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Della Rovere does not try to deceive himself. Dishonesty is a sin of its own, and he would not add another to his score. He cannot pretend that this is right, that this is pardonable; even the Pope cannot erase an act of wickedness of which he is himself a part.
The Pope, like his Cardinal, is a mere puppet. Their sin is weakness. Hers is strength. It should not feel so familiar, this willingness to follow her in defiance of all he holds dear.
His Holiness slumbers with his head on her naked stomach as she cards her fingers through his hair, gently affectionate as a mother with her child. When Della Rovere was a child himself, it puzzled him that the Mother of God and the most infamous of fallen women should share but a single name. Perhaps it has cost him this sin at last to understand the Magdalene and the Virgin, their difference and their sameness. But her name is not Mary.
“Bella,” he whispers, unable to stop himself, trailing his fingers over her skin. A tiny, perfectly contented smile forms on her lips. “La Bella Romana.”
She blinks, and frowns slightly, and turns. “What did you call me?”
His hands dare more than he would himself, despite all that has passed between them this night, and he runs the backs of two fingers over her cheek. “The beauty of Rome,” he repeats, gazing into her eyes.
Her smile returns—shaky, for a moment, and then stronger than before. “And is there anything, my Cardinal, that you would not give for Rome?”
“For you, you mean.”
“Yes.”
“While I look on you, my Lady, I cannot repent what I know to be wrong. My immortal soul lies stripped bare in your hands.” It feels vital in this moment that he make her understand, so much that it surprises him. “Is that not too much already?”
She shakes her head, slowly. “No,” she says, her eyes glowing. “Not too much.” She leans near, until her breath caresses his lips. “But enough.”
Her kiss is an oath he has already taken, pulsing in each beat of the two hearts inside their two chests.