Page 31 of Sacred Hearts

“God help us both,” he says. “Because I don’t think I could stop loving you even if I wanted to.”

Hand in hand, we walk back to the villa, carrying this new declaration between us—another secret, another bond, another reason to fight for the changes we both believe in.

For tonight, at least, we’ve carved out a space where love transcends titles and traditions.

Tomorrow will bring its challenges, its compromises, its necessary concealment.

But for now, with the taste of salt on my lips and the memory of stars overhead, I am simply a man walking beside the one he loves, blessed by sea and sky and the grace of unexpected joy.

* * *

Morning light filters through the villa’s shutters, casting golden stripes across the rumpled bed sheets.

I wake slowly, momentarily disoriented by the unfamiliar surroundings and the warm weight of Matteo’s arm draped across my chest. The events of last night—the beach, the stars, our declarations—flood back, bringing a smile to my face.

“You’re thinking too loudly,” Matteo mumbles, his voice rough with sleep. He burrows closer, pressing his face against my shoulder .

“Good morning to you too,” I laugh, running my fingers through his tousled hair.

He lifts his head, eyes still half-closed, and smiles lazily. “I could get used to this view.”

“The Mediterranean?” I tease.

“No.” He traces my jawline with his thumb. “You. Without the white collar and formal robes. Just you.”

The simple honesty of his words touches something deep within me. I lean down to kiss him, morning breath be damned.

“Hungry?” he asks when we finally separate.

“Starving,” I admit. “Nighttime beach activities apparently work up an appetite.”

Matteo laughs and slides from the bed with fluid grace.

He pulls on a pair of loose linen pants that ride low on his narrow hips, revealing the defined muscles that form a tantalizing V.

A thin trail of dark hair runs from his navel downward, disappearing beneath the waistband like an arrow pointing to hidden treasures.

The morning light catches the contours of his bare torso as he stretches.

“I’ll make breakfast,” he says, running a hand through his tousled hair. “There’s a robe hanging in the bathroom if you’d like it.”

Twenty minutes later, freshly showered and wrapped in a soft linen robe, I pad into the kitchen to find Matteo at the stove, his bare back to me as he flips pancakes. Coffee percolates, filling the air with its rich aroma. A bowl of fresh fruit sits on the rustic wooden table, already set for two.

The domesticity of the scene nearly overwhelms me. This is what normal people have, I think. Ordinary mornings, ordinary happiness.

“Can I help?” I offer, coming up behind him and wrapping my arms around his waist. My hands slide up to explore the firm planes of his chest, feeling his muscles flex beneath my fingertips as he works at the stove.

I press a kiss to the sensitive spot where his neck meets his shoulder, breathing in his scent—a heady mixture of sleep-warm skin and something uniquely Matteo.

“You can pour the coffee,” he says, his voice catching slightly as my fingers graze his nipple.

He turns his head to kiss my temple, his body leaning back into mine.

“Though I should warn you—I’ve been told my pancakes are life-changing.

You might start questioning all your theological certainties. ”

I laugh, moving to the coffee pot. “That serious, hmm? More revelatory than the burning bush?”

“Moses never had my ricotta pancakes with lemon zest,” he says with mock solemnity.

We settle at the table, knees touching beneath it, the sea visible through open windows.

The pancakes are indeed remarkable—light, slightly tangy from the ricotta, brightened by lemon.

We eat in comfortable silence, occasionally feeding each other bites of fruit, stealing kisses between sips of coffee.

“I wish every morning could be like this,” I say, not realizing I’ve spoken aloud until Matteo reaches for my hand.

“One day,” he says with quiet conviction. “When this is over—the corruption, the reforms—we’ll find a way.”

The implausibility of his promise hangs between us, but neither of us challenges it. Sometimes hope, however unlikely, is necessary for survival.

The sound of tires on gravel interrupts our reverie. Matteo frowns, setting down his coffee cup.

“Lorenzo said they wouldn’t need me to leave until noon,” I say, suddenly anxious.

Matteo rises, moving cautiously to the window. His posture immediately relaxes, then tenses again in a different way.

“It’s not your security team,” he says, turning to me with an expression somewhere between amusement and horror. “It’s Sophia. ”

“Your sister?” I nearly knock over my coffee. “Here? Now?”

Through the window, I can see two Swiss Guards at the gate speaking with Sophia. She’s gesturing emphatically, holding up what appears to be her government identification.

“They won’t let her in,” I say, feeling simultaneously relieved and guilty.

But as we watch, one of the guards nods and steps aside. Sophia drives through the gate toward the villa.

“Apparently they will,” Matteo counters. “She must have convinced them she has official business with me. She’s been here before, and they probably assume she knows I’m here with… official security reasons.”

Before Matteo can decide what to do, the front door opens—apparently Sophia has her own key—and her voice rings through the villa.

“Matteo? Your security detail said you were here, and I need to discuss the Russo situation before the press conference—”

She rounds the corner into the kitchen and stops dead, her professional briefcase dangling forgotten from one hand.

Her eyes widen comically as she takes in the scene—her brother in nothing but low-slung pants, me in a borrowed robe, the intimate breakfast table, and what must be unmistakable evidence of our night together written all over our faces.

For three excruciating seconds, nobody moves. Then Sophia’s briefcase hits the floor with a thud.

“Oh my God,” she says, her voice rising an octave. “Oh. My. GOD.”

Rapid footsteps sound in the hallway behind her, and Captain Lorenzo Lombardi bursts into the kitchen, hand on his holstered weapon. Two more Swiss Guards appear at the doorway behind him, alert and ready.

“Your Holiness! Is everything—” Lorenzo freezes as he takes in the scene, his professional demeanour momentarily cracking into shock before he composes himself. His eyes dart from me to Matteo to Sophia and back again, putting together the pieces with remarkable speed.

“Captain,” I say, somehow finding my papal voice despite being dressed only in a bathrobe. “Everything is fine. Ms. Valentini is the Prime Minister’s sister.”

“Yes, Your Holiness,” Lorenzo says, his face carefully neutral now. “My apologies. She presented government credentials, and we were aware she had previous access to the property. We should have verified with you first.”

“It’s alright, Lorenzo,” I assure him. “A simple misunderstanding.”

Sophia has been staring, mouth agape, during this exchange. As Lorenzo mentions her credentials, she seems to snap back to reality.

“You’re the Pope,” she interrupts, her voice a strangled whisper. “You’re the actual Pope. In my brother’s kitchen. In a bathrobe.” She whirls on Matteo. “You’re sleeping with the Pope?!”

“Sophia, please—” Matteo starts.

“The POPE, Matteo!” She throws her hands up. “When I told you to find someone, I was thinking maybe a nice lawyer or that economist from the finance ministry. Not the SPIRITUAL LEADER OF A BILLION CATHOLICS!”

Lorenzo clears his throat uncomfortably. “Your Holiness, shall we… remove Ms. Valentini?”

“That won’t be necessary, Captain,” I say, somehow finding a smile despite my mortification. “Ms. Valentini is simply… surprised by my presence here.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Sophia mutters.

“Perhaps you and your men could give us a few minutes?” I suggest to Lorenzo.

He hesitates, clearly torn between protocol and my request. “We’ll be just outside, Your Holiness,” he finally says with a slight bow. “Within immediate reach if needed.”

As the Swiss Guards withdraw, I can see Lorenzo giving his men instructions, no doubt positioning them strategically around the villa’s perimeter.

Despite my mortification, I find myself fighting inappropriate laughter. Sophia’s reaction is so genuine, so sisterly in its outrage, that it cuts through the tension of the situation.

“I think I should introduce myself properly,” I say, stepping forward with as much dignity as a borrowed robe allows. “I’m Marco. Just Marco right now, if that’s alright.”

Sophia stares at me, then at her brother, then back to me. Slowly, her expression shifts from shock to something more calculating.

“Just Marco,” she repeats, studying me with new interest. “Who happens to be Pope Pius XIV.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re… with my brother.”

“Yes,” I say simply, moving to stand beside Matteo, who takes my hand in silent support.

Sophia closes her eyes briefly, as if processing this information requires her full concentration. When she opens them, she looks directly at Matteo.

“Are you happy?” she asks, all sisterly concern.

Matteo’s grip on my hand tightens. “Yes. More than I’ve ever been.”

She turns to me. “And you? Is this… real for you?”

“Completely,” I answer without hesitation. “I love him.”

Saying it out loud to someone else feels both terrifying and liberating.

Sophia takes a deep breath, then bends to pick up her briefcase with deliberate calm. She places it on a chair, smooths her skirt, and then does the last thing I expect—she bursts into laughter .

“Of course,” she gasps between fits of giggles. “Of course my brother couldn’t just find a nice boyfriend like a normal person. He had to fall in love with the Pope. The youngest Pope in centuries. During a corruption investigation. While reforming the Church.”

Her laughter is contagious. Matteo snorts, then begins chuckling. I feel my own lips twitching until I too am laughing—the absurdity of our situation suddenly hilarious when reflected through Sophia’s reaction.

“I’m sorry,” she says, wiping tears from her eyes as she gradually regains control. “It’s just so… so perfectly Matteo. Never the easy path.”

“You’re not… upset?” Matteo asks cautiously.

Sophia’s expression softens. “I’m concerned, obviously. The political implications alone are…” She waves a hand, apparently unable to find words adequate to the situation. “But upset that you’ve found someone who clearly cares for you? No.”

She turns to me, her expression shifting to something more serious. “Though I do have questions. Many, many questions.”

“That seems fair,” I say, gesturing to the table. “Would you like some coffee? And perhaps Matteo could put on a shirt?”

Matteo looks down as if surprised to find himself half-dressed. “Right. Yes. Shirt.”

As he disappears toward the bedroom, Sophia accepts the coffee cup I offer. She studies me over its rim with shrewd eyes that miss nothing.

“So,” she says conversationally, “you’re reforming centuries of Church teaching on homosexuality while secretly in a relationship with my brother. That’s… bold.”

I nearly choke on my coffee. “I began considering those reforms long before Matteo and I… before we…”

“Became intimately acquainted?” she supplies helpfully.

I feel heat rising to my face. “Yes.”

“Relax,” she says, her expression softening. “I’m not judging. I’m just trying to understand the man my brother is clearly head over heels for.”

“It’s complicated,” I admit.

“I imagine so.” She sips her coffee thoughtfully. “The Pope and the Prime Minister. It sounds like the title of a controversial harlequin romance.”

“Or a political thriller,” Matteo adds, returning to the kitchen now wearing a simple t-shirt, his firm muscular chest still visible through the thin cotton fabric. He sits beside me, our shoulders touching. “One with assassination attempts, Vatican conspiracies, and corrupt cardinals.”

“Speaking of which,” Sophia says, snapping back to business mode, “that’s why I came. Finance Minister Russo is holding a press conference at noon claiming political persecution. He’s gathered support from three coalition parties.”

The real world intrudes on our brief idyll, bringing with it all the complications we’ve temporarily escaped.

“I should get back,” Matteo says, tension returning to his shoulders.

“And I have a meeting with the Curia at two,” I add reluctantly.

Sophia looks between us, her expression softening again. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of reality. You both look… happy here.”

“We are,” Matteo says simply.

“Then I’ll help you protect this,” she says with sudden determination. “Whatever this is between you, whatever you’re building—I’ll help you shield it from those who would use it against you.”

“Why?” I ask, genuinely curious.

“Because my brother deserves happiness,” she says to Matteo, then turns to me.

“And because the reforms you’re fighting for matter.

I’ve seen how Church teaching has hurt people I care about.

If you’re brave enough to challenge that, while carrying the burden of your office…

” She shrugs. “Then your personal life is your business.”

“Thank you,” I say, deeply moved by her acceptance.

“Don’t thank me yet,” she warns, a mischievous glint returning to her eye. “As the sister who’s had to listen to Matteo complain about being single for years, I reserve the right to tease him mercilessly about finally finding someone—even if I can only do it in private.”

Matteo groans. “I knew there’d be a catch.”

“Of course there is,” Sophia says cheerfully, rising from her chair. “Now, I’ll wait in the car while you two say goodbye. Five minutes, Matteo. We have a political crisis to manage.”

As she leaves, there’s a brief exchange at the door as Captain Lombardi confirms her departure is voluntary. I make a mental note to speak with Lorenzo later—his discretion and loyalty deserve further acknowledgement.

Matteo pulls me into his arms. “Well, that was unexpected.”

“She took it better than I feared,” I admit, resting my head against his chest.

“Sophia’s always been my strongest supporter,” he says, his voice warm with affection. “Even when she thinks I’m being an idiot.”

“And now?”

“Now she thinks I’m being an idiot, but a happy one.” He tilts my chin up to look at him. “She’s right about that part.”

Our goodbye kiss is tinged with the bittersweet knowledge that our brief escape is ending. Reality awaits us both—him with his political battles, me with my theological ones. But something has shifted between us, a deeper commitment forged in our night under the stars and sealed with words of love.

“Until next time,” I whisper against his lips.

“Until next time,” he echoes, holding me close for one last moment before we must return to being Pope and Prime Minister once more.