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Epilogue: One Year Later

Matteo

I straighten my tie for the last time in the mirror of the Prime Minister’s office. My office. For a few more minutes, at least.

“Ready?” Sophia asks, standing at the door with a tablet in hand.

“As I’ll ever be.”

“The press is assembled. Gabriella’s already there.”

Walking down the corridor of Palazzo Chigi feels different today. Every portrait on the wall seems to watch me with new interest, as if they know this is the final time I’ll make this journey as Prime Minister.

The past year has been relentless. Seven no-confidence votes. Three attempted coups within my own party. The exposure of corruption networks that reached into every corner of our government. And through it all, the constant media scrutiny of my relationship with Marco.

Yet somehow, we prevailed.

The press room falls silent as I enter. Camera shutters click rapidly, creating a familiar soundtrack to my political life. Gabriella stands to the side, her composure perfect as always. Our eyes meet briefly, and she gives me a subtle nod. We’ve planned this moment for weeks .

I approach the podium for the last time.

“Good afternoon. Today marks one year since our government faced its most significant challenge. One year since corruption at the highest levels of our republic was exposed. One year since I stood before you and promised that Italy would emerge stronger, more transparent, and more just.”

The room remains unusually quiet. They know what’s coming.

“I am proud to report that in this year, we have prosecuted seventy-eight government officials for corruption. We have reformed campaign finance laws. We have created an independent anti-corruption authority with real enforcement powers. And most importantly, we have restored the Italian people’s faith that their government can work for them, not against them. ”

I pause, allowing the weight of these accomplishments to settle.

“Today, I am announcing that I will be stepping down as Prime Minister, effective immediately.”

Despite the rumours that have circulated for weeks, gasps echo through the room. Hands shoot up, but I continue.

“This was always my intention. I entered politics not as a career, but with specific goals: to root out corruption, to establish systems that prevent its return, and to demonstrate that public service should be about service, not power.”

I look toward Gabriella, who steps forward on cue.

“I am nominating Justice Minister Gabriella Esposito to succeed me as party leader. Her tireless work on the anti-corruption campaign has been instrumental to our success. Her integrity is beyond question. And her vision for Italy’s future aligns perfectly with the reforms we have begun.”

Gabriella joins me at the podium. The flashbulbs intensify.

“It has been the honour of my life to serve as your Prime Minister. I thank the Italian people for their trust during challenging times. I thank my staff and cabinet for their dedication. And I look forward to seeing our country continue to flourish under new leadership.”

The questions erupt immediately.

“Prime Minister, will you be moving permanently to the Vatican now?”

“Are you resigning because of continued opposition to your relationship with the Pope?”

“Minister Esposito, will you continue the Valentini anti-corruption agenda?”

Gabriella steps forward, her voice calm and authoritative. “I’ll take this one, Prime Minister.” She turns to the press. “The anti-corruption agenda isn’t the Valentini agenda. It’s Italy’s agenda. And yes, I will continue it with the same vigour and commitment.”

I step back, watching her handle the room with the same confident authority that made her my most trusted ally. She’ll be fine. Italy will be fine.

An hour later, after the formal handover is complete, I walk out of Palazzo Chigi for the last time. No motorcade awaits me. Just a single Alfa Romeo with a driver I’ve come to trust. The security detail has been reduced to two agents who will accompany me to my new residence.

My phone buzzes with a message from Marco: How did it go?

I type back: It’s done. Coming home.

Home. The word feels strange and perfect at the same time.

The drive to the Vatican takes longer than usual. A demonstration blocks part of the route – people with signs thanking me for my service. I ask the driver to slow down, and I roll down the window to wave. Their cheers are overwhelming.

“They love you, sir,” my security agent says.

“They love what we accomplished together,” I correct him.

The car finally pulls up to the private entrance of the Vatican, where the Swiss Guard stands at attention.

They’ve become accustomed to my presence over the past year, though the arrangement remains unprecedented.

The Pope’s partner, residing within the Vatican walls.

History continues to be written, one day at a time.

I’m escorted through quiet corridors to the papal apartment, where Marco waits. He’s not in his formal papal attire, just a simple white cassock. His face brightens when he sees me, and he dismisses the guards with a gentle nod.

“Mr. Prime Minister,” he says with a smile.

“Not anymore,” I reply, loosening my tie.

His arms wrap around me, and I feel the tension of the day dissolve. “How are you feeling?” he asks against my shoulder.

“Lighter. Accomplished. A bit disoriented.” I pull back to look at him. “But mostly, I feel right. It was time.”

Marco leads me to the balcony overlooking the gardens. The evening sun casts long shadows across the ancient stones. We’ve spent many evenings here, discussing the parallel challenges we’ve faced in our respective institutions.

“Gabriella will make an excellent Prime Minister,” he says, pouring me a glass of Merlot.

“She will. She’s already better at some aspects of the job than I ever was. More patient. More strategic. Less brash.”

“And you? Any regrets?”

I consider the question, watching the light play across the garden. “None about stepping down. I accomplished what I set out to do. The corruption networks are exposed. The reforms are in place. My approval ratings are at seventy-two percent.” I smile. “Perfect time to exit the political theatre.”

“The first Italian Prime Minister in decades to leave office more popular than when he entered, and not fleeing criminal charges” Marco notes .

“Which means I’ve probably peaked politically.” I take a sip of wine. “What about you? Any regrets about harbouring a retired politician?”

His laugh is soft. “None. Though the Cardinals still haven’t quite adjusted to our living arrangements.”

“They’ve adjusted to far more significant changes this year,” I point out.

It’s true. The reforms from Marco’s Extraordinary Synod have transformed the Church in ways that seemed impossible just a year ago.

LGBTQ+ Catholics welcomed into full communion.

Optional celibacy for priests. Women taking on greater leadership roles.

Each change met with resistance, yet each implemented with Marco’s quiet, determined grace.

“I’ve been thinking,” Marco says, his tone shifting slightly. “About what comes next for you.”

“Have you now?” I raise an eyebrow. “I was planning on a very long vacation.”

“After that.” He turns to face me fully. “The Vatican could use someone with your expertise. Someone who understands governance, finance, and reform.”

“Are you offering me a job, Your Holiness?”

“A position. Special Advisor to the Holy See on Institutional Reform.” His eyes hold mine.

“The Church’s governance structures haven’t changed significantly in centuries.

The corruption we exposed in the Vatican Bank was just the surface.

We need someone who can help us build systems that reflect our values. ”

I consider this. “You don’t think it would appear too… nepotistic?”

“I’ve consulted with Cardinal Sullivan and the reform-minded members of the Curia. They agree we need outside expertise.” He takes my hand. “Besides, who better to help reform an ancient institution than someone who’s just successfully reformed another one?”

The idea intrigues me. Not immediate, perhaps. But eventually .

“I’ll think about it,” I promise. “But first, I need some time to decompress. To remember who Matteo Valentini is when he’s not Prime Minister.”

Marco smiles. “I can help with that part.”

We move inside as evening falls. The papal apartment has become our shared space, though it took months of careful negotiation with Vatican officials.

Historical precedents were researched, theological arguments constructed.

In the end, Marco’s quiet insistence prevailed. The Pope would not hide his heart.

After dinner, we settle in the small private library. Marco works on a speech while I read through messages from colleagues and friends. Sophia has sent photos from Gabriella’s first cabinet meeting. The transition is already underway.

“It feels strange,” I say after a while. “To not be responsible for an entire country anymore.”

Marco looks up from his work. “You’ll adjust. And then you’ll find new ways to serve.”

“Is that what happened to you? When you suddenly became responsible for a billion Catholics?”

“Something like that.” He sets his papers aside. “Though I didn’t have the luxury of a transition period.”

I move to sit beside him on the sofa. “No regrets, then? About any of it?”

He takes my hand, his expression thoughtful. “About following my conscience? About standing for truth, even when it was difficult? About loving you?” He shakes his head. “Not one.”

I lean against him, feeling the steady rhythm of his breathing. Outside our windows, Rome continues its eternal hum. Inside, we’ve created something neither of us could have imagined when we first met in the Vatican library what seems like a lifetime ago.

“So,” Marco says quietly. “What shall we do with your first evening of retirement?”

I smile. “I have a few ideas.”

The path forward isn’t entirely clear. There will be new challenges, new oppositions, new opportunities to serve. But tonight, in this moment, there is peace. There is accomplishment. There is love.

And for now, that’s more than enough.