hidden Hours

Marco

I kneel in the pre-dawn stillness of my private chapel, Father Domenico’s words from last night still resonating through me.

“God does not reject you for who you are or who you love.” After decades of believing my deepest feelings were sinful, his acceptance has unlocked something profound within me—not just permission to acknowledge my attraction to Matteo, but an invitation to see it as potentially sacred.

“Guide me, Lord,” I whisper, watching morning light filter through stained glass. “If this path is truly from You, give me the courage to follow it.”

Sister Lucia appears at the doorway, disturbing me from my reflection, her normally composed face transformed by urgency, two Swiss Guards flanking her with hands on their weapons.

“Your Holiness, we need to move you immediately.”

I rise quickly, alarm replacing contemplation. “What’s happened?”

“Captain Russo just intercepted intelligence about coordinated assassination plots against both you and Prime Minister Valentini.” She’s already gathering essential papers from my desk, movements efficient but hurried. “The Swiss Guard is implementing Protocol Lazarus.”

My blood runs cold. Protocol Lazarus—the Vatican’s highest security measure, never activated in my lifetime. Named for the biblical resurrection, it’s designed to protect the Pope when death seems imminent.

“Where—” My voice catches. I clear my throat and try again. “Where are they taking me?”

“The secure bunker beneath the Apostolic Palace.” Sister Lucia moves toward the door, gesturing for me to follow. “Prime Minister Valentini is being brought here as well. His security team intercepted an armed assassin near his residence an hour ago.”

“Matteo?” My heart lurches painfully. “Is he hurt?”

“Unharmed, Your Holiness. His security detail acted quickly.” She gives me a searching look at my use of his first name, but continues, “Colonel Reichlin believes the Vatican is currently the safest location for both of you while they neutralize all identified threats.”

The corridor outside my office has transformed into a scene of controlled chaos. Swiss Guards in tactical gear rather than ceremonial uniforms move with practiced precision, securing doorways and speaking urgently into communication devices. Cardinal Sullivan appears, his face ashen.

“Marco,” he says, dispensing with formality. “Thank God they reached you in time. We’ve identified three separate teams targeting you.”

“Who’s behind this?” I ask as we hurry down a corridor I’ve walked countless times, now made foreign by crisis.

“Too early to be certain,” Sullivan replies, matching my pace. “But the timing, coming right after we’ve traced those Vatican Bank accounts to the Calabrian ‘Ndrangheta…”

“Antonelli,” I mutter. A Swiss Guard captain I don’t recognize appears at my side, gently but firmly guiding me toward a side passage I’ve never noticed before.

“Your Holiness, please stay between us,” he instructs, his voice calm but authoritative. “We need to move quickly.”

The next minutes blur into a kaleidoscope of motion and sound.

We descend staircases I didn’t know existed, pass through hidden doorways concealed behind tapestries, move through narrow passages where my shoulders nearly brush the walls.

Guards communicate in clipped phrases through earpieces—“Eagle moving,” “Corridor four secured,” “Potential breach in the eastern quadrant.”

My thoughts race as fast as my footsteps. Yet again, someone wants me dead. And Matteo too. The reality of it sends adrenaline coursing through me, making my hands tremble and my breath come in shallow gasps.

“Almost there, Your Holiness,” Sister Lucia says, noticing my distress.

“What about the rest of the Vatican?” I ask, thinking of the hundreds of people who work within these walls. “Are others in danger?”

“Additional security measures are being implemented throughout,” a guard assures me. “But you are the primary target.”

We round a final corner, and I see Colonel Hans Reichlin waiting beside a massive steel door set into the ancient stone wall. His weathered face shows the strain of command under pressure, but his posture remains ramrod straight as he salutes.

“Your Holiness. We have the situation under control.” He inputs a code into a modern keypad incongruously mounted on the centuries-old wall. “Prime Minister Valentini will arrive within twenty minutes through a separate entrance.”

The heavy door swings open to reveal Captain Lorenzo Lombardi, the young Swiss Guard officer who had helped us in the garden. His presence is immediately reassuring—someone I instinctively trust in this moment of crisis.

“Your Holiness,” Lombardi bows slightly. “The bunker is secure. ”

I step inside, surprised to find not the austere concrete cell I’d imagined, but a well-appointed suite—living area, small kitchen, bedroom, and bathroom. Built during the Cold War and periodically updated, it was designed for extended occupation if necessary.

“Colonel, I need to understand what’s happening,” I say as the door seals behind us with a pneumatic hiss.

Reichlin nods. “Of course, Your Holiness. Captain Lombardi will brief you and the Prime Minister together once he arrives.”

The next twenty minutes pass in tense silence.

I pace the confines of the bunker, trying to calm my racing thoughts.

Someone within the Vatican must have helped coordinate this attack.

The timing is too precise, coming just as our investigation reaches critical figures within the Curia.

Cardinal Antonelli’s face floats in my mind—his veiled threats, his control of the Vatican Bank, his efforts to isolate me from allies.

The bunker door finally opens again. Matteo enters, flanked by his security chief and Sister Lucia.

His normally immaculate appearance is dishevelled—tie askew, a smudge of dirt on his suit jacket, hair tousled as if he’d run his hands through it repeatedly.

But he’s alive, blessedly alive, and the relief that floods through me is so intense it’s almost painful.

Our eyes meet across the room, and I see my own shock and relief mirrored in his face. For a moment, I forget our audience, nearly crossing to him before professional restraint reasserts itself.

“Prime Minister,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “Thank God you’re safe.”

“Your Holiness,” he replies formally, though his eyes convey much more. “It seems we’ve angered the same people.”

Colonel Reichlin steps forward. “If I may, gentlemen. Captain Lombardi will brief you on the situation.”

Lombardi moves to the centre of the room, activating a secure tablet.

“ At 0527 this morning, Italian intelligence intercepted communications regarding coordinated assassination attempts against both of you. At 0612, Prime Minister Valentini’s security team neutralized an armed individual three blocks from his residence.

Concurrently, Vatican security discovered evidence of infiltration by another team of unknown agents, likely targeting His Holiness. ”

He displays a map of Rome with red markers indicating multiple locations. “We’ve identified three separate teams with military-grade equipment. The sophistication suggests professional operatives, possibly with connections to organized crime.”

“The Calabrian ‘Ndrangheta,” Matteo says grimly.

“That’s our assessment as well, sir,” Lombardi confirms. “Particularly given the timing—immediately following your joint investigation into certain Vatican Bank accounts linked to their operations.”

I exchange glances with Matteo. Our suspicions confirmed.

“What’s the operational plan?” Matteo asks, slipping naturally into crisis management mode.

“Joint Italian-Vatican security forces are conducting synchronized operations to neutralize all identified threats,” Reichlin explains.

“Prime Minister, your security chief is coordinating with Italian special forces from our command centre. We anticipate approximately twelve hours to secure all targets and ensure no additional threats exist.”

“Twelve hours,” I repeat, the implications sinking in.

“Yes, Your Holiness. You will both remain here until we can guarantee your safety.” Reichlin’s expression softens slightly.

“I understand this is disruptive, but the bunker is fully equipped for your comfort and has secure communication capabilities if needed. A nuclear war could begin outside this bunker, and both of you would be safe still.”

Matteo’s security chief steps forward, handing a device to Sister Lucia. “The Prime Minister’s secure phone. It’s been checked for tracking software.”

“I’ll be stationed outside with the Swiss Guard,” Sister Lucia says, moving toward the door. “You’ll have complete privacy, but we can be reached instantly through the intercom if needed.”

Colonel Reichlin and the security teams prepare to leave. Captain Lombardi is the last to exit, pausing at the doorway. “We will update you hourly, but please understand that radio silence may be necessary during critical phases of the operation.”

The door closes behind them with a heavy thud, the sound of multiple locks engaging echoing in the sudden silence. Matteo and I are alone, the reality of our situation settling around us like dust after an explosion.

For a moment, neither of us speaks. Then Matteo’s composed facade crumbles. He sinks onto the sofa, burying his face in his hands.

“Christ,” he mutters. “They nearly got me this morning. If Giuseppe hadn’t changed the route at the last minute…”

I cross to him immediately, professional distance forgotten. Sitting beside him, I place a hand on his shoulder, feeling the tension in his muscles.

“Are you truly alright?” I ask softly.

He looks up, his eyes haunted. “I heard the shots. Three of them, hitting the car behind us. A family was in that car, Marco. A family with children.”

“Were they—”