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Trial By Fire

Matteo

I never expected to die at thirty-three.

The thought flashes through my mind in that suspended moment between the crack of the gunshot and my security detail slamming me to the marble floor of parliament. The bullet kisses my cheek—a lover’s touch with death’s intent—before embedding itself in the ornate wall behind me.

But the day hadn’t begun with thoughts of mortality.

* * *

Three hours earlier

“You’re going to make enemies today, sir.” Giovanni adjusts his earpiece as we walk the corridor toward my office, his eyes constantly scanning our surroundings.

“I didn’t take this job to make friends,” I reply, accepting a coffee from my aide. The Parliament Building bustles with the usual morning activity, but there’s a tension in the air. Everyone knows what’s on the agenda.

In my office, my justice minister Gabriella Esposito waits, a stack of folders arranged precisely on my desk. She rises when I enter, her severe grey suit matching her expression.

“The banking consortium released another statement this morning,” she says without preamble. “They’re calling the legislation ‘economic suicide.’”

I sip my coffee. “Did they use the phrase ‘witch hunt’ again?”

“Twice.” She hands me the top folder. “And Cardinal Bianchi gave an interview suggesting the Church has ‘grave concerns’ about government overreach.”

“The Church has concerns about looking at their books,” I mutter, skimming the briefing. “Any word from the Vatican proper?”

“The Pope’s office remains silent on the matter.” Gabriella’s tone is carefully neutral. “Though rumour has it he’s more progressive than his handlers would like or the conservative cardinals had assumed when they elected him.”

I set down the folder. “And our numbers?”

“We’re three votes short in the lower house.” She taps a document. “These are the ones we need to convince.”

I study the names, recognizing the usual fence-sitters—politicians with financial ties they’d rather not have examined too closely. “And if we can’t convince them?”

“Then your speech today needs to move the public enough that these three fear voter backlash more than they fear their donors.”

I nod, turning to the window. The morning sun catches on the ancient domes and spires of Rome—a city built on power, secrets, and money. My city. My responsibility.

“The speech is ready?” I ask, though I know the answer. I’d stayed up until 3 AM finalizing it myself.

“Yes, Prime Minister.” Gabriella hands me the final folder. “Though I still think the section on religious institutions could be… diplomatically st rengthened.”

“You mean weakened,” I correct her with a small smile. “Some things need to be said plainly, Gabriella.”

She returns the smile, but her eyes remain serious. “Just remember that today is about passing the legislation, not starting a war with the Vatican and the Pope.”

“Noted.” I check my watch. “Let’s review the key points one more time.”

For the next hour, we dissect the speech paragraph by paragraph.

This address isn’t just about the anti-corruption package; it’s about setting the tone for my entire administration.

At thirty-three, I’m constantly fighting the perception that I’m too young, too idealistic, too naive for this office.

Today’s speech needs to project authority without arrogance, determination without recklessness.

As we wrap up, my personal assistant enters with my suit jacket—navy blue, tailored perfectly. “Five minutes, Prime Minister.”

I nod, standing to slip it on. In the private bathroom, I adjust my tie and study my reflection. Dark circles under my eyes betray my late nights, but there’s a fire there too—the same fire that carried me from the poorest streets of Naples to the highest office in all of Italy.

“Time to make history,” I murmur to myself.

Giovanni appears at my side as I exit. “Security is in position, sir.”

The walk to the chamber feels longer than usual. Representatives and staffers line the corridor, some offering encouraging nods, others carefully avoiding my gaze. I recognize the division—those who support the reforms and those with too much to lose.

At the entrance to the chamber, I pause, taking a deep breath.

The space beyond buzzes with anticipation, every seat filled, the press gallery packed.

I catch sight of Cardinal Bianchi in the diplomatic visitor section, his red zucchetto a splash of colour among the suits.

Our eyes meet briefly before he looks away.

“Ready when you are, sir,” Giovanni says quietly .

I straighten my shoulders and step forward.

The chamber falls silent as I approach the podium, the weight of centuries of Italian governance pressing down from the ornate ceiling.

I place my notes before me, but I know I won’t need them.

These words are carved into my heart, as all of my speeches are.

“Honourable representatives,” I begin, my voice carrying clearly through the microphone, “distinguished guests, my fellow Italians. Today we stand at a crossroads in our nation’s history.”

I pause, scanning the faces before me—some eager, some hostile, most carefully guarded.

“For too long, corruption has been the silent tax paid by every Italian citizen. It inflates our costs, deflates our opportunities, and erodes the very foundation of our democracy. The legislation before you today is not merely about financial transparency or regulatory oversight. It is about justice.”

The chamber remains silent, but I can feel the attention sharpening, the air growing heavier with anticipation—or perhaps apprehension.

“This package will create unprecedented powers to investigate, prosecute, and penalize those who have treated Italy as their personal treasury. No one—” I emphasize these words, my gaze deliberately passing over the diplomatic section, “—no individual, no corporation, no institution will be exempt from scrutiny.”

A murmur ripples through the chamber. I continue, building my case point by point, statistic by statistic. I outline the cost of corruption—not just in euros, but in lost jobs, crumbling infrastructure, and diminished trust.

Twenty minutes into my address, I reach the most controversial section.

“Some have suggested that certain institutions should remain beyond the reach of these reforms due to their historical or spiritual significance. I respectfully disagree. The more central an institution is to Italian life, the more transparent it must be. Faith should never be used as a shield for financial misconduct.”

Cardinal Bianchi shifts visibly in his seat. From the corner of my eye, I notice Giovanni touching his earpiece, his posture suddenly alert. But I’m too focused on my speech to register the warning.

“The Italy I believe in—the Italy I fight for—is one where—”

The crack of the gunshot cuts through my words like thunder. For a heartbeat, everything freezes. Then chaos erupts.

I never expected to die at thirty-three.

The thought flashes through my mind in that suspended moment between the crack of the gunshot and my security detail slamming me to the marble floor of parliament. The bullet kisses my cheek—a lover’s touch with death’s intent—before embedding itself in the ornate wall behind me.

Blood trickles warm down my face as bodies pile on top of me. The chamber erupts in screams and chaos.

“Get him out!” someone shouts.

“Stay down, sir!” Giovanni presses his weight against me.

But something burns inside me hotter than the graze on my face. I’ve spent my life fighting—fighting poverty, fighting corruption, fighting to make my voice heard. I won’t cower now.

“Help me up,” I demand.

“Prime Minister, we need to evacuate—”

“Help me up, now.” I push against the human shield of security personnel. “I’m finishing my speech.”

Giovanni’s face twists with professional horror. “Sir, there could be another shooter.”

“Then find them.” I touch my cheek, fingers coming away red. “But I’m not running.”

The chamber has partially emptied, panicked representatives fleeing for the exits while security locks down the building. Blood stains my white shirt collar, but I straighten my tie and return to the podium.

The microphone catches my laboured breathing as I grip the edges of the wooden stand. Those who remain—whether from courage or shock—stare back with wide eyes.

“Ladies and gentlemen of parliament,” I begin, my voice steadier than my hands, “it appears corruption in Italy has become so desperate it’s turned to violence.”

Murmurs ripple through the chamber.

“To whoever just tried to silence me—” I wipe blood from my cheek with my handkerchief, holding it up for all to see, “—you’ve failed. And to those who hired them, hear me clearly: Your days are numbered.”

The chamber erupts in applause—hesitant at first, then building to a roar. Even members of the opposition stand. Nothing unites Italians like defiance in the face of violence.

“This blood—” I press the handkerchief back to my face, “—only strengthens my resolve. The anti-corruption legislation before you isn’t just paper and ink. It’s the future of our country. Vote your conscience tomorrow, but know that Italy is watching.”

I finish my address amid thunderous applause, the pain in my cheek finally registering as adrenaline begins to fade. Security hustles me through back corridors to a waiting ambulance, but I’ve made my point. The assassination attempt that was meant to end my crusade has instead galvanized it.

* * *

“You’re an idiot,” Sophia says, dabbing antiseptic on my stitched cheek three hours later. My sister has always possessed the unique ability to make concern sound like scolding.

“The doctor already cleaned it,” I wince as she presses harder than necessary .

“The doctor doesn’t know you’ll scratch at it in your sleep.” She caps the bottle and steps back, arms crossed over her chest. “You could have died today, Matteo.”

“But I didn’t.”

“Pure luck.”