Page 35

The World Reacts

Marco

I feel as though I’m standing in the eye of a hurricane.

Within hours of the photos leaking, our relationship—mine and Matteo’s—has consumed every headline, talk show, and social media platform across the globe.

The Vatican press office, usually so quick with measured statements, has fallen utterly silent.

Meanwhile, screens everywhere display those unmistakable images of us in each other’s arms.

From my window, I can see St. Peter’s Square filling with people—some protesting, others supporting, many simply witnessing history unfold before them.

A young woman holds a sign reading “Love Is Love” with a rainbow-coloured papal cross.

Across from her, traditionalists clutch rosaries, their lips moving in fervent prayer for divine intervention.

For me? Against me? I cannot tell from here.

I wince as Cardinal Lombardi appears on the television screen, his face flushed with indignation as he declares, “This is the end of the Church as we know it. The Holy Father has betrayed over two thousand years of tradition.”

I change the channel only to find a CNN panel debating the theological implications of my personal life .

“The early Church had no prohibition against homosexuality as we understand it today,” argues a progressive theologian. “These teachings evolved over centuries of human interpretation.”

“Nonsense!” counters her conservative counterpart. “Scripture is clear on this matter.”

Reports continue to flood in. I hear about debates in London pubs, emergency television episodes in America, diplomatic discussions in the White House. The world is talking about us—about me—in ways I never imagined possible.

“A Pope in love. That’s the real revolution,” someone reportedly said in a Dublin pub. The phrase echoes in my mind. Is that what this is? A revolution? Or simply the truth finally breaking free?

I turn off the television. My phone buzzes constantly with notifications.

The hashtags are trending globally: #PopeInLove, #VaticanGate, #ResignPius.

I see memes spreading—doctored images of Matteo and me as famous romantic couples from history and film.

Under different circumstances, I might have laughed.

Sister Lucia enters after a gentle knock, her face a mixture of concern and something else—could it be hope?

“Your Holiness, I’ve been monitoring reactions across Catholic communities worldwide,” she says.

“Tell me,” I reply, steeling myself.

“The Philippines remains strongly supportive of you. Poland and Ireland are divided. Brazil is seeing massive demonstrations both for and against.”

Cardinal Sullivan joins us, his expression grim. “And Italy?” he asks.

“Complicated,” Sister Lucia responds. “The right calls for Valentini’s resignation, but younger Italians are rallying behind both leaders.”

I think of all the hidden souls watching this unfold—the priests, the faithful, those who have felt excluded by the Church’s teachings. Somewhere in Berlin, in Manila, in S?o Paulo, are there people who feel seen for the first time? I pray there are.

* * *

As evening falls, I kneel in my private chapel. I think of Father Domenico, probably lighting candles and praying for us right now. “Give me strength, Lord,” I whisper. “The storm has only begun.”

On my desk lies a copy of The New York Times with an editorial titled “Love and Leadership: Can the World Accept Both?” The final lines catch my eye: “Perhaps the true test of our progress as a global society is not whether these men will be forced to choose between love and duty, but whether we are finally ready to accept that one need not preclude the other.”

I trace my fingers over Matteo’s face in the photograph beside the article. For the first time since the news broke, I feel something beyond anxiety and dread—a flicker of hope. Perhaps, just perhaps, our love might open doors rather than close them.

The world is watching. And I am ready to face whatever comes next.

* * *

Matteo

I stand at the head of the cabinet table, palms pressed against the polished wood. My fingers grip the edge so tightly my knuckles have gone white. The room vibrates with tension. Half the faces around the table stare back at me with solidarity, the others with barely concealed contempt.

“So,” I say, my voice steadier than I expected, “let’s address the elephant in the room, shall we?”

No one speaks. The photographs of Marco and I are the unspoken presence hovering over us all. My private life splashed across every newspaper and screen in Italy—in the world.

Carlos sits opposite me, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

“Prime Minister,” Finance Minister Russo begins, his voice dripping with false concern, “surely you understand your position is now untenable. The moral implications alone—”

“Moral implications?” Gabriella interrupts, her eyes flashing. “Since when has morality factored into your political calculations, Russo?”

I raise my hand. “Let’s not pretend this is about morality. This is about power. This is about our anti-corruption legislation. This is about the fact that some people in this room have bank accounts that can’t bear scrutiny.”

Carlos clears his throat dramatically and stands. “Speaking of positions that have become untenable, I’ve made a decision.” He straightens his tie. “I hereby resign as Deputy Prime Minister, effective immediately.”

The room falls silent. This isn’t a resignation—it’s a declaration of war.

“I cannot in good conscience continue to serve in an administration led by someone who has made such a mockery of his office,” Carlos continues. “Someone who has been carrying on a secret affair with the Pope—the Pope!—while pretending to govern our nation.”

“That’s rich coming from you,” I say, my voice dangerously quiet.

Carlos ignores me, addressing the room. “I didn’t want to be the one to tell you this, Matteo, but since we’re being honest today—” His eyes gleam with malice. “I’m the one who released those photos to La Repubblica.”

The room erupts. Gabriella half-rises from her seat. Two ministers shout at once. But I don’t hear them. A roaring fills my ears as white-hot fury courses through me.

“You?” I whisper, then louder, “YOU?”

“Someone had to do it.” Carlos shrugs. “The Italian people deserve to know who’s really running their country—and the filth he’s doing behind closed doors.”

I round the table so quickly my chair crashes to the floor. “You treacherous bastardo!” Before anyone can react, I grab Carlos by his perfectly pressed lapels and slam him against the wall, my face inches from his. “You didn’t do this for Italy. You did this for yourself!”

The room erupts in shouts, but all I can see is Carlos’s smug face, all I can think about is Marco—gentle Marco—being exposed and humiliated because of this snake.

“Prime Minister!” someone shouts.

I ignore them, tightening my grip. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? The harm you’ve caused? Not to me—I can take it—but to him?” My voice breaks slightly on the last word.

Carlos tries to maintain his composure, but fear flickers in his eyes. “Unhand me, Valentini. This is assault.”

“Assault?” I laugh bitterly and release one hand just long enough to slam my fist into the wall beside his head. “You want to see assault?”

Gabriella is suddenly beside me. “Matteo, he’s not worth it,” she says quietly.

I’m breathing hard, trembling with rage. “You did this because our investigation was getting too close to your dirty money, didn’t you?”

Carlos straightens his tie with shaking hands. “Watch yourself.”

“No, you watch yourself.” I release him with a disgusted shove. “You think I don’t know about the offshore accounts? The kickbacks from the Lombardi Foundation? The meetings with men who don’t exist on any official calendar?”

Carlos’s face flushes as he adjusts his rumpled suit. “You’re delusional.”

“And you’re finished.” I turn to address the entire cabinet, my chest still heaving.

“Let’s be clear about what’s happening here.

Carlos isn’t resigning on principle. He’s jumping before he’s pushed.

Our anti-corruption investigation has uncovered links between certain cabinet members and the same criminal network that’s been operating through the Vatican Bank. ”

Russo stands abruptly. “This is outrageous! I won’t sit here and be slandered.”

“Then don’t sit,” I snap. “Join your pathetic master on his way out.”

Carlos collects his papers. “Those of you who value decency and traditional leadership know where to stand.” He looks pointedly at several ministers. “I won’t be the only resignation today.”

As if on cue, Russo, Bianchi, and Ferrara stand. Esposito watches them with narrowed eyes as they gather their things.

“You realize,” Carlos says, pausing at the door, “that by this time tomorrow, I’ll be forming a new government. The President will have no choice but to ask me once your no-confidence vote fails.”

I laugh, genuinely laugh. “You’ve miscalculated, Carlos. As usual.”

He frowns. “We’ll see.”

“Yes, we will. And while we’re being so honest today—you’ve always been a shitty politician with expensive tastes. That’s a dangerous combination.”

Carlos’s face darkens. He gestures to his followers, and they file out behind him, the door closing with a decisive click.

The room exhales collectively. Seven ministers remain seated, looking at me with expressions ranging from shock to admiration.

Gabriella breaks the silence with a bark of laughter. “I never thought I’d see the day when someone finally put that snake in his place. About bloody time, Matteo.”

“That was…” Transportation Minister Romano searches for words, “refreshing, Prime Minister. Some might call it unprofessional, but I call it honest. Those corrupt bastards have been smirking behind our backs for too long.”

I straighten my jacket, flexing my hand. My knuckles are red from where they connected with the wall. “I apologize for losing my composure.”

“Don’t,” Agriculture Minister Vitale says firmly. “Carlos deserved worse than what he got. What he’s done to you and the Pope is unconscionable. Using someone’s personal life as a political weapon—it’s despicable.”

“You just did what many of us have wanted to do for years,” Gabriella adds, patting my shoulder. “And you stayed on your feet while they crawled away like the cowards they are.”

I look around at the faces of those who remained. “Thank you—all of you—for standing with me.”

“It’s not just standing with you,” Defence Minister Conti says quietly.

“It’s standing for what’s right. The corruption legislation is right.

And as for your personal life…” He shrugs.

“My sister has been with her partner Giulia for twenty years. Love is love. Those hypocrites out there have mistresses and secret families while pointing fingers at others.”

I nod, unexpectedly moved. “Thank you, Antonio.”

“So what now?” asks Health Minister Rizzo, leaning forward. “Carlos isn’t wrong about the no-confidence vote, but I’d rather resign than serve in any government he forms.”

“No, but he’s wrong about the numbers,” Gabriella says, checking her phone with a satisfied smile. “I’ve been counting. We have enough support to survive it—barely, but enough. Those four aren’t the only corrupt ones, but they’re the stupidest.”

I take my seat again, the adrenaline of confrontation giving way to focused determination. “We need to talk strategy. Carlos has played his hand, but we still hold cards he doesn’t know about.”

“Including evidence of his corruption?” Interior Minister Belli asks, eyes gleaming.

“Precisely.” I lean forward. “Now, here’s what we’re going to do…”