Page 33

The Price of Power

Carlos

I turn the envelope over in my hands, savouring the moment. Inside lies the future of Italy—or more accurately, the end of Matteo Valentini’s future and the beginning of mine. Franco delivered these photos an hour ago, his face impassive as always.

“You were right,” he’d said. “The Prime Minister and the Pope. More than friends.”

Now I sit in my office, bourbon replacing this morning’s espresso, as I spread the photographs across my desk.

My breath catches despite myself. The quality is exceptional—Matteo and Pope Pius XIV locked in an embrace that cannot possibly be misinterpreted.

One shows them kissing on a secluded beach.

Another captures them holding hands on a terrace, looking at each other with unmistakable desire.

The most damning shows them through the villa’s bedroom window, the Pope’s hands on Matteo’s bare chest.

“Checkmate, you sanctimonious prick,” I whisper, taking another sip of bourbon. The warmth spreads through my chest, matching the satisfaction spreading through my mind.

I’ve always known Matteo was gay. It wasn’t exactly a state secret, though he kept it quiet enough that most Italians remain oblivious.

But the Pope? That’s a revelation even I didn’t anticipate.

The holier-than-thou reformer with his speeches about transparency and ethics—fucking the Prime Minister behind closed doors.

I tuck the photos back into the envelope. Not yet. These are my insurance policy, my nuclear option. First, I’ll give Matteo one last chance to be reasonable.

* * *

“This anti-corruption witch hunt has gone far enough,” I slam my palm against the cabinet table, making Finance Minister Russo jump. “You’re targeting legitimate businesses with these excessive regulations.”

Matteo sits at the head of the table, calm as ever, that infuriating half-smile playing on his lips. The same lips I’ve now seen pressed against the Pope’s.

“These ‘legitimate businesses’ you’re so concerned about, Carlos—why exactly are you their champion?

” Matteo’s voice remains measured, but his eyes hold mine with that piercing intensity that helped him rise to power.

“The legislation targets organizations with documented connections to organized crime. Unless you have personal interests I’m unaware of? ”

Several ministers shift uncomfortably. Justice Minister Esposito watches me with narrowed eyes.

“It’s about economic stability,” I counter. “These measures will freeze investment when we need it most. We need to exempt the banking sector and phase in the compliance requirements over five years.”

“So the criminals have time to move their money elsewhere?” Matteo raises an eyebrow. “No. The legislation passes as written.”

“You’re making powerful enemies,” I warn.

“I’m counting on it.” He stands, signalling the meeting’s end. “If there’s nothing else?”

The other ministers file out, but I remain seated. Matteo notices and waits until we’re alone.

“Something on your mind, Carlos?”

I approach him slowly. “We’ve been colleagues a long time. I’ve supported your rise from the beginning.”

“And I’ve appreciated it.” His tone suggests otherwise.

“Then trust me when I say you’re moving too fast. This crusade against corruption—it’s admirable, but politically naive.”

“Is that what this is about? Politics?” Matteo gathers his papers. “Or is it about the Lombardi Foundation’s donations to your campaign last election?”

My blood runs cold. “What are you implying?”

“Nothing yet. But my investigation is thorough, Carlos. It follows the money wherever it leads.” He walks to the door, then pauses. “Even to friends.”

“You should be more careful,” I call after him. “About your investigations. About your… personal associations.”

He turns back, face unreadable. “Is that a threat?”

“Friendly advice. Italy isn’t ready for all your… progressive ideas.”

A flicker of something—concern, perhaps—crosses his face before he masks it. “Goodnight, Carlos.”

* * *

Back in my office, I pour another bourbon. My hand trembles slightly as I raise the glass. That arrogant bastard. He knows about my connections to Lombardi. He’s investigating me.

I pull out my phone and dial Franco.

“It’s time,” I tell him when he answers. “Leak the photos. All of them. ”

“To which outlet?” His voice is emotionless.

I consider for a moment. “Start with La Repubblica. They’ll give it the most sensational coverage. Then make sure copies reach the international press and Vatican correspondents.”

“Timeline?”

“Tomorrow morning. Early. I want Matteo to wake up to his world burning.”

“Consider it done.”

I hang up and walk to my window, looking out at the lights of Rome. By this time tomorrow, the country will be in chaos. The Prime Minister and the Pope—lovers. The scandal will rock both the government and the Church to their foundations.

Matteo will have no choice but to resign. The coalition will fracture. And I’ll be there to pick up the pieces, to present myself as the steady hand Italy needs in crisis. As for Pope Pius, the Cardinals who already oppose his reforms will use this to force him out.

I raise my glass to the Vatican, barely visible in the distance. “Sorry, Your Holiness. Politics is a blood sport.”

A twinge of something like guilt nags at me, but I drown it with another swallow of bourbon. This isn’t personal—it’s survival. If Matteo’s investigation continues, I’m finished. The offshore accounts, the Lombardi connection, the payments from those construction companies—it all leads back to me.

Better to burn it all down than face prison.

I return to my desk and open my laptop, preparing talking points for the interviews I’ll give expressing my “shock and disappointment” at the scandal. I’ll need to appear reluctant to step into Matteo’s shoes—a patriot answering his country’s call in a moment of crisis.

By morning, Italy will have a new story. By week’s end, if all goes as planned, a new Prime Minister.

And Matteo Valentini? He can join his papal lover in disgrace.

* * *

Matteo

I wake to sunlight streaming through my bedroom window, feeling oddly rested despite everything happening around me. For the first time in months—perhaps years—I feel a sense of peace that transcends the chaos of my position. Thoughts of Marco fill my mind as I stretch beneath the sheets.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I ignore it, preferring to linger in this rare moment of contentment. It buzzes again. And again. Then my landline rings.

Something’s wrong.

I grab my mobile to find seventeen missed calls from Sophia, my chief of staff, and various members of my communications team. As I stare at the screen, it lights up again with Sophia’s name.

“What’s happened?” I answer without preamble.

“Turn on your television.” Sophia’s voice is tight, controlled, but I hear the undercurrent of panic. “And bring up La Repubblica’s website. Now.”

I fumble for the remote, clicking on the TV as I open my tablet to load the newspaper’s site. Both display the same image simultaneously—Marco and me on the beach, his hand cupping my face, our lips pressed together. The headline screams: “UNHOLY ALLIANCE: POPE AND PM IN SECRET ROMANCE.”

My stomach drops through the floor.

“Matteo? Are you there?” Sophia’s voice sounds distant through the phone I’ve lowered to my lap.

“How many photos?” I manage to ask, my throat suddenly desert-dry.

“Six published so far. There are… intimate ones. From inside the villa.”

The room spins. I think of Marco—how is he learning about this? Is he alone? The thought of him facing this exposure without support makes me physically ill.

“The office is flooded with calls,” Sophia continues. “Every news outlet in Europe wants a statement. Social media is exploding. You need to come in immediately.”

“Has anyone reached out to the Vatican?”

“Not officially. Nobody knows what to do—this is unprecedented.”

I run a hand through my hair, mind racing through scenarios, each worse than the last. “I’ll be there in thirty minutes. Call an emergency cabinet meeting for noon. And Sophia…”

“Yes?”

“Find out who leaked these. I want names.”

I end the call and sit motionless, staring at our image frozen on the screen. We look so genuinely happy, so completely ourselves in that stolen moment. Now that private joy has been weaponized against us.

My secure phone—the one only Marco and I use—buzzes. His message is brief: They know. Cardinal Sullivan intercepted press inquiries. Meeting with my team now. Be careful. I love you.

I type back quickly: I love you too. We’ll face this together.

I shower and dress mechanically, my mind calculating political fallout.

Carlos must be behind this—the timing is too perfect.

He’s positioned himself to take advantage of my inevitable downfall.

The opposition will demand my resignation.

Conservative Catholics will call for Marco’s removal.

Our reforms—both in government and Church—will collapse.

Unless we refuse to be shamed.

The thought stops me as I’m knotting my tie. What if we don’t apologize? What if we don’t hide?

My driver is already waiting when I exit my building. Photographers swarm the car, flashbulbs exploding like artillery fire. I keep my expression neutral, neither defiant nor ashamed .

“To the office, sir?” my driver asks, visibly uncomfortable.

“Yes. Ignore them.”

My phone rings—it’s Gabriella Esposito, my Justice Minister and one of my few true allies in government.

“I assume you’ve seen,” I answer.

“The entire world has seen,” she replies. “Carlos is already making statements about ‘moral leadership’ and ‘betrayal of public trust.’”

“Of course he is.”

“Matteo, I need to know your strategy. The cabinet is dividing into camps. I’m with you, but I need to know what we’re fighting for.”

I look out the window at Rome passing by, the ancient city that has witnessed empires rise and fall, that has survived scandals far greater than this.

“The truth,” I tell her. “We’re fighting for the truth. About me, about the corruption we’ve uncovered, about everything.”

“You realize what you’re saying? This isn’t just about your career. This is about—”

“I know exactly what it’s about, Gabriella. I’m not ashamed of loving him.”

The words feel liberating as they leave my mouth. Whatever happens next, I won’t deny Marco. I won’t deny us.

“Then I’ll see you at the cabinet meeting,” she says after a pause. “And Matteo? I think you’re right. No more secrets.”

When I arrive at my office, my press secretary intercepts me before I can reach the elevator.

“Sir, we’ve drafted three possible statements. The first acknowledges the photos but classifies your relationship as a close friendship being mischaracterized—”

“No.”

“The second suggests the images have been manipulated—”

“Also no. ”

He looks desperate. “The third calls it a private matter and requests respect for your personal life while—”

“I’m not hiding, Alessandro. Draft a statement acknowledging my relationship with Pope Pius. State that I will address the nation this evening. Nothing more.”

“But sir—”

“That’s all. And get me a secure line to the Vatican. I need to speak with him before either of us makes any public statements.”

My chief of staff approaches as Alessandro retreats, her face grave. “The opposition is calling for a vote of no confidence. They’ve already gathered enough signatures.”

“How long do we have?”

“Vote could be as early as tomorrow.”

I nod, strangely calm. “Then we have work to do.”

As I enter my office, my secure phone buzzes again. Marco’s message reads: Whatever happens, remember why we started this. Not just us. The reforms. The truth. They can take our positions, but they can’t take our purpose.

I smile despite everything. Even now, he thinks beyond himself, beyond us.