Page 26

Nothing Personal

Carlos

I pour another finger of vodka, swirling the clear liquid in my glass before taking a slow sip. The ice clinks against the crystal as my hand trembles slightly. Not from the alcohol—this is only my second drink—but from the growing dread that’s been building since this morning’s cabinet meeting.

Matteo’s announcement about the corruption prosecutions wasn’t entirely unexpected. I’ve known about his anti-corruption crusade since before I joined his coalition. What I hadn’t anticipated was how quickly he’d move against Russo and Bianchi, or how comprehensive the investigation would be.

My office is dark except for the desk lamp, casting long shadows across the polished floor. Outside my window, Rome glitters beneath a moonless sky, oblivious to the storm brewing within these government walls.

I pull open my desk drawer and extract a slim folder—one that never enters the official filing system.

Inside are records of five separate payments from Cardinal Lombardi’s foundation to a consulting company I own through three shell corporations.

Nothing overtly illegal—just “advisory fees” for “strategic consulting” on matters of “ church-state relations.”

Standard practice in Italian politics. Everyone does it. Has done it for generations.

At least, that’s what I told myself when I accepted the first payment seven years ago. Just enough to fund my initial campaign when I couldn’t secure traditional backing. Then came the second payment, and the third—each larger than the last, each more difficult to justify even to myself.

I drain my glass and pour another. The vodka burns less with each swallow.

On my computer screen, financial records show the complex web connecting Vatican accounts to various Italian officials. Matteo has only seen the surface level so far. If he digs deeper—if his pet Justice Minister Gabriella gets her hands on the complete records—my name will eventually emerge.

And then? Political suicide at best. Prison at worst.

“Fuck,” I mutter, slamming the folder shut.

I’ve worked too hard, climbed too far to let it all collapse now. Deputy Prime Minister at thirty-four. I’m positioned to take the premiership itself within a few years—especially if Matteo’s zealotry causes his coalition to fracture, as it likely will.

Unless I’m caught in his anti-corruption net first.

I pick up my phone and dial a number I rarely use.

“It’s late,” answers a gruff voice without preamble.

“I need you, Franco. It’s important.”

A pause. “Your office?”

“Twenty minutes.”

I hang up and turn to the window, watching the city lights blur slightly as the vodka takes effect. How did Matteo even get access to those Vatican records? The Church guards its finances jealously. Unless …

The Pope. The young, supposedly naive Pope who’s spent an unusual amount of time with our Prime Minister lately. Private meetings, extended discussions, security protocols that exclude even senior staff.

Something doesn’t add up.

Franco arrives in eighteen minutes, slipping into my office without knocking. He’s a former intelligence officer who now handles my more sensitive matters—the kind that require deniability.

“You look like shit,” he observes, declining my offer of vodka.

“I have a problem that needs solving.”

“Don’t you always?” He sits across from me, his weathered face impassive. “What is it this time?”

I explain the situation—the corruption investigation, the potential connections to my finances, the urgency of finding leverage to protect myself.

“And you want me to dig up dirt on the Prime Minister,” Franco concludes. “That’s a dangerous game, even for you.”

“Not just any dirt. Something specific.” I lean forward. “There’s something unusual about his relationship with the Pope. They’ve had multiple private meetings—completely off the books. The Vatican connection to this corruption investigation isn’t coincidental.”

Franco raises an eyebrow. “You think they’re collaborating on the investigation?”

“I think there’s more to it than that.” I take another sip of vodka. “The way Matteo talks about him… it’s different. And today, when I mentioned the Pope, there was something in his expression.”

“What exactly are you suggesting?”

“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m asking you to find out what’s really happening between them.”

Franco studies me for a long moment. “Surveillance on the Prime Minister and the Pope. You realize what you’re asking? ”

“I’m asking you to follow Matteo. Discreetly. Document his movements, especially any meetings with the Pope. Photograph them together if possible.”

“And if I find nothing?”

“You will.” I’m certain of it now. “There’s something there. Something personal. I can feel it.”

“And if you’re right? What then?”

I drain my glass and set it down carefully. “Then I’ll have what I need to ensure Matteo’s corruption investigation focuses elsewhere. The Italian public might support prosecuting corrupt officials, but they won’t support a Prime Minister engaged in a scandal with the Pope.”

Franco nods slowly. “I’ll need resources. Specialized equipment.”

“You’ll have whatever you need. Just find me something I can use. Quickly.”

After he leaves, I pour one final drink and return to the window. Below, Franco’s car pulls away from the curb, disappearing into the night traffic.

Matteo Valentini. My political ally. My supposed friend. The man whose coattails I’ve ridden to power.

“Nothing personal,” I murmur to his invisible presence. “Just politics.”

I’ve never believed in Matteo’s crusade. His anti-corruption zeal, his performative righteousness—it’s all just another political strategy as far as I’m concerned. One that’s served him well, admittedly. One that I’ve been happy to associate myself with.

Until now.

Now it’s a threat. And threats must be eliminated.

If there is indeed something inappropriate between the Prime Minister and the Pope—something that could be framed as scandalous—it would be the perfect weapon. Not just to deflect the corruption investigation, but to remove Matteo entirely.

And then? The coalition would need a new leader. Someone already in position, with the right experience to lead the party through turbulent times. Someone like the Deputy Prime Minister.

I smile at my reflection in the dark glass, raising my glass in a silent toast to my future self.

Prime Minister Carlos Rossi. It has a nice ring to it.