Page 72 of Sacred Hearts

“Always the supportive sister.” I collapse into my chair. “What brings you here?”

“I was worried.” She sits across from me. “After what happened at the villa, and then your cryptic message about security concerns…”

“I’m fine.” The lie comes automatically.

“No, you’re not.” Sophia leans forward. “You’re in love with the Pope, Matteo. That’s about as far from ‘fine’ as one can get.”

I laugh despite myself. “When you put it that way…”

“Have you considered the possibility that this can’t work? Not just because of who he is, but because of who you are?”

I rub my temples, feeling a headache forming. “Every hour of every day.”

“And?”

“And I can’t walk away.” I meet her eyes. “Not from him, and not from what we’re trying to accomplish.”

Sophia sighs. “Carlos came to see me yesterday.”

My head snaps up. “What? Why?”

“He asked questions about your schedule, your habits. Where you go when you’re not at official functions.” She frowns. “He was fishing, Matteo. And not subtly.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Nothing useful.” She pauses. “But he mentioned the Vatican investigation. Said you were getting too personally involved, that it might compromise your judgment.”

I stand, moving to the window. The same view that calmed me earlier now feels exposing, as if every building houses watching eyes.

“Carlos knows something,” I say quietly. “Or suspects enough to be dangerous.”

“Is he involved? In the corruption?”

“I don’t know yet.” I turn back to her. “But he’s ambitious enough to use the information to his advantage.”

Sophia rises, coming to stand beside me. “What will you do?”

“What I’ve always done.” I meet her concerned gaze with determination. “Fight corruption wherever I find it—even if it’s closer than I thought. And as for Marco…” I pause, the weight of my decision settling firmly on my shoulders. “Some things are worth protecting at any cost.”

18

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.

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