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Faces blur into a mass of judgment, curiosity, and barely concealed hostility. The morning papers sit folded on several desks—my face and Marco’s splashed across the front pages in moments we believed were private.

I catch Gabriella’s eye from across the chamber. She gives me an almost imperceptible nod. Breathe , I remind myself. Just breathe .

I straighten my tie and place my notes on the lectern, grateful that the podium hides my unsteady legs. The chamber falls silent, hundreds of eyes boring into me. Carlos sits in the front row, a smirk playing at his lips. He thinks he’s won.

My mouth feels suddenly dry. I take a sip of water, buying precious seconds to steady myself.

“Esteemed colleagues,” I begin, forcing my voice to remain steady despite the hammering in my chest. “I stand before you today at a crossroads—not just for my government, but for our nation.”

Someone from the opposition benches shouts, “Resign!” followed by scattered applause. A bead of sweat forms at my temple, but I resist the urge to wipe it away.

I don’t flinch. “Many of you expect me to apologize today. To deny what you’ve seen in those photographs. To claim they were manipulated, or to beg forgiveness for what some consider a moral failing.”

The chamber stills. Even Carlos’s smirk falters. I feel a surge of courage in the silence.

“I will do none of these things.”

Murmurs ripple through the assembly, growing louder like an approaching wave. I grip the edges of the podium, anchoring myself against what feels like a physical force of disapproval.

“I will not apologize for who I love. I will not deny the truth of my heart. And I certainly will not beg forgiveness for being human.”

Carlos leans over to whisper something to Finance Minister Russo, both of them chuckling. Their laughter fuels my resolve, burning away some of my fear .

“What I will apologize for is that my private life has become a distraction from the real issues facing our nation. The real crisis isn’t who I love—it’s who has been stealing from the Italian people.”

I pull out a folder and hold it up, my hand steadier now. “This contains evidence of corruption that reaches into the highest levels of our government and beyond. A network of money laundering, kickbacks, and organized crime connections that has drained tens of billions from our economy.”

The chamber erupts. The Speaker pounds his gavel repeatedly. I stand motionless at the podium, letting the chaos wash over me while maintaining an outward calm that belies the adrenaline coursing through my veins.

“Order! Order in the chamber!”

When the noise subsides, I continue. “Deputy Prime Minister Carlos Rossi has received over twelve million euros through shell companies connected to Cardinal Lombardi’s foundation.”

Carlos jumps to his feet. “This is slander! A desperate attempt to—”

“I have the banking records, Carlos.” I hold up another document, my confidence growing with each word. “Account number 87294-03 at Credit Suisse, registered to Marbella Holdings, which traces back to you through three shell corporations.”

His face drains of colour. Around him, several MPs shift uncomfortably in their seats, putting physical distance between themselves and Carlos as if corruption might be contagious.

“Finance Minister Russo authorized loans to businesses owned by his brother-in-law, funnelled through the Vatican Bank’s untouchable accounts. Minister Bianchi diverted infrastructure funds to phantom projects that exist only on paper.”

Each accusation lands like a physical blow. Some members sit frozen in shock, others shout denials. I notice Minister Bianchi frantically texting under his desk, his face ashen .

“The vote of no confidence scheduled for today isn’t about my personal life. It’s an attempt to stop our anti-corruption investigation before it exposes everyone involved.”

Carlos regains his composure enough to shout, “The Prime Minister has lost all moral authority! His relationship with the Pope is a disgrace to Italy!”

I look him directly in the eye, feeling a calm clarity replace my earlier nervousness. “Is that why you leaked those photos, Carlos? To create a scandal big enough to hide your crimes?”

Gasps echo through the chamber. Several members from the smaller centrist parties exchange shocked glances.

“Yes, colleagues, former Deputy Prime Minister Rossi personally arranged for those photographs to be taken and published. Not out of moral concern, but to save himself from prosecution.”

Carlos lunges toward the podium, but security steps between us. “You sanctimonious bastard! You think you’re so perfect—”

“I’ve never claimed perfection,” I interrupt calmly. “Unlike those who preach virtue while practising vice.”

The Speaker of the chamber struggles to maintain order as the house dissolves into chaos. I wait for the noise to subside before continuing, using the moment to gather my thoughts and steady my breathing.

To my surprise, Elena Ferretti, a moderate Christian Democrat who has always maintained traditional values, rises from her seat.

“Mr. Speaker, I request the Prime Minister be allowed to continue without interruption.” Her voice carries authority as the respected chair of the Ethics Committee. “These are serious allegations that deserve our full attention.”

Several other centrists murmur agreement. The mood in the chamber shifts subtly—from outright hostility to cautious attention.

“As for my relationship with Pope Pius XIV—yes, his name is Marco Ricci, and yes, I love him.” My voice catches slightly on the word “ love,” a rare crack in my political facade.

I pause, gathering myself. “I won’t deny it or apologize for it.

Two consenting adults finding connection in a world that often feels isolating and cold—is this really what frightens you? ”

The chamber grows quieter, some members leaning forward to listen. I notice younger MPs from across the political spectrum exchanging glances, some nodding slightly.

“It’s time for Italy to enter the twenty-first century. To recognize that love comes in many forms, all equally valid, all equally human. The Italy I believe in doesn’t force its citizens to choose between their heart and their service to the nation.”

Domenico Russo, a veteran legislator known for his conservative views, stands slowly. The chamber falls silent, anticipating condemnation from this traditional voice.

“Mr. Prime Minister,” he begins, his voice gravelly with age, “I have served in this chamber for thirty-five years. I was raised in a different time, with different values.” He pauses, and I brace myself for the attack.

“But my granddaughter came out to me last year. She is the light of my life, and nothing changed that day.” His eyes meet mine.

“I cannot in good conscience condemn you for something I accept in my own family.”

A murmur of surprise ripples through the chamber. Russo sits, nodding to me respectfully.

The atmosphere has transformed. What began as a tribunal now feels like something else—a moment of national reckoning.

“But if you wish to remove me for loving another person, that is your right. Vote your conscience. Just know that the investigation into corruption will continue with or without me.”

I gesture to Justice Minister Gabriella, who stands and approaches with a large box of documents. Her steps are measured, deliberate, the click of her heels on marble punctuating the silence .

“These files contain evidence against twenty-seven current members of this parliament, fifteen senators, and thirty-two government officials. Copies have already been delivered to prosecutors throughout Italy and to the international authorities.”

The doors at the back of the chamber open with a heavy thud that echoes throughout the room.

Police officers in uniform file in silently, positioning themselves around the perimeter.

Their presence sends an electric current through the assembly—this is no longer political theatre but something far more consequential.

Several MPs rise in alarm. Others remain frozen in their seats. A few begin edging toward exits only to find uniformed officers blocking their path.

“The evidence is overwhelming and has been independently verified. No matter what happens with today’s vote, there will be accountability for all those identified.”

Carlos realizes what’s happening before anyone else. He bolts for a side door but finds two officers blocking his path. Panic flashes across his face—the look of a man watching his carefully constructed world collapse.

“What is this?” he shouts, his voice cracking. “You can’t—”

A senior police official steps forward, unfolding an official document. “Carlos Rossi, by order of the Italian judiciary, you are under arrest for corruption, money laundering, conspiracy, and obstruction of justice.”

The chamber erupts. Some members stand on their chairs to get a better view. Others shout questions or protestations. A few sit in stunned silence, perhaps mentally reviewing their own financial dealings.

Carlos backs away. “This is a coup! Valentini is trying to seize absolute power!”

“The warrants were issued by independent judges after reviewing evidence gathered over the past months,” I explain, maintaining my composure though my heart races with vindication. “I have no control over the judiciary, as you well know.”

Carlos knocks over chairs as he retreats from advancing officers. “You’ll regret this, Matteo! When this is over, I’ll destroy you!”

“The evidence will speak for itself, Carlos.”

Officers move through the chamber, reading names from warrants.

Finance Minister Russo slumps in his chair as he’s arrested, all bravado evaporated.

Minister Bianchi attempts to flee but is quickly apprehended, his protests and screams echoing off the ornate ceiling.

Several parliamentarians from various parties are handcuffed and led away.