Page 74 of Sacred Hearts

Matteo will have no choice but to resign. The coalition will fracture. And I’ll be there to pick up the pieces, to present myself as the steady hand Italy needs in crisis. As for Pope Pius, the Cardinals who already oppose his reforms will use this to force him out.

I raise my glass to the Vatican, barely visible in the distance. “Sorry, Your Holiness. Politics is a blood sport.”

A twinge of something like guilt nags at me, but I drown it with another swallow of bourbon. This isn’t personal—it’s survival. If Matteo’s investigation continues, I’m finished. The offshore accounts, the Lombardi connection, the payments from those construction companies—it all leads back to me.

Better to burn it all down than face prison.

I return to my desk and open my laptop, preparing talking points for the interviews I’ll give expressing my “shock and disappointment” at the scandal. I’ll need to appear reluctant to step into Matteo’s shoes—a patriot answering his country’s call in a moment of crisis.

By morning, Italy will have a new story. By week’s end, if all goes as planned, a new Prime Minister.

And Matteo Valentini? He can join his papal lover in disgrace.

* **

Matteo

I wake to sunlight streaming through my bedroom window, feeling oddly rested despite everything happening around me. For the first time in months—perhaps years—I feel a sense of peace that transcends the chaos of my position. Thoughts of Marco fill my mind as I stretch beneath the sheets.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I ignore it, preferring to linger in this rare moment of contentment. It buzzes again. And again. Then my landline rings.

Something’s wrong.

I grab my mobile to find seventeen missed calls from Sophia, my chief of staff, and various members of my communications team. As I stare at the screen, it lights up again with Sophia’s name.

“What’s happened?” I answer without preamble.

“Turn on your television.” Sophia’s voice is tight, controlled, but I hear the undercurrent of panic. “And bring up La Repubblica’s website. Now.”

I fumble for the remote, clicking on the TV as I open my tablet to load the newspaper’s site. Both display the same image simultaneously—Marco and me on the beach, his hand cupping my face, our lips pressed together. The headline screams: “UNHOLY ALLIANCE: POPE AND PM IN SECRET ROMANCE.”

My stomach drops through the floor.

“Matteo? Are you there?” Sophia’s voice sounds distant through the phone I’ve lowered to my lap.

“How many photos?” I manage to ask, my throat suddenly desert-dry.

“Six published so far. There are… intimate ones. From inside the villa.”

The room spins. I think of Marco—how is he learning about this?Is he alone? The thought of him facing this exposure without support makes me physically ill.

“The office is flooded with calls,” Sophia continues. “Every news outlet in Europe wants a statement. Social media is exploding. You need to come in immediately.”

“Has anyone reached out to the Vatican?”

“Not officially. Nobody knows what to do—this is unprecedented.”

I run a hand through my hair, mind racing through scenarios, each worse than the last. “I’ll be there in thirty minutes. Call an emergency cabinet meeting for noon. And Sophia…”

“Yes?”

“Find out who leaked these. I want names.”

I end the call and sit motionless, staring at our image frozen on the screen. We look so genuinely happy, so completely ourselves in that stolen moment. Now that private joy has been weaponized against us.

My secure phone—the one only Marco and I use—buzzes. His message is brief:They know. Cardinal Sullivan intercepted press inquiries. Meeting with my team now. Be careful. I love you.

I type back quickly:I love you too. We’ll face this together.