Chapter Text
Vincent stood next to Cardinal Lawrence, just outside the view of the balcony. He felt, for a lack of better words, frozen. Though he kept his face impassive and blank, as he had done the entirety of this awful event, he felt as though a slight gust of wind might just topple him backwards.
Santini, the one who would make the announcement of the new Pope, had just left with the others. He had surely learnt what they were called during their research, but for the life of him, could no longer recall. In his defense, the plan hadn’t just derailed, it had blasted open. Crashed worse than a train.
According to the plan, he was supposed to be long gone by now, preferably with the spoils of this heist. He wasn’t supposed to end up elected! That hadn’t even been a possibility in the plan. And yet, here he was. The latest Supreme Pontiff, him! A man that hadn’t stepped foot in a church to pray in years.
And he was still the better choice, he loathed to admit.
“Habemus Papam!”
A roar of celebration so loud Vincent worried his eardrums might burst. He tried to breathe but it was strangely difficult. A push came from his side. Lawrence nudging him towards the balcony. He stared wide-eyed for a millisecond. Lawrence nodded encouragingly, so did the others surrounding him.
Vincent steeled himself. He was a professional. He had been conning people into believing his lies since before Internet existed. He could do this. He would worry about everything else later. One thing at a time.
“When a plan derails,” as his old senior partner had told him a long time ago, “just go with the flow. Don’t worry about the future, worry about your actions in the present.”
He stepped out, now in full view of the crowd below.
Vincent stood still. Looked right, then left. Bowing his head in each direction. The crowd seemed less like a crowd, and more like a heaving mass. Thousands of faces muffled into a writhing, screaming mass of flesh and bones. He took another breath. At least, he thought, they’re all alive. Not like the writhing, screaming masses that he’s used to.
“My children,” he started, “let me start this conversation but thanking you for coming to see us.”
By the time he had finished his addressal, he had started to feel a bit light-headed. Lawrence’s hand had kept him upright as they exited the balcony back into the building.
“There are some staff members you need to see, Your Holiness,” Bellini said, walking alongside them. It seemed that he had re-settled into the role of being the Secretary, even though Vincent had yet to give the seat to anyone at all.
Your Holiness. Christ alive.
Even the thought of it hurt his head. He was not made for office work. He had never in his life set foot in an office unless it was to steal. As they walked, he tried to catch a glimpse of K, the only other member of the group to come here, but he could not find her. It wasn’t hard to not see her, considering the woman was nearly six foot. She was probably still in Santa Marta Casa then, probably telling the rest of the group of what happened.
“Are you alright, Your Holiness?” asked Lawrence, concerned. “We could postpone the meetings if you are unwell.”
The look Bellini gave the other man could have melted glaciers. Despite that, he didn’t refute the statement. “It could be done,” he said instead. “But, I’ll advice His Holiness to meet some of the senior staff at least. It would be good for future camaraderie.”
There won’t be a future camaraderie, Vincent thought, not if I have anything to say about it. He would get out of here one way or another; he had to. It was only a matter of time before his life of crime came to the surface. The only reason it hadn’t yet was because his life outside of the heists was too simplistic — if you could call NGO work simplistic. But now?
Oh, now it would be a bloodbath. And Vincent was going to get ahead of it one way or another.
“I’ll see them,” he conceded. Bellini nodded approvingly, and Lawrence did worriedly.
They passed Monsignor Ray O’Malley, the keen-eyed assistant to the Dean. Vincent had marked the man down as someone to be wary of the day he had met him. The entirety of the conclave, the Monsignor had regarded him suspicion that was more dangerous than Bellini’s. O’Malley’s distrust, after all, was not born out of envy.
As he met O’Malley’s doubtful gaze with a fake ingenuous one, he knew he would have to be more careful than ever. The man already knew of the truth of his body. He would not get the truth of his occupation.
It was nearing midnight by the time Vincent was sent to his room. He had refused to stay in the Apostolic Palace, instead opting to stay in Santa Marta. He had, however, been relocated to a suite. That, he had allowed. He wasn’t a saint. If he were going to be stuck here longer, he’d at least like to live in a suite.
The Vatican could afford it.
He had been given his phone back by Sister Agnes. He had not been able to see K. He had thought of asking Agnes, but had thought better of it. That nun was shrewd. He didn’t need one more pair of keen eyes on him.
His phone was still switched off, thankfully. Not that anyone would’ve found anything in it. The few text conversations and group chats it held were all just that. Conversations. They weren’t stupid enough to talk about a heist on a phone that could’ve been checked anytime. They weren’t stupid enough to talk about a heist on a phone at all, period.
He turned it on. 69% battery. A huff of laughter left him. Christ. He was so damn exhausted that dumb things were making him amused.
The message on top was from his sister Isabella, his partner-in-crime. It read: didn’t see that coming. He clicked onto her profile. The one right after it read: also how’s my wife. Of course, she’d be more worried about her wife instead of her brother, who was in far more danger. Damn lesbian, he thought, more than a little fondly.
He called her, not bothering to read the rest of the texts yet. No doubt they were just Antonio losing his mind.
“Really did not see that coming,” Isa said, in lieu of a greeting. Her voice was lightly hoarse. She was definitely talking to K before this.
“Neither did I,” he admitted. The urge to break the suite apart came over him. Childish reaction to a situation that he could’ve avoided entirely by saying no to this scheme.
“The other cardinals there must really be something, since they elected you.”
“One of them went off on a bigoted rant about Muslims, and didn’t stop even when fascist number 2 tried to stop him.”
“Jesus Christ,” Isabella exclaimed.
“Yeah. The roster was pretty bad. And these guys are stupid as donkeys. Most of them anyways. Apparently, standing up to one bigot was enough to convince them all about my apparent ability to lead the Church.” He put his head in his hand. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to cry or laugh.
“Of course, you stood up,” she retorted, “You couldn’t have just let it go?”
“You know I couldn’t”
Isabella sighed, affection all over her exasperation. The sigh soon turned into a chuckle, then into a full-laugh. Vincent couldn’t help it. His sister’s choking laughs from the other side of the phone drew him into laughing too.
This situation was so stupid. The exact kind of stupid shit that would happen to him. Who else ends up elected the Pope while running a heist?
Vincent Benítez, apparently.
“Oh, we’re in so much trouble,” Isa said eventually, her voice still deep with laughter.
“We are,” he agreed. His stomach hurt from laughing. “Oh, we’re done for.”