Page 5

First Meeting

Marco

I watch the morning light filter through the tall windows of the Apostolic Palace, casting geometric patterns across the ornate floor.

Three days as Pope, and everything still feels like a dream—or perhaps a divine joke.

I adjust the white zucchetto atop my head for the tenth time that morning.

The small skullcap refuses to sit comfortably, much like my new title.

“Your Holiness.” Cardinal Antonelli’s voice pulls me from my thoughts. “Prime Minister Valentini will arrive in thirty minutes. The traditional protocol for such visits is—”

“I remember the briefing, Eminence.” I smile to soften my interruption. “Twenty minutes of formal pleasantries, discussion of diplomatic relations, a photo opportunity, and then we part ways with mutual assurances of cooperation.”

Antonelli nods, his weathered face betraying nothing. “The Prime Minister is… unconventional. But he respects tradition when it comes to Vatican relations.”

I suppress a smile. “Unconventional” seems to be the cardinal’s preferred euphemism for the youngest Prime Minister in Italian history—a man who’s survived an assassination attempt mere days after my own elevation.

“I’ve prepared notes on appropriate topics,” Antonelli continues, offering a leather portfolio. “And topics to avoid.”

I accept the folder but set it aside without opening it. “Thank you, Eminence. I’ll receive the Prime Minister in the library rather than the formal reception hall.”

Antonelli’s expression tightens. “Your Holiness, the protocol—”

“Will adapt to my preference for a more comfortable setting.” I meet his gaze steadily. “We’re both new to our positions. Perhaps a less formal environment will foster genuine dialogue.”

After Antonelli departs—his disapproval evident in the stiffness of his shoulders—I retreat to my private chapel. Kneeling before the simple wooden crucifix, I close my eyes.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I whisper to God. “Guide my words today.”

* * *

The Vatican Library’s private study exudes centuries of solemn wisdom.

Leather-bound volumes line the walls, their gilded spines catching the light from tall windows.

I’ve chosen two simple chairs positioned at a comfortable angle rather than across a desk—another break from protocol that has made my staff exchange worried glances.

When the heavy doors open, I rise to greet Italy’s Prime Minister.

Matteo Valentini enters with purposeful strides, his dark suit impeccably tailoured.

The fresh scar on his cheek—a reminder of the recent assassination attempt—stands out against his olive skin.

In person, he projects an energy that television appearances fail to capture—a focused intensity that fills the room.

“Your Holiness.” He executes a perfect bow, then takes my extended hand .

“Prime Minister Valentini. Welcome to the Vatican.” His grip is firm, his eyes directly meeting mine without hesitation. Few people have looked at me so directly since the conclave. “Please, sit.”

As we settle into our chairs, I notice the subtle ways he assesses the room—the mark of someone accustomed to evaluating potential threats. The security detail remains outside, though I know both our staffs are uncomfortable with the arrangement.

“I must congratulate you on your election,” Valentini says. “Italy is honoured to have one of her sons elevated to the Chair of Saint Peter.”

“God works in mysterious ways,” I reply with a small smile. “I suspect my election surprised Him as much as it surprised me.”

Valentini’s eyebrows rise slightly, his lips quirking upward. “An unusual perspective for a pope.”

“I’m an unusual pope, as you are an unusual prime minister. We both find ourselves in positions neither of us necessarily anticipated at our ages.”

“True enough.” He relaxes marginally, crossing one leg over the other. “Though I campaigned for my position. You, I understand, received a more… divine appointment.”

“Divine, perhaps. Unexpected, certainly.” I lean forward slightly. “I understand you recently faced your own unexpected challenge. How is your recovery progressing?”

His fingers briefly touch the rough scar on his cheek. “Well enough. A reminder that not everyone appreciates change.”

“We have that in common, it seems.” I glance toward the door where I know Cardinal Antonelli will be watching the clock. “I received my own warning shortly after the conclave.”

Interest sharpens his gaze. “A threat?”

“A caution from unnamed ‘friends’ that reformers don’t last long in the Vatican.” I hadn’t intended to mention the note, but something about Valentini’s directness invites honesty .

“Have you identified the source?”

I shake my head. “The Vatican has many shadows, Prime Minister. I’m still learning to navigate them.”

“Matteo, please.” He studies me with renewed interest. “At least when we’re speaking privately.”

“Matteo,” I agree. “And I’m Marco. At least in this room.”

A genuine smile transforms his face, softening the intensity I’d first noticed. “I expected this meeting to be considerably more formal, Marco.”

“Disappointed?”

“Intrigued.” He settles back in his chair. “The reports about you are… contradictory. The conservative cardinals believe you’ll maintain tradition. The progressives hope you’ll bring reform. Both can’t be right.”

“Perhaps both misunderstand the nature of the Church.” I gaze at the ancient texts surrounding us. “Tradition without compassion becomes empty ritual. Reform without respect for tradition loses connection to our foundations.”

“A diplomatic answer.”

“An honest one.” I meet his eyes again. “What about you, Matteo? Your anti-corruption legislation has powerful enemies. Are you prepared for the resistance?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, his expression thoughtful. “I grew up watching corruption destroy opportunities for ordinary Italians. My father worked himself to exhaustion in a system designed to keep him poor.” Passion edges into his voice. “I’m not just prepared for resistance—I expect it.”

“And yet you returned to the podium after being shot.”

“Would you have done differently?” he challenges.

The question catches me off guard. “I… don’t know.”

“I think you do.” His eyes hold mine. “You accepted the papacy despite knowing the dangers. That takes courage.”

Heat rises to my face at his unexpected praise. “Or incredible foolishness.”

“Often the same thing, viewed from different perspectives.” Matteo leans forward. “May I ask you something, Marco? Something personal?”

I nod, suddenly nervous.

“Do you truly believe? In all of it—God, salvation, the Church’s teachings? Or is it the institution you serve?”

The question strips away pretense. Not the political inquiry I’d expected, but a genuine spiritual one.

“I believe in God’s love,” I answer slowly. “I believe Christ came to show us how to love one another. The rest…” I gesture vaguely. “Some Church teachings reflect human interpretation more than divine will. But at its core—yes, I believe.”

“Even when those teachings condemn people for who they love?”

My heart stutters. Does he know? Has he somehow guessed my secret?

“I believe God’s love is broader than human understanding,” I say carefully. “And that many interpretations of scripture reflect the prejudices of their time rather than divine intent.”

Surprise flickers across his face. “That’s… not the answer I expected from a pope.”

“What did you expect?”

“Dogma. Tradition. ‘The Church’s teaching is clear on this matter.’”

I smile sadly. “The Church’s teaching has evolved throughout history, Matteo. On slavery, on usury, on the role of women. Why should our understanding of human love remain frozen in time?”

He studies me with new intensity. “You really are a reformer.”

“I’m a shepherd trying to understand my flock.” I glance at the ancient Bible displayed in a nearby case. “Christ challenged the religious authorities of his time when their rules became barriers to love.”

A knock at the door interrupts us. Cardinal Antonelli enters, his expression carefully neutral.

“Your Holiness, the scheduled time for the meeting has concluded. The press is waiting for the photo opportunity.”

I look at my watch, startled to discover we’ve been talking for nearly an hour—three times the allotted duration.

“We’ll be out shortly, Eminence.” When the door closes, I turn back to Matteo. “It seems we’ve scandalized our staffs by talking too long.”

He laughs, the sound warm and unexpected. “A scandal indeed. The Pope and Prime Minister actually conversing rather than exchanging rehearsed pleasantries.”

“A dangerous precedent.” I rise from my chair, and he follows suit. “Though one I wouldn’t mind continuing in the future.”

“I would like that.” He hesitates, then adds, “There are matters concerning the Vatican Bank that we should discuss. Connections to… recent events.”

The assassination attempt. I nod slowly, intrigued. “Perhaps at our next meeting.”

As we walk toward the door, Matteo stops suddenly. “You know, when I was a boy, my grandmother insisted I attend Mass every Sunday. I always had questions the priests couldn’t—or wouldn’t—answer.”

“And now?”

“Now I find myself speaking with a pope who might actually answer them.” His gaze holds mine. “It’s unexpected.”

“God specializes in the unexpected, Matteo.” I smile. “It keeps us humble.”

Before we rejoin our waiting staffs, he offers his hand again. This time, the handshake feels less formal, more like a gesture between potential friends .

“Until next time, Your Holiness.”

“Until next time, Prime Minister.”

As we emerge into the corridor where photographers wait, I notice Cardinal Antonelli’s tight expression and the similar look of exasperation on Matteo’s chief of staff. Our scheduled twenty-minute formality has transformed into something neither side had anticipated.

Something that feels, despite all protocol violations, strangely right.