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Chapter Text

Bellini and Tedesco were standing alone in a quiet corridor. It was dusk, and hushed stillness lay, bathed in the last breath of fading light. They were arguing.

Bellini frowned as seeing the other man exhale smoke. ‘Your theories,’ he retorted, ‘have weight like vapour. Perfumed and vanishing. Too one-sided and ignoring too many things.’

‘Bah.’ The Italian man raised his hand in an idle, careless gesture. Bellini lifted his own to swat it aside.

Their fingers touched accidentally. Just a brush of skin, as incidental as a breeze. But—the corridor collapsed. Or rather, it expanded—outward, inward. Both opened their eyes. Time stopped. The gold of dusk flooded the space like a blessing, illuminating dust motes suspended in midair. The cold stone underfoot seemed to warm. A tender shiver climbed up his spine. It was the feeling of happiness.

< One hour ago. >

The conference room gleamed beneath the shifting shafts of midday light that filtered through the windows. Ten or more cardinals were sitting without moving, wearing black and red. Time felt suspended in that chamber, and mild afternoon sunlight was a sharp contrast to the rising storm between two men: the Secretary of State and the Patriarch of Venice.

Tedesco’s voice cracked like a thunderclap. ‘Your proposals are not reforms, Eminenza. Basta! They are erosion. You whittle away at tradition as if carving a sound tree until it withers!’

Bellini did not raise his voice; it was cold and low, yet slightly trembled with frustration. ‘And you, you would rather let the Church fossilise and die than accept what you do not like. The truth, however, is that it is living people the Church must embrace.’

They stood on opposite sides of the table—one like a rock, broad and immovable; the other like a blade, slender and sharp. Between them, a dozen other clerics sat in uneasy silence, glancing at one another but unwilling to interrupt the collision of wills. Their rivalry had long since become like a duel that would continue until one of them, rather than a constructive discussion.

At the end of the table, Pope Innocent, Benítez sat, hands folded calmly before him. His expression bore neither approval nor censure. He was listening—not just to words, but to the weight behind them, the weariness under every syllable. Of course, it must be a lie to say that he approved of Tedesco’s view. However, it is a sadness that he felt.

He had watched this battle too many times: Tedesco’s bluster, Bellini’s acid. It was obvious that nothing would be born from that fight. He stood slowly, and the room’s voices simmered into a silence.

‘Your Eminences,’ Benítez said calmly. ‘Let’s call it a day now. I believe everyone heard enough about others’ viewpoints, and all the subjects were discussed to some point. Later, I will talk with each of you separately.’

He waited.

The chamber emptied gradually. The cardinals dispersed in pairs and trios, murmuring one another.

Only when the doors clicked shut, and the silence became cathedral-deep, did Benítez move.

He rose slowly from his chair and crossed to the great window at the far end of the room. The city stretched before him: terracotta roofs, bell towers, distant hills under an autumn sky bruised with dusk. He pressed his hand against the cool glass.

And then, he prayed. Softly. Barely more than a whisper. ‘Lord, I do not ask that they agree, but...’ His fingers rested against the gold chain of the crucifix that lay on his chest. ‘...but grant them, I beg you, a moment. A moment of stillness. Not surrender—just… a breath. One heartbeat when neither believes the other to be an enemy to defeat.’

His voice quivered on the last words with love. An old, quiet love that had witnessed warzones and famines, and knew what hate would create. And knew how complex a human’s soul is, rather than simple black and white.

He closed his eyes. ‘Just a little stillness, my Lord. A moment of light in the fog. If You would be so kind.’

Silence held. Then—

—a faint stirring. Barely a breeze. The kind that rustles only the most delicate things.

Somewhere in the city below, a bird took flight with no warning, as if startled by something unseen. The air in the room shifted, subtly, as though something too light for human senses had passed through it. Not a wind. Not a sound. Benítez remained still, head bowed. He did not realise any of this, but something had changed.

The hour was late. The Vatican’s stone corridor was cold in the hushed dusk. Blurred shadows spread between the columns.

Bellini walked alone. His steps were a near-silent rhythm on the marble. He preferred the west side hallway to walk at this time —beautifully melts in twilight—but this cloister was a shortcut to the office. Efficiency won.

He walked with the self-possession of a person who measures his thoughts before offering them. Under one arm were tightly bound documents to check. A residual thrum of quiet irritation was still there in his chest.

Tedesco.

That Italian’s voice had a way of embedding itself: abrasive, smug, too sure. The meeting had ended one hour ago, but Bellini could still hear the echo of Goffredo’s latest display: all passion, no precision.

And then, just ahead, rounding the far end of the corridor — there he was. Goffredo Tedesco strode toward him, loose-limbed and broad-shouldered, a silhouette framed by the dim light. A plume of vapor drifted from his hand, and that artificial, cloying scent — chemical cherry, undercut with something sharp and synthetic. It hung in the corridor like cheap incense in a sacred space. Bellini felt his jaw tighten. He did not slow. Neither did Goffredo.

Their eyes locked across the distance. Bellini saw the Patriarch with cold contempt. Tedesco saw the Secretary with provocative derision.

‘Tired of faking cooperation and compassion, Eminenza?’ Tedesco called, voice thick with lazy disdain. ‘Grazie, today’s discussion was constructive. You are trying so hard to reinterpret mercy into irrelevance.’

Aldo’s lips barely moved. ‘Still mistaking volume for conviction, I see.’

Ten feet. Five. There was no one else in the dark corridor.

Bellini frowned as seeing the other man exhale smoke. ‘Your theories,’ he retorted, ‘have weight like vapour. Perfumed and vanishing. Too one-sided and ignoring too many things.’

‘Bah.’ The Italian man raised his hand in an idle, careless gesture. Bellini lifted his own to swat it aside.

Their fingers touched accidentally. Just a brush of skin, as incidental as a breeze. But — the corridor collapsed. Or rather, it expanded — outward, inward. Both opened their eyes. Time stopped. The gold of dusk flooded the space like a blessing, illuminating dust motes suspended in midair. The cold stone underfoot seemed to warm. A tender shiver climbed up his spine. It was the feeling of happiness.

Aldo felt it first in his chest. A dissolving. The irritation, the wariness, the armour of intellect — it all fell away in a single, breathless instant. Fullness. Peace and joy. He was open but was accepted. That was the happiness he had forgotten for a long time.

Tedesco’s mouth had parted, just slightly. His fingers had gone still, caught between motion and retreat. He looked fresh and pure, somehow. Perhaps simply because his mocking smile disappeared. Bellini stared at him, stunned. He was still overwhelmed by the sudden flash of happiness.

Tedesco blinked. Swallowed. His voice, when it came, was hoarse and oddly quiet.

‘Che…’

A pause. A long, aching pause. Then, they jumped back at the same time, as if waking from a shared dream they could not bear to acknowledge.

Tedesco was suddenly freed from paralysis. ‘What did you do?’ he cried, angry. He glared at the other man, as if looking at a devil.

‘I…’ Bellini stunned, hand shaking slightly. ‘…What happened?’

‘Ha! Might be an allergic reaction for you.’ Tedesco waved his hand in annoyance, which was too theatrical at this point.

‘Oh, watch your mouth, your Eminence.’

The memory of warmth remained, with something strangely human. The artificial cherry smell was woefully out of place. Then, they walked away in opposite directions. Not a word more.

Chapter Text

A gentle night breeze rustled the lace curtains hanging over the terrace doors. The evening air of early autumn was cool but not cold. Soft light brightened the wooden dining table warmly.

Bellini lifted his wineglass and took a measured sip. Across from him, his dearest friend Lawrence sat quietly, watching him over the rim of his glass. Bellini let the liquid roll over his tongue—faint berry sweetness and mild bitterness of tannin. A flavour he knew well. And yet tonight, it felt strangely distant, almost diluted.

‘They decided to send that draft to me before passing it to the council,’ Bellini said eventually, his tone calm, practised. ‘They want my review, of course.’

‘Oh, then—Tedesco’s revisions?’

‘Obviously.’ Bellini frowned with clear disapproval. ‘That man thinks anything followed by ‘in God’s name’ is automatically binding, but he’s gone with ‘Confusion drives God away’ this time. That’s the new justification.’

‘Hmm.’

‘You? How was your day?’

‘Same as usual. Ah, but after the meeting, I talked to...’ As Lawrence kept talking, Bellini smiled—but somehow, there was a weird nervousness.

Then, as Lawrence reached casually for his wine bottle, his fingers almost brushed his best friend’s—just barely. In that instant, Bellini snatched his hand away, as if burned. It was definitely an unusual reaction.

‘Aldo?’ Lawrence stopped talking and tilted his head slightly.

From his memory, a phantom surge tore through Bellini’s chest. That overwhelming warmth. That terrifying sweetness. That impossible sense of being wholly seen to the bottom of his heart—and accepted. A moment of ecstatic happiness.

And that was Tedesco. That, irritating, stupid and disrespectful Tedesco.

Before the sensation could fully rise, he shook his head and smiled weakly. ‘It’s nothing.’

Lawrence, ever gentle, reached out again. This time deliberately, as if to check what had just happened. But before his finger touched the other man’s, he stopped, wondering whether it would be accepted. Bellini filled that gap.

Lawrence’s brows drew together.

‘Aldo? Are you cold? Your hand’s freezing.’

‘No, I’m fine.’ His voice was just a touch too fast.

‘You don’t look fine.’

‘Just tired. The meetings today were… relentless.’ His lips curved again, but his eyes — his eyes betrayed something unspoken. A flicker of fear quickly became extinguished.

Lawrence laid his hand over Bellini’s, enveloping it with a familiar, steady warmth.

Bellini didn’t move.

That touch was solid and kind. He closed his eyes for a moment and breathed. There was comfort there — old and earned.

But that surge did not come. No euphoria. No absolution. Only peace. He opened his eyes slowly. This shows that it was nothing but fatigue—a temporary disruption in the brain’s function. Tedesco is…Tedesco. It meant nothing. This is what’s real. He squeezed Lawrence’s hand, a little too tightly. What happened—must not have been real. It couldn’t be.

‘Thank you, Thomas,’ he said softly.

Lawrence gave him a look—steady, warm, unconvinced—but said nothing.

o0o

Some heavy smoke curled upward from a red vape. Tedesco exhaled slowly, the syrupy scent hanging in the air. He had been an obsessed smoker all the time, but this night was quite intense.

He stood alone on the balcony of the temporal accommodation in the Vatican. The moonlight was too bright, and the air at midnight was too dry.

He clenched the brass railing.

He was furious, though he couldn’t have told you why.

Not precisely.

‘Something’s wrong,’ he muttered. Maybe it was just fatigue. Too many audiences. Too many poor imitations of piety from junior clergy. Perhaps it was the different bed in the Vatican, which was too soft.

But deep in his chest—under the rage, beneath the heat—was a silence. Not peace. A silence like a hole.

It had been Bellini.

Bellini, with his immaculate robes and I’m-clearer-than-you face. Bellini, with that sterile liberalism. Bellini, the kind of man who quoted Augustine when silence would have sufficed. Bellini, whose fingers had brushed his own by accident, and in that flash—in that cursed second—Tedesco had felt….

His palm still remembered it. That touch. His mind refused to replay it clearly, but the body had no such mercy. His skin—traitorous flesh—still rang with it. He didn’t even have the language for it. Warmth? No, it was too hot. Light? No, it was too bright. Too intimate, too absolute. It had lasted only a moment, but it had unmoored him utterly. Fear and pain, as if his skin was being forcibly peeled off. Yet, it was tender.

He took another sharp pull from the vape as if trying to burn the memory away.

‘Nonsense.’

And now—now his presence lingered like a brand. Tedesco slammed the palm of his hand against the railing.

‘This is an attack!’ he said it out loud. He needed to hear it spoken. ‘Sì, an attack. That’s all it is. A confusion sent to weaken the righteous.’ The words came quickly and sharply. Reassuring. Holy.

He paced—back and forth like a tiger in a cage made of steel.

‘That man... Bellini... he brought it. He’s the vessel of evil.’

His lips curled in disgust. At Bellini, yes—but also, somewhere deeper, at himself. At the memory of his own stillness in that moment. How he had not recoiled immediately.

‘The soft-spoken destroyer. Masked in logic, veiled in false humility. This is how they do it. First, they blur the line between virtue and unscrupulousness. Then they call it compassion. Then they call it God.

‘And people applaud them for it. Because they make the hard things sound beautiful. Because they say God is in the ‘acceptance,’ not in law. And that accepts everything. Anything. Without checking. Ah, non ha carattere!’

Abruptly, he went into the room from the balcony. His bathrobe fluttered. He began to keep pace again. His footsteps absorbed in the carpet.

‘That’s why they love his idea,’ he muttered. ‘Bellini, with his calm voice and academic poison. He brings God down to man’s level, so no one has to kneel.’

His voice was sharp and rough, like he had sharpened his mind against an enemy.

o0o

The next day, Bellini seemed to maintain his usual poised serenity when he walked. However, there was subtle hesitation in his steps, as if calculating the angle of every turn. If he heard the low, gravelled cadence of Tedesco’s voice ahead—whether in debate or casual chat—he adjusted course. Casually, discreetly.

He no longer lingered in doorways. He sat on the far side of committee tables, often adjusting the placement of his chair by just an inch, as if to correct a visual symmetry—though Lawrence, who had known him too long, recognized his strange nervousness.

‘You’re restless,’ Lawrence murmured in the afternoon after a meeting. They were leaning against the corridor wall, facing the small courtyard outside the chamber. Dust motes drifted through shafts of late sunlight, giving Bellini’s black cassock an elegant sheen.

‘I’m fine,’ Bellini replied smoothly as if reading aloud a thesis rather than a personal feeling. His eyes did not quite meet Lawrence’s. ‘Fatigue, perhaps. These days have been…’

‘Irregular,’ Lawrence finished. His tone was not accusing. Merely attentive.

Bellini paused, just for a breath too long. ‘Perhaps.’

Tedesco was louder now. Cruder, even. He had always possessed a keen sense of directing himself. Rough: not disgusting but attractive. Critical: not neurotic but strong. However, now that sense of balance, once akin to that of an experienced tightrope walker, was slightly off.

He attacked liberal phrasing in the draft reports with venom sharpened by discomfort. ‘Eccellenza,’ he spat, addressing a startled bishop, ‘if you wish to dilute doctrine into poetry, do it in your diary, huh?’ The bishop reddened. A few cardinals shifted in their seats. Tedesco did not care. Or rather—pretended not to.

The next morning, just outside the elevator, Sabbadin and Bellini discussed that day’s agenda and the Pope’s vision. However, Sabbadin suddenly stopped in the middle of the sentence, and grinned at Bellini, ‘Look, the old grumpy cat is walking around.’ Over there, next to the entrance door, Tedesco was irritatingly talking with his fellows. The voice was sharp, and the hand was tapping unconsciously. Sabbadin seemed to want to know what was behind this. If Bellini were Lawrence, he would have said You shouldn’t gossip like that, but instead, he shrugged. ‘Losing that red vape, maybe?’

‘What? No, no, rather, he is smoking more than ever. Maybe he realized that his flashy red cape was too conspicuous and is trying to create a smokescreen?’ Sabbadin winked.

Bellini realised that the arrogant Italian was walking towards him. ‘...Maybe,’ he said, thinking about what he should do next. Then, he frowned at his thought. What to do? Just talk normally. Some little arguments will also do. That feeling must have been a miswiring of the brain, after all. Then, why should I avoid him? It’s nonsense.

‘Oh, Aldo,’ Sabbadin tilted his head in the weird silence. ‘You alright? You seem distracted.’

When Bellini opened his mouth to answer, a loud voice interrupted. ‘Ah, buon giorno, Eminenze!’ Tedesco said. It cracked through the morning hush like a firework. It was not a greeting, but a performance. It was even louder than usual, but if Sabbadin was not mistaken, he had some light bags under his eyes.

‘Did the Lord grant the liberals a decent night’s sleep?’ the Italian added, opening his arms with exaggeration. His voice—always rich with command—carried that familiar tone of amusement, the mocking edge he used when pretending civility. His demeanour appeared carefree and relaxed, except his body jolted slightly when the edge of his red cape nearly brushed against Bellini’s cassock. It was visible only to someone standing quite close—which Sabbadin was. ‘Cardinal Tedesco,’ Bellini said with a nod, calm and clear. Too calm. ‘You’re early today.’

‘I like to be ahead of time,’ Tedesco said simply. His words are mostly straightforward when he talks as a performance. ‘Go ahead of decay.’

It earned a faint laugh from one of the junior clerics passing by—nervous, misplaced.

‘Tutto bene?’ he said to Bellini, indifferently. There was space between them: two metres. It yawned like a chasm. Same as usual for them? Perhaps.

Sabbadin saw it. He saw how Tedesco’s foot angled away. He saw the rigid way Bellini kept his arms at his side, like a man bracing for sudden wind. And most tellingly, he saw how Tedesco’s gaze fixed almost unnaturally. Sabbadin did not know what this meant, but he marked it.

o0o

The night in a quiet room, Tedesco lay in the dark, one arm thrown over his forehead, the other resting across his chest like a man guarding his heart from something unseen. Two days had passed since—since that, and Tedesco was still distracted somehow. It was because he could not sleep well at night. Lack of sleep makes your mind dull, he thought. The air was thick—too still, too warm. The scent of a vape clung faintly to the sheets, synthetic and sweet, suddenly cloying.

He drifted at last, unmoored. At least, he thought, tomorrow is the last day in the Vatican. Back in Venezia, everything would get normal. Just one more day. And that was the last thought before he fell into the dream.

Firstly, he realized he was in front of his childhood home—sun-bleached stone, chipped green shutters. The house was large. The windows were too high now, unreachable, like the faces of gods. He looked at his hand, and it was still an adult’s. But he knew he was a little kid now. That was how dream works.

He was outside the door, standing barefoot on muddy gravel. He had made a mistake. He knew that much. In the dream, the mistake shifts—a dropped bowl, a lie about school, a stealing from the kitchen—but the sting remains the same. It felt as fresh as the first mistake he had ever made, yet he felt he had been through this so many times because he was a hopeless child, as they said.

‘Stupido,’ said his father.

‘Vergogna,’ added his mother, not looking at him. ‘Go wait outside.’

And so he did. Hours. Maybe days. Tedesco knew that this did not happen in real life. Yes, his parents sometimes scolded him or got mad at him, but he had never been sentenced to go outside. But that did not matter. This loneliness felt so real.

People pass on the road. Neighbours. Strangers. Parishioners. Each one glances his way with that same mix of disgust and pity, the expression that says: So that’s what you’re really worth.

He stands there, red-faced and burning, too proud to cry. He loved them, his parents, which is why it hurt so much—why his whole body trembled. Inside the house, shadows moved behind the curtains. Someone laughed. They had forgotten him.

He tried the door again. It won’t open.

He banged. Pleaded.

And then—he saw a figure across the street. This was new.

He had seen this recurring nightmare when he was little, but after entering seminary, it stopped. He had forgotten it. And now, it returned, after all those decades. With an additional character: Bellini. It was dark because of the backlight, but he knew it was Bellini.

He was watching.

His face was obscured by shadows, making his expression unreadable. However, his quiet gaze had a strong presence.

‘Non,’ Tedesco says, voice hoarse. Nothing sounded like a young boy’s soprano. ‘Non mi guardare!’ Don’t look at me, he cried.

But Bellini said nothing. In the distance, he remained completely still, like a statue, but he was watching. He was watching. The terror. The shame. All of it.

Tedesco reached for the door again—but it had gone now. The house had sealed itself. Driven by fear, he looked at Bellini again. The dark figure lifts a hand as if to greet—just a gesture to tell that he is present.

And Tedesco screamed. ‘No, no...non mi guardare! Per favore!’

Don’t look at me, he repeated. His voice was that of an old man, yet it sounded inarticulately like that of a lost child.

o0o

When the fifth conference ended, Tedesco was happy. It was clear that his mental health was not good. It may be advisable to consider speaking with a therapist at this point, but of course he would never do that. But at least, he was not dumb and knew he was unstable the last couple of days. Roma drains my soul, he thought. Endless traffic, rude people, and overpriced espresso. He would recover soon if he smelled the canals and rested in a familiar room.

While clergy rose to their feet, Benítez calmly came down from the chair in the front. ‘Cardinal Bellini and Cardinal Tedesco,’ he said gentle but final voice, ‘would you please remain for a while?’

Tedesco’s eyes slid to Bellini—as if against his will. When he rose now, it was with stiffness in the shoulders that he already knew this would not be good. They waited in silence as the chamber emptied. The last one was Lawrence. He looked at Bellini and smiled with his eyes, as if to cheer him up.

Once the doors shut, Benítez started to speak.

‘There’s a small diocese in Sardinia,’ he said. ‘A humble one. The bishop there is ill and send me some letters to ask for help. The seminary may be in disarray. Their records are fractured, some... issues of corruption or confusion. I would like it seen to—quietly.’

Tedesco blinked. At this point, he wanted to return to Venice at once.

Benítez’s careful gaze passed from one to the other. It lingered. ‘Could you two go there together?’ The words landed like a dropped glass. It was not a question, but a request. It was obvious.

Bellini straightened imperceptibly. ‘Your Holiness,’ he said, with quiet formality, ‘surely there are more appropriate—’

‘I need men of clarity,’ Innocent interrupted, gently. ‘The place seems to be...complicated. Local powerful people and some ideologies conflict together, making it difficult to understand from the outside. You two as a pair, it would be perfect. Different connections, long experience, keen observational eyes.’

Tedesco’s mouth twisted, but he said nothing.

‘One week,’ Benítez added. ‘Since the island is not so far, you can stay longer if you need. You’ll have support from the local clergy, and can contact me anytime.’

‘But Your Holiness, being away from here for too long is…’ Bellini resisted.

‘—The remote work we implemented during the pandemic has been pretty stable.’ Benítez interrupted again. His tone is rather casual now. ‘You can definitely come back if there’s an emergency, but you can stick around for a bit too. Figuring this out is one of the most important things right now. I really don’t like leaving problems hanging and letting people struggle when I can actually help.’

There was a pause. The silence felt rather noisy with unspoken thoughts of the two cardinals.

Then: ‘Yes, Your Holiness,’ Bellini said, voice flat, eyes lowered.

Tedesco forced a crooked smile. ‘As you wish.’

Benítez smiled faintly. ‘Thank you. I will send the detailed documents later.’

Chapter Text

The sliding glass doors of Olbia Costa Smeralda Airport shut behind Bellini as he stepped into the arrival hall. It was a brilliant afternoon outside, but inside the terminal, the light was sterile and unforgiving. Tourists bustled past—families in sandals dragging wheeled suitcases, couples already sunburned, and loud groups chasing their guide with selfie sticks raised like antennas. The air smelled faintly of perfume or aftershave—traces left by those on their vacation.

His cassock attracted some curious looks, and he noticed the crowd slowly opening up as he walked. He wondered if Moses had been uncomfortable. At this point, he regretted not encouraging them to wear casual clothes, at least until they left the airport.

He scanned the crowd, jaw tight. He liked to see happy people, but this was too much. Then he saw the ridiculous scarlet cape—Tedesco, sitting slouched on a steel bench bolted to the floor, smoking. In his hand was a tablet. It was a surprisingly ordinary model, considering that it was Tedesco; not red, not customized, not even in a case—just the standard matte grey rectangle. The screen glowed softly as his eyes scanned an article. Something about the image did not compute. Tedesco was silent and absorbed, not posturing, not arguing—using a tablet, which was just a plain, perfectly ordinary model. Bellini narrowed his eyes, as if the device itself were part of some minor ecclesial scandal.

When Bellini marched over, Tedesco looked up and grinned with exaggerated cheer.

‘Finalmente. Look who finally arrived,’ he called, voice slicing clean through the din—loud enough to draw a glance from a passing German tourist.

‘The flight was late. Just 15 minutes behind schedule,’ Bellini defended.

A few days apart after the incident had cooled them both—somewhat, still, Bellini could not help but notice how their hands remained motionless, awkwardly inert at their sides, each avoiding even the possibility of contact. Then he blinked, brushing the thought aside. Well, we'd never hugged in greeting. And both had always dodged handshakes whenever possible. Maybe this was normal.

Tedesco shrugged. ‘Eh. Anyway, we just have to not kill each other, no?’

Bellini scanned the screen of the tablet and frowned. ‘And you prepared for this assignment by reading tourist bait?’

‘No, no. But this helped me to lower my expectations. "The Sacred Tears of Saint Altavento,"’ he read aloud, savouring the absurdity. ‘"Thought to channel the saint’s compassion, providing comfort to the weary in spirit and the weak in limb."’

‘"The Sacred Tears"? Is it a kind of relic?’ Bellini asked.

Tedesco snorted and put the tablet away in his suitcase. ‘It’s never been declared a relic. Just "rumoured to be linked" to some ancient monk with damp eyes.’ He leaned forward conspiratorially, vape pen still in hand. ‘Sai cos’è? Tourist bait. Churchy folklore. Like those fake exorcism tours in Rome—just less honest.’

‘I find accuracy preferable to pageantry.’

‘Sure you do, Eminenza.’ Tedesco now standing up, and they started to walk towards the pick-up area next to the taxi rank. ‘But admit it, Bellini—this place is going to be un circo—a circus. Relics no one certified. Locals think a mould stain in the chapel is the Virgin’s veil. Maybe some fortune from backdoor deals. And we sent to play nice and sniff for corruption.’

‘We’re not here to enjoy ourselves, Tedesco.’

‘Oh, sì, lo so bene,’ Tedesco said, exhaling smoke again. ‘If I were, I’d have picked somewhere that doesn’t smell like fake redemption.’ And I won’t come with you, his face clearly said. Bellini agreed.

Behind them, a child wailed. A tourist laughed too loudly. Someone dropped a bottle of water that rolled with a hollow sound across the polished floor. And the two men disappeared into the tide of tourists, pretending, for now, that the surface was calm.

o0o

One priest was waiting near the airport exit, hands folded neatly in front of him. His cassock was plain, dark, and a little worn at the cuffs—not a man overly concerned with appearances. As soon as he spotted the cardinals, he stepped forward with a polite nod.

‘Buongiorno, Eminenze,’ he said. His Italian was smooth but had a little feature of Spanish. ‘Welcome. I’m López, a priest and an assistant to Bishop Galli. He asked me to extend his greetings and regrets—he is unwell and unable to come in person.’

Tedesco offered his frank and easy-going public smile. ‘Of course. We understand,’ he said.

López smiled politely. ‘I won’t take much of your time now—I imagine you are tired from travel. May I meet you again in front of the hotel entrance in one hour? I believe that will give you time to settle, Eminenze.’

Bellini glanced at Tedesco, then answered, ‘That’s fine.’

‘Thank you,’ said the priest. ‘Then I’ll leave you for now. There, the taxi is ready. You do not need to pay, of course.’

The two cardinals got on the taxi with a slight care not to touch each other, and the priest bowed and disappeared into the crowd.

The car was moving. Bellini glanced sideways but said nothing for a moment. When Tedesco took out his vape, he frowned. ‘Don’t smoke in a car. It’s a shared space.’

‘It’s not smoke, it’s vapour,’ Tedesco said, as if correcting a schoolboy.

Then, after a beat, with a smirk: ‘Want a puff? Might loosen you up.’

Bellini huffed. ‘Being stuffed in a car with you is already enough. You don’t need to make some effort to irritate me.’

Tedesco gave a lazy shrug but put his vape away anyway—he might be anxious at least a little, being thrown into an unfamiliar place to reveal its corruption. He leaned his head back against the seat. ‘He didn’t look like a liar, did he?’

‘No,’ Bellini murmured. ‘Not yet.’

The taxi smelled of dust baked in the sun and cheap cologne. It was climbing up the hill, bumping along the stone-paved road.

Bellini leaned toward the window as if fascinated by the view, arms tightly folded, careful not to let even his sleeve brush Tedesco’s. The Patriarch leaned back with the illusion of ease—but one knee jutted toward Bellini was repeatedly, subtly adjusted.

‘So,’ Tedesco said to the driver with practised ease, ‘this part of the country hasn’t changed much, huh? Still, got that bakery by the old church? The one with the terrible espresso but decent pastries?’

Bellini thought that his casual and friendly tone sounded too theatrical and shady, but he knew it worked for someone who did not know how horrible he actually was.

The driver gave him a look in the mirror. ‘That place closed five years ago.’

‘Ah.’ Tedesco grinned. ‘Then we need to find somewhere good.’

‘There are places. If you know where to look.’

The driver was polite but distant. You lost, Tedesco, Bellini thought. ‘Actually,’ he joined, ‘it’s my first time here.’

‘Oh?’ The driver seemed to have picked some accents in Bellini’s words. ‘Where are you from? America?’

‘Sì. Been in Italy for a long time, but I usually stay in Roma and don’t travel much.’

The driver smiled. ‘Ah, that explains why you speak such a fluent Italian. Allora...how do you find it here?’

‘We’ve just arrived, but I like the weather.’

‘It’s a beautiful city,’ added Tedesco.

‘How do you like it here?’ Bellini asked. ‘Any recommended place to go?’

The driver grinned. ‘Oh, plenty. The seafood at Tramontana is excellent. And if you’ve got time, the viewpoint by the cliffs. Not many go these days, but it’s beautiful at sunset.’

He continued, like a tour guide: ‘This town’s got its shape,’ he said, eyes on the road. ‘Coastline’s for the tourists—hotels, cafes, flashy views. Originally, local fishermen lived there, so you can still some old-fashioned shops, though. Up the middle, that’s where people live. Residents, I mean. Then you’ve got the hill.’

Bellini tilted his head. ‘The hill?’

The driver nodded slightly. ‘Seminario. Chiesa. Old places, been there forever. Not much up there but church property. Quiet.’

The road dipped into shadow, lined with low olive trees. Bellini shifted again, just a few millimetres—enough to reclaim space without touching the man beside him.

‘We would try,’ answered Tedesco.

The car stopped. They stepped out of the car and faced the hotel. The building stood elegant and freshly painted, its pale walls catching the late sunlight like polished ivory. Tall windows gleamed beneath wrought-iron balconies, and the gravel path was perfectly raked. A trickle of water murmured from a discreet fountain nearby, and lavender grew in neat rows along the entrance.

Tedesco slowly tugged the corner of his mouth, eyeing the façade. ‘Looks like it’s trying very hard to say benevolence and quiet money.’

Before Bellini could answer, a voice greeted them—crisp and flawless, with a perfect common Italian accent. ‘Buongiorno, Eminences.’

A young man approached. ‘Welcome. My name is Marco Rossi, this hotel’s concierge and I have been asked to welcome you. I can also transfer contacts to other church officials. First, I will show you to your room.’

He looked polished, and just a little too impeccable. His dark suit was crisp, the knot of his tie perfectly symmetrical, and not a speck of dust dared cling to his shoes. Tedesco gave him a once-over, then flicked a glance sideways at Bellini.

‘Been working here long, Marco?’ he asked, voice light.

The young man smiled, serene and unblinking. ‘Since last year, Eminence. I consider it an honour.’

The two cardinals followed him. Bellini made sure their shoulders did not brush in the entrance, though it was not so narrow.

The lobby was quiet, spacious, and tastefully appointed with antique furniture that looked chosen to impress without seeming ostentatious. Soft classical music played low in the background—Vivaldi, maybe.

Tedesco’s gaze swept the hall once, noting the absence of other guests. No footsteps, no murmurs—only the faint ticking of a brass clock near the desk.

‘Most of our guests prefer quiet,’ he continued, leading them down a carpeted corridor where their footsteps were swallowed before they could echo. ‘Scholars, clergy, those in retreat. It’s ideal for reflection, and a little far from the sightseeing spots for most tourists. This place was chosen for Eminences so that you two can stay withougt any stress.’

Marco stopped in front of one door. ‘We’ve prepared adjoining rooms,’ he explained, taking out a key—not a keycard, but a classical key—slid it into the lock. ‘This is the first room,’ he said, and turning the knob. The door opened to a space bathed in honeyed afternoon light. The room was spotless, reverent in its silence.

Marco stepped aside smoothly. ‘I hope it meets your expectations. Shall I show you the second room now?’

Half an hour later, Tedesco and Bellini were in a car again. This time, López, the priest from the airport, was driving. He had wanted to move somewhere more discreet— away from the hotel premises. The car was tiny, the kind of compact model that seemed designed to test personal boundaries. The two cardinals sat on the backseat in an awkward closeness. The silence hung between them like a curtain: thin, but opaque.

The hill also looked like a small sightseeing spot, after all. Tradition and history with mystique. The ‘The Sacred Tears’ article must have advertised this hill.

The car rolled through the narrow streets of Altavento. The glamour of the solemnity faded quickly after they turned several corners—cafés gave way to shuttered stores, moss-covered wooden utility poles, and parked mopeds blanketed with dust.

Tedesco sat with one ankle resting on his opposite knee, watching the town with the ease of a man touring a theatre backstage. Bellini, arms crossed, stared out the window the whole way, facial expression unchanged.

Soon after they entered a deserted road—must be good for running or walking dogs—, a small church appeared. It looked like the only people who frequented the place were old locals who had been coming for a long time. No plaque or signboard. Just an old wooden door and ivy curling along the stone. Next to the church was a tiny, modest house.

‘That’s our office,’ said López.

‘Oh,’ Bellini murmured. ‘So, the gorgeous church near the seminary was...’

‘That’s the newer one. We carried out renovation work there.’

‘Really?’ Tedesco huffed. ‘Must have cost a lot.’

‘It did, but the old building was falling apart. We wanted a space where anyone could pray in peace.’

Renovation of a church? Bellini thought. Historical churches are often well-designed and rarely dilapidated for that level.

The bishop’s office was dim, spare, and smelled faintly of old paper and ink. Wooden shelves lined one wall, stacked with disordered books, folders, and what looked suspiciously like grocery receipts. A crucifix hung low on the back wall, off-centre, but the room was clean and cosy.

‘Eminenze, please have a seat.’

When they were about to sit down, a sharp siren spiralled through the heavy afternoon air. It sounded like an undulating cry, wee-oo wee-oo, both urgent and oddly melodic.

‘¡Mierda!’ López exclaimed, springing to his feet. His face had drained of colour. ‘That direction—maybe the seminary. I hope I’m wrong, oh Lord, I hope I’m wrong. But we’ve got to go. Now.’

Bellini and Tedesco locked their eyes for the briefest moment. There, they see a shared unease. By realising that, discomfort flared spread. They turned away from each other at the same time, as if even acknowledging that flicker of concern might burn.

Chapter Text

López stumbled to the door. His breath hitched and his hands were shaking.

‘What is it?’ Bellini’s voice was soft, careful. He stood, straightening his cassock with habitual grace, but his eyes narrowed.

The younger priest did not answer. He merely turned, face ashen, and muttered, ‘I’ll go.’

Bellini followed without hesitation. Before leaving the room, he happened to see the receipt on the desk. The first item written on it was “Confezione Carta Igienica.”

‘Do you know what’s going on?’ Tedesco asked the Secretary with low voice while they were walking.

‘No. But something’s wrong,’ he replied, equally quiet. ‘And he’s terrified.’

Tedesco snorted. ‘Wow. What a great observation,’ he said in English.

o0o

Following the ambulance siren, they arrived at a hospital. It was located between the sightseeing area around the coast and the residential area.

The automatic glass doors opened smoothly, ushering them into a rush of cool air and that unmistakable antiseptic scent. The overhead fluorescents buzzed faintly.

López moved first, his worn monk shoes clicking across the tile. ‘Eminenze, could you please wait for a moment here?’ He approached the reception desk.

The two cardinals remained behind. They stood close enough to speak, but not close enough to brush sleeves. Bellini adjusted his cuffs. Something about the younger priest’s hurried steps seemed as if he wanted to run away from them. What was he not saying?

Tedesco shifted. His cloak fluttered, and the artificial scent of sweet vape filled the air. Bellini sniffed, ‘You’re going to get us kicked out.’

‘Not vaping now,’ Tedesco shot back, eyes scanning the hospital.

‘Your cape smells. I worry about decency.’

The Italinano did not reply, but his eyes flicked toward López. The younger priest was still in conversation, his back slightly hunched now, speaking quietly—but firmly. ‘You know what,’ Tedesco said. ‘If he wanted to know so much whether the urgent patient was from the seminary, he could have called the school on the car.’

Bellini nodded slowly, and inwardly wondered if López’s reluctance to involve the seminary directly was to avoid raising alarms—or worse, revealing something inconvenient.

They watched. Minutes passed.

Just then, López turned with pale face. There was a tension in his jaw, but he gestured toward them.

‘They let me see him. You two—’ His voice faltered slightly, as if realising the delicacy of rank between them. ‘—would you mind if I ask you to wait here? I’ll come back as soon as I can.’

He did not wait for an answer. His cassock flicked slightly as he turned down the corridor, following a nurse with a clipboard.

Tedesco stared after the retreating figure. ‘Oh, I do mind,’ he said. ‘What do you think he’s hiding?’

Bellini shrugged. ‘Should we wait here?’

‘Ma ti pare?’ Tedesco said—Is it a question? Seriously?

They started walking toward the hallway, but the receptionist woman stepped out quickly, clipboard in hand, her ID badge swinging at her chest.

‘I’m sorry, but you can’t go past this point without clearance or family authorisation.’

Tedesco’s mouth opened, a response forming—possibly sharp, possibly something with eminence in it. Before he could say anything, Bellini raised a hand. ‘We’re clergies,’ he said, gesturing to his cassock. ‘We’re with the man who just went in—Father López. He’s the boy’s pastoral contact. We’re his colleagues.’ It’s not a lie, he thought.

Tedesco added, ‘He’s under our care—the church’s care. If this is a legal issue, we can inform the bishopric.’

The words carried weight, not because they were threatening, but because they hinted at paperwork and complication, and the woman, clearly overworked and underpaid, sighed.

‘I see. Well—alright. But please don’t disturb the other patients, Fathers.’

‘Of course not,’ Bellini said with a slight nod.

As she stepped aside, they continued, the corridor swallowing them again. Bellini muttered, ‘We’re cardinals, not criminals.’

Tedesco frowned. ‘No. And you said the “colleagues” thing.’

‘I didn’t lie.’

‘Nemmeno io,’ neither did I, the Italian said.

Bellini walked ahead, his footfalls nearly soundless. Tedesco followed. His red cape was brushing the pale white walls.

Then, they reached the door. Before opening it, Bellini added, ‘But you threatened them!’

Tedesco snorted.

Inside, a young teen boy lay still beneath a crisp white sheet. His olive-toned skin had dark purple bruises. Curls of black hair clung to his damp forehead. His right arm was bound in a rigid sling, and his torso was wrapped—tightly, protectively—beneath the hospital gown. He did not move much, and from the way his jaw was clenched, it was clear that even breathing came with effort.

Seated beside him, López had been murmuring softly in Spanish—something between prayer and comfort—until he looked up and saw the two figures standing in the doorway. His expression tightened. Surprise first. Then caution. His eyes flicked instinctively to Tedesco, who entered the room first.

‘…I didn’t think you were coming,’ López said, rising slightly. His tone wasn’t hostile, but stiff—like someone who had expected privacy.

Bellini took a slow step forward. ‘I know you didn’t want us to, but...’

‘We need to know what is happening in seminary,’ Tedesco finished.

‘And you seemed...distressed,’ the Secretary said gently.

López’s gaze lingered on him for a moment, then slid back to the Patriarch. Tedesco stood behind Bellini, arms crossed loosely over his chest. He gave a nod. ‘We came because it looked serious.’

‘...Maybe,’ López replied carefully.

Bellini glanced toward the boy. ‘What happened?’

‘They said he fell,’ López answered, but his voice was dry. ‘From the stairs.’

Tedesco frowned. ‘They?’

‘The seminary,’ López stated plainly, his lips pressed into a tight line.

Bellini moved closer to the bed. The boy had fingers curled inwards like he’d tried to grasp something even in unconsciousness. ‘How old is he?’

‘Seventeen,’ López answered. ‘He’s in a minor seminary.’

‘Seventeen?’ Bellini was surprised. The boy seemed early in his teenage.

‘Ugh...’ They heard a groan. Then, slowly like the drawing back of a tide, the boy stirred. His eyes cracked open, eyelashes fluttering. For a moment, he seemed confused as if being suspended between sleep and pain. Then, he winced. ‘Shnu hadha...’ he murmured with a language that the two cardinals were not familiar with. Then, he recognised López. ‘Ah, Padre…where am I?’

The priest stepped forward, voice immediately low and gentle. ‘We’re in the hospital, eh, …spitār. You’re OK. L’bās, l’bās, Nabil.’

The boy—Nabil nodded faintly, lips dry. His gaze drifted past López and briefly landed on the unfamiliar silhouettes across the room. Tension crept into his shoulders. His fingers gripped the sheet tighter. López caught the look and leaned slightly closer, murmuring something—likely a reassurance or perhaps a quiet warning.

Nabil blinked again and lifted his head weakly, then said, ‘It’s nothing. Just a... slip. I can’t stay here too long,’ he said, his voice rough with sleep and a non-Italian tone that curled softly under the words.

López shook his head. ‘They said you have cracked ribs. Bruised spine. You’re not walking out tomorrow, Nabil.’

The boy looked away. ‘I’ll recover. It’s not so bad. I just can’t...” A pause. Then his voice dropped. ‘I can’t stay here that long. I can’t afford...,’ he swallowed with difficulty. ‘If I stay long, I don’t know what happens.’

‘Nabil,’ López said sharply. ‘Talk about this later.’

Bellini made an effort to maintain a calm expression, but his eyes glanced over at the priest. ‘They charge that much?’ he asked, the edge of his words tinged with suspicion. ‘But he’s a student. A minor Seminary’s. Surely the diocese—’

‘Eminenza, I’ll explain later, but not—’

Nabil shook his head slowly, already sinking a little deeper into the bed. ‘I’m… I’m not good enough.’

Not good enough for what, Bellini asked inwardly. At that moment, he heard the rustling of clothes from his side and remembered that Tedesco was there. He felt the Italian shifted a fraction away, enough to keep the hem of his cloak from brushing Bellini’s leg.

Before anyone could respond, the door gave a mechanical click and opened. A nurse stepped in. He seemed to be in his forties, dark blond and in sea-green scrubs. ‘Hello Father,’ he greeted López, then looked to the unfamiliar cassocks. ‘Didn’t realise he had other visitors.’

‘We’re priests,’ Bellini said calmly, before López tells the nurse anything. ‘With Father López.’

The nurse looked at him, then Tedesco. ‘All right.’ He turned to Nabil. ‘His mother said she can’t come today. Still at work.’

Nabil nodded. ‘She has shifts all day. She said not to call unless it’s bad,’ he said flatly.

López placed a hand gently on the boy’s left shoulder. The contact made him flinch—just slightly—before he relaxed again, slow and exhausted.

The nurse lingered by the foot of the bed, flipping through a chart. ‘Something else,’ he said, almost offhand, but with a professional weight. ‘We ran some routine blood tests, and the results raised a bit of concern: Iron-deficiency anaemia and considering his under-weight for his age... possibly some early signs of malnutrition. It’s not urgent, but something we’ll monitor.’

‘Malnutrition?’

Bellini said to López, his eyes sharpening. ‘He’s in a boarding seminary, right? Meals are provided.’

‘Sure,’ López answered in a low voice.

‘What gets eaten matters, rather than what’s on paper,’ the nurse said with a mild shrug. ‘Those don’t always line up. It’s just a possibility, but malnutrition may have contributed to the fall. If he was dizzy, it wouldn’t take much to lose his footing. He needs rest.’

Nabil shifted a little. ‘It’s nothing,’ he said quickly, his voice scratchy but clear. ‘I’ve just been... tired. Studying a lot. The exams. You know.’ His eyes didn’t quite meet theirs.

Tedesco narrowed his gaze but said nothing. He’s been eerily silent, Bellini thought.

‘You said it’s from stress?’ López asked gently.

‘Yes. I haven’t had much appetite. That’s all,’ Nabil insisted. ‘I just want to go back soon.’

The nurse adjusted the IV drip before glancing over. ‘He’s stable. But those fractures need time. Also, he hit his head, so we need to monitor his condition carefully. If he doesn’t rest, he’s not going to recover properly.’

They stepped out into the corridor, the door to Nabil’s room clicking gently shut behind them. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, washing the beige walls in a lifeless glow.

‘You know him well,’ Bellini asked, his voice low and deliberate.

‘Yes,’ said López.

‘You know him well, and you didn’t notice his malnutrition?’

‘No, but…’ the priest’s face was a little pale. ‘Since Bishop Galli asked me to take over his job for a while, I’ve…’

‘So, you have no idea how long he has been like this?’

López looked tired. ‘It’s not as though anyone checked frequently.’

Bellini frowned. ‘No teachers noticed? No reports from the school nurse?’

Suddenly, a quiet but rough voice interrupted, ‘Where’s he from?’ Bellini turned. It was Tedesco. He leaned against the wall, his expression unreadable.

López hesitated. ‘Tunisia,’ he said finally, the word slipping out with measured neutrality.

‘Tunisia,’ Tedesco repeated.

‘Tedesco,’ Bellini said with a sharp tone, not knowing what would follow from his insufferable fellow. Luckily, he said nothing more.

López’s posture got tightened.

‘How long have you known him?’ Bellini asked.

‘Eminenze,’ the priest said, and his words sounded distant. ‘The seminary system... isn’t as consistent as it should be. It’s something we’ve been trying to observe more closely.’

‘That’s all you can say?’ Tedesco asked, with a faint tilt of the head.

‘For now,’ the priest said with a clipped voice.

o0o

Tedesco fought the urge to pace by taking another long drag from his red vape. The artificial sweetness clung to the air around him, which helped him to calm down a little. He was alone and sank into one of the antique-style chairs in the hotel lounge, surprisingly comfortable for something so ostentatiously carved.

It was not exactly surprising that an immigrant boy might have low exam scores, nor was it difficult to believe the child had been too anxious to eat because of it. And yet, something about Nabil gnawed at him. No, not the boy himself, not directly—well, it must be a tangle of unresolved problems of this diocese the boy seemed to embody.

López had said he would stay at the hospital a little longer. That meant they would have to wait until the next day to talk with him properly. Bellini had gone to see the church. Tedesco returned to the hotel and asked the concierge, who was impeccably courteous, to contact the seminary and inform them that Bellini and he would be visiting together the next day.

He had not even been in this city for half a day, and yet it already felt like three. He exhaled, tilting his head back just slightly, and wondered how soon he could leave. Before, he only talked to Bellini during important meetings or work, where everyone was supposed to share their opinions. Naturally, they started to discuss aggressively. But now, he needed to work with him to solve a problem.

Two hours. It had become something of a personal record—how long the two of them had managed to be in such proximity without erupting into a full-scale argument. And yet there was something quietly maddening about the Secretary’s presence. The sleek line of Bellini’s cassock and the irritatingly composed tone in which he spoke.

Then, his phone buzzed softly. He glanced at the screen. An email. The subject was RE: Altavento introduction. It was from a man in the Vatican’s high-end cultural tourism circuit—organiser of ecclesiastical galas and fundraising banquets. He was one of the good people to work with.

As promised, the mail said, I’ve spoken to Signor Calvi—a local patron, deeply involved in several ecclesiastical preservation efforts, and, I believe, a supporter of your views. He’d be delighted to meet you for a brief introduction at his villa. Nothing formal.

The Patriarch put his phone away and stood up. The name Calvi rang a faint bell—he had seen it on some donation reports, maybe on an attached document about some refurbishment. Likely old money. Old influence.

The taxi went into the shaded quiet of the old district. The villa was only a ten-minute drive away from the hotel. When he arrived, the house stood like a preserved fragment of another century—ochre walls, iron gates with curling motifs, and a worn stone crest above the entrance. Tedesco was ushered into a small garden parlour, and there sat Calvi—mid-sixties, neat grey hair, linen blazer over a collared shirt.

He stood to greet the Patriarch. His handshake was firm and warm. ‘Eminenza, what an honour. Prego, si accomodino.’ Please have a seat, he said, with a calm smile.

Tedesco dropped into the comfortable chair.

‘So, you’ve taken an interest in our humble corner of Sardinia,’ Calvi said, tone smooth. ‘It’s rare that Roma casts such a gaze our way.’

Tedesco gave a half-shrug, leaning back. ‘The Holy Father asked us to. We’ve been informed that Bishop Galli is suffering from illness,’ he replied evenly. ‘We need to hear the real voice from the diocese, when it comes to, eh, making important decisions. And, you know how it is—sometimes it’s the edge of the map that sees what the centre forgets.’

Calvi smiled, the lines around his eyes deepening. ‘Very true. And sometimes the periphery forgets itself too—especially when outside influences begin... muddying tradition.’

Tedesco nodded slowly. He felt a faint note of approval humming under the man’s words. The phrase “outside influences” was carefully chosen. Tedesco now felt a little relaxed, thanking the man in Venezia for doing a great job.

Tedesco leaned forward, elbows resting wide on the carved arms of the chair, as if he was talking to a friend. ‘So,’ he said, ‘how’s the seminary?’

‘Ah, the seminary,’ he repeated, almost fondly. ‘Young men trying their best in a changing world. They have good hearts.’

Tedesco grunted in agreement, ‘Learning tradition and serving God. Great decisions.’

Then, Calvi lowered his gaze briefly, as if brushing invisible dust from the table between them. ‘However, Eminenza, the seminary isn’t free to choose its weather. It exists in this diocese, after all. Sometimes, they’re afraid to say something.’

Tedesco’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he let the silence linger. Internally, he filed the phrase—not free to choose its weather—a poetic dodge, but useful.

He let a second pass, then gave a short exhale through his nose. ‘Weather, you said. So, the storm’s coming from the sick man’s house?’

Calvi didn’t answer right away. The pause itself answered. ‘All I can say is,’ he finally said with a low voice, ‘that everyone will present their side of the story. But when a man in power appears practised to draw your pity, it may be wise to take pause. I would, of course, encourage you to listen carefully, Eminenza—but also to reflect on what remains unsaid.’

He rose lightly, smoothing the front of his linen blazer. ‘The day after tomorrow, we’re having a few friends over. A quiet supper. Nothing formal. But if you would care to attend, I believe the conversation may offer a… more candid perspective.’

Tedesco grinned. He had been lucky to get a connection that opened the door to the relationships in this area. ‘Grazie for the invitation,’ he said. ‘Please send me the address.’

When he was in a taxi to the hotel, his phone buzzed.

It was Bellini: “The hotel says dinners are included in the reservation,” the text said.

“Good. Saves us the debate on where to eat,” he replied in English. They knew they needed to eat and talk in private, and had agreed to do both at once.

“I’ll ask them to bring it to one of our rooms then,” Bellini sent.

“Va bene.”

“Yours or mine?”

What a weird day, Tedesco thought, hating this message exchange. He hesitated for a while, then typed: “Mine.”

For him, eating in others’ territory was a worse decision. This was the least bad of the bad choices.

At least he believed so, until Bellini knocked on the door.

The sound was sharp. Tedesco stood from the armchair by the window, the kind of movement made out of obligation rather than welcome. He crossed the carpet with long strides and opened the door.

Bellini was there, perfectly punctual, of course. He was not in cassock tonight. A dark navy shirt, rolled sleeves, and black trousers. This always-straight-A type Secretary looked casual just by those clothes.

Tedesco opened his eyes a little. It should not have mattered. And yet, for a second too long, it did. Something about the absence of uniform—a loosening of formality, of boundaries—made his throat tighten. And then, stupidly, he became aware of his own clothes. White shirt, beige trousers, no cloak, no stand up collar. He had not thought twice when getting dressed—but now, standing before Bellini, he felt oddly exposed.

He told himself it was nothing. This was Bellini. The man he hated. The man who opposed everything he stood for.

‘Welcome, Eminenza,’ Tedesco said, smiling too widely to ignore his nerves, and stepped aside.

Bellini entered with a brief ‘Grazie,’ his gaze brushing once over the room—window open, dinner already laid out on the table. He clasped his hands in front of him as if to protect him, but Tedesco did not realise it.

The Italian closed the door behind him. That soft click sealed them in.

Bellini moved toward the table, elegant and muted. There, a faint trace of rosemary lingered—the scent of Sardinian air clinging to him. Somewhere beneath it all, the dry whisper of paper and the soft bitterness of ink. Against the soft glow emanating from deep within, the Secretary’s silhouette was dark. Tedesco slightly shivered. The man from the nightmare. Staring at him.

At that moment, he realised his mistake. This—this—was far too close.

It was not just private; it was bare. With no cassocks, no audience, no architecture of public decorum, they were left as they were: stripped to logic, suspicion, and….

‘Tedesco? What’s wrong?’ Bellini asked.

Tedesco opened his arms to present his confidence. It worked to reduce the impression of the staring Bellini in that nightmare.

‘So,’ he said, keeping his voice casual. ‘Let’s start sharing our information, then.’

Chapter Text

‘So, buounan—’ Bellini stopped.

Their hands collided softly. Just a quick, unexpected brush—skin against skin, a knuckle catching lightly on the back of a hand. It lasted less than a second. And it destroyed him. Something erupt inside him with unbearable sweetness. He was standing there naked, not in body but in soul, and yet instead of shame, he felt…joy. Breathless joy. It made his knees weaken.

<One hour ago>

The plates had been laid out in precise symmetry. There was a decanted local red wine. Tedesco poured for both of them without asking, his movements brisk. Bellini murmured a quiet grazie. Then, he closed his eyes. A low voice followed: ‘Grazie Signore per questo cibo...’ The prayer rolled gently off Bellini’s tongue.

After the “Amen,” Tedesco first grabbed a bread. When he cracked the crust open, the rosemary scent hit his face like a blessing. The lamb was tender. There were roasted aubergines, slick with oil, and a small dish of fregola grains, seasoned and buttery.

Suddenly, he heard the voice of Bellini. ‘So, what did you do after we left the hospital?’

Tedesco did not even look up. He was carving the lamb, blade gliding smoothly through the softened meat. The scent rose again, laced with herbs and a faint tang of lemon. Too good to waste on conversation.

‘Mm,’ he muttered, mouth full. He pointed his fork vaguely in Bellini’s direction. ‘You first. What did you do?’

‘I visited the parish church. The one near the seminary.’

‘Oh?’

‘It’s old. Good bones. Romanesque. But the point was, it’s just been restored,’ Bellini went on. ‘Its façade was gorgeous. Stonework polished. New floor tiles. There’s even a QR code plaque at the door. For tourists.’

Tedesco snorted. ‘Ha! Of course there is.’ As he said so, his fork pushed aside the garnish and went straight for the meat and grain.

Bellini continued. ‘It was spotless. Candles are arranged perfectly. Brass gleaming. The sacristan said the bishop insisted on the restoration “before things got worse.”'

‘They got worse anyway,’ Tedesco muttered. He tore through the lamb with pleasure, not bothering to slice it with perfect form. He used the bread to soak up the oil on the plate—hot, fragrant, slightly spicy—and ate that, too. He took a long sip of wine. Then, he glanced up and caught Bellini watching him.

‘What,’ he grunted.

Bellini blinked, as if surprised he had been seen. ‘Nothing.’

Tedesco snorted, chewing. ‘You’re judging how fast I’m eating.’

‘I said nothing.’

‘You didn’t have to.’

Bellini picked up his glass but did not drink. Tedesco reached for more bread. ‘Well,’ he said, swallowing, ‘the Lord provides. Would be rude to refuse.’ He wiped his finger with a napkin, discreetly.

‘Anyway, the church was quiet. Only several parishioners are inside. However, at five p.m., a bus stopped in front of the church. Tourists came.’

‘A healthy diocese,’ Tedesco said dryly, ‘always invests in what looks good in photographs.’

Bellini gave a shrug, the corner of his mouth curled in irony. ‘Well, at least we agree on something.’

‘I talked with locals,’ Bellini continued. ‘Just six, but including the poor and immigrant families. The people who are often ignored first.’

Tedesco stopped chewing. He felt the pulse at his temple. Sharp. Loud. He opened his mouth, but before he shot back, Bellini said calmly, ‘They said Galli is a good bishop. Said he used to visit their quarter in person. Helped get someone’s son into school. Paid for a heater for someone’s flat last winter.’

Tedesco blinked. His mind caught the detail like a fish snapping at bait.

‘Did they say nothing about the new church? No complaint at all?’ he asked, before he realised he was asking.

‘No.’ Bellini’s eyes flicked toward him. No triumph, no smirk—just a quiet nod.

Tedesco leaned back slowly, crust still in hand. ‘A flashy renovation for tourism. An old neglected local church. The boy in the bed. And still, a merciful saint?’

‘Well, the people I talked to thought he’s a great person. They know he’s sick. One of them even said they’d been praying for him every day.’

Tedesco exhaled through his nose, sharply. Not quite a laugh. ‘Che c’è?’ so what? ‘We’re investigating a saint now?’

‘Well,’ Bellini said. ‘We’re investigating a man the people like.’

<The Vatican – The Pope’s Private Dining Room, 7:30 p.m.>

The autumn sun had already set, and lights were softly shining inside the dining room. The table was modestly set. Vegetable soup, grilled fish, and a light white wine.

Benítez’s eyes drifted towards the man seated opposite him: Lawrence. This man always seemed to carry more weight than most people, he thought. ‘So, Thomas, they’ve arrived, have they?’ he asked gently.

Lawrence gave a small nod, not quite hiding the tension in his shoulders. ‘Yes. Aldo sent me a message this afternoon. Just one word: Arrived.’ He hesitated, then placed his fork down with quiet deliberation. ‘Your Holiness...’ ‘Benítez,’ the young man corrected. ‘Oh, yes, Benítez. Forgive me, I must be candid: I’m not at ease with this situation.’

‘About sending them together?’

‘Yes.’ He leaned slightly forward. ‘Aldo and Cardinal Tedesco, under the same roof, working in close proximity on a matter this delicate—it’s not just friction, it’s tinder. I’d be surprised if they manage three days without an explosion.’

The Pope gave no immediate reply. He merely sipped his wine, his expression serene.

‘And yet,’ he said softly, ‘I have a feeling it will work.’

Lawrence looked up in obvious confusion. He did not say it out loud, but his eyes asked, “On what ground?”

Benítez looked at the full plate in front of the older man. He remembered how Bellini had once said to him that Lawrence needed to eat more. Bellini’s eyes had been full of deep care for his friend—the same care that now filled Lawrence’s eyes. Benítez smiled. ‘Thomas, I know that you worry about Aldo. But they need to stop hating each other. Being different is great. Hating each other is not. They should change. I just sense that… the time is right now. For them.’

He casually placed a piece of bread on Lawrence’s plate. ‘It’s time for the two of them to finally face each other.’

Lawrence set down his fork. Benítez watched his hand slowly tracing the grain of the table, as though following a thought he could not quite grasp.

The older man gave a small sigh and shifted the topic slightly, still looking at the fish he had barely touched. ‘I’ve tried—truly—but I find it difficult to warm to Cardinal Tedesco. I...’

Benítez was not surprised. He quietly broke off a piece of bread. ‘I understand.’

‘His view—it is just so outdated. So narrow...’ Lawrence took a sip of wine, as though trying to swallow the discomfort in saying it. As though feeling strong shame, thinking so.

The Pope gave a faint, knowing smile.

‘Strictly between us, there are times I don’t agree with him either. You remember what I said to him during the conclave, don’t you?’

‘But you’ve still accepted him.’

Benítez nodded slowly. ‘He’s one of my brothers. And—though it might sound strange, considering he’s over ten years older than I am—I sometimes see him as a son as well. There are things I stand firm on, and they don’t always align with his views. But even so, I love my brothers. My sons. Or at least... I want to.’

Lawrence said nothing. He listened quietly, inwardly ashamed to know that he did not have that same capacity for tolerance.

A silence settled over them. Outside, the faint call of a night bird could just be heard.

‘Come now, Thomas, please do eat. I invited you to supper—if I let you go hungry, Aldo will scold me,’ Benítez said with a gentle smile, still sensing the British man’s unease.

‘Oh, Thomas. Afterwards, let’s pray together. Pray for the problem in the diocese to be solved painlessly. That they find their way through the division.’

‘...Thank you, Benítez,’ Lawrence said softly. He gave a slight smile, tore off a piece of warm bread and began to eat.

o0o

Bellini was looking at the man over the table. Tedesco was finishing everything with joy. It reminded him of how this man had meals in the dining hall of the Casa Santa Maria. There had been a sort of desperation; he ate like he expected someone to take the plate away at any moment. Bellini had disliked him for it then. He had thought it crude. Now, he simply noticed how strong the man still was. How his appetite had not aged with him. Bellini’s stomach was not designed to enjoy food in such a way, especially in this kind of situation.

Then, there was a knock: two light, practised taps on the door. The Secretary stopped mid-sentence. Tedesco did not move at first. His fork hovered over the few remaining leaves of salad.

‘Avanti,’ come in, he said.

The door opened smoothly. A young hotel staff member in a tailored uniform stepped inside.

‘Buonasera, Eminenze,’ he said with a polite smile. ‘I hope dinner was to your satisfaction.’

He subtly graced around the room, checked on the table: The positions of their plates. The wine bottle. ‘Would you care for dessert now? We have cassata or almond gelato,’ he said.

Tedesco met the young man’s eyes. ‘Cassata for me, gelato for him,’ he said.

‘Would you prefer caffè and digestivi?’

‘Just caffè,’ Bellini answered quickly, before Tedesco could say anything.

The staff bowed again, gracefully. ‘Of course. I shall return in just a moment.’ He turned, walking with even, soundless steps across the plush carpet, and closed the door softly behind him.

Bellini let out a quiet sigh and leaned back slightly in his chair. ‘I didn’t need any dessert,’ he muttered with a critical tone.

Tedesco’s fork clinked against his plate. ‘Then I’ll eat both,’ he said flatly. ‘Cassata and gelato. Better than let them sit there while you sulk like a child who’s been served the wrong dish.’

Bellini said nothing and resumed eating. Three more bites of meat had been left there.

‘You’re eating like it’s a chore,’ Tedesco said suddenly.

Bellini blinked. ‘What?’

‘You. That face. That posture. Like you’re at a board meeting instead of a dinner table. It’s impolite.’

Bellini raised an eyebrow. ‘I wasn’t aware you appointed yourself Maître de Manières.’

Tedesco gave a short, dry laugh. ‘It’s not about manners.’

‘Then, about what?’

‘Arrogance.’

Five minutes later, the knock came again—precisely one minute after Bellini had finished his main course. It was the kind of timing only a person who’d calculated their pace of eating could execute.

The door opened quietly, and the same poised staff entered. He was gently wheeling a gleaming silver cart. ‘May I take your plates?’ he said with courtesy.

‘Yes, please,’ Bellini answered.

The staff began to clear the empty plates, sliding them onto the cart with practised ease. Then, he placed the dessert dishes sitting on gleaming porcelain plates.

Then, the staff turned to Bellini. ‘Excuse me, Eminenza, but there was a report concerning electrical wiring in the room above yours. As a precaution, we are inspecting the wiring in adjacent rooms. It should only take a few minutes. Would it be acceptable for our technician to enter while you are here?’

Bellini glanced at him, then gave a slow nod. ‘That’s fine.’

‘Grazie, Eminenza,’ the staff said, with a respectful inclination of the head. When he left, Bellini said, ‘Arrogant, you said. Because I didn’t jump to gelato?’

Tedesco was already slicing his cake with a fork, with a kind of possessive exactness. The cassata—ornate, too colourful, dense with sugared intent. Yes, it was beautiful, but not something Bellini would enjoy eating.

‘It’s arrogant to treat food—good food—like that. After praying for the poor to eat. And do you eat or not? It will melt.’

Tedesco’s hand was reaching for Bellini’s plate. Bellini looked down at his untouched gelato. He did not know why, but he picked up his spoon. ‘I will.’

‘Oh.’ Tedesco’s hand retreated.

The almond flavour was rich and certainly delicious, but his stomach would not be comfortable after this. The main dish had already been enough for him.

‘So, tomorrow,’ Bellini started. ‘We should speak to the rector first.’

Tedesco dabbed his mouth with a napkin. ‘Yes.’

Bellini glanced toward the window, where the curtains shifted lightly in the breeze. ‘Then we need to ask the right questions.’

There was a silent agreement.

Then, Tedesco said, ‘I will talk with the boys there.’

Bellini could not imagine this man trusting young boys, talking with patience. ‘What are you going to ask?’ he said.

‘How they live,’ Tedesco answered briefly. ‘They’re the ones who saw what happened. They are immature, sometimes not educated enough. If teachers don’t know any problems, that’s because they’re silent.’

‘They tend to be the victims of the system, indifference and ignorance of adults. You should know that.’

Tedesco snorted. ‘And you? What do you plan to do—ask the staff if they’ve installed solar panels? Audit their gender inclusivity materials?’

‘I want to talk with the teachers. I want to know how the students are treated. In closed schools, teachers can sometimes be unreasonably...authoritative.’

‘They’re raising priests,’ Tedesco said coldly. ‘Not therapists.’

‘Anyway, student information and seminary management documents... these are things you would be interested in.’

‘Ma, I’ll talk to the teacher too.’ Tedesco threw the last piece of his cassata into his mouth and shrugged. ‘I want to know about the bishop’s connections.’

‘Are you suspicious of Bishop Galli?’ Bellini did not like to accuse the man when he had little information about him.

‘At the very least,’ the Patriarch answered. ‘López was acting strangely. And Calvi told that the bishop and the seminary are not united.’

After several agreements and disagreements, they exchanged awkward buonanotte. Bellini opened the door into a quiet corridor. The dim light and dark red carpet reminded him of the Casa Santa Maria.

Then, from the right came the smooth sound of rubber wheels on carpet. Marco, the concierge, walked, pushing a gleaming service cart. Every button of his uniform sat perfectly aligned. His short, wavy hair was flawlessly set. He smiled slightly the instant he saw Bellini.

‘Your Eminence,’ Marco said, slowing to a gentle stop. ‘I was just heading to the suite of Cardinal Tedesco, to take the plates and cutlery.’

‘Grazie, the dinner was delicious,’ Bellini smiled back, with a polite nod.

‘Also, about your room,’ the concierge added. ‘They’ve had a look at the wiring. Everything’s in perfect working order—no faults detected. Excuse us for having bothered you, your Eminence.’

Bellini realised that he had forgotten they had checked his room during dinner. ‘Thank you,’ he said. Bellini closed the door and exhaled through his nose. I survived the dinner with Tedesco, he thought.

He removed his glasses, wiped them absently but neatly with a handkerchief, and sat on the edge of the bed. As he reached for his phone, the screen lit up: four messages, from his best friend in the Vatican:

“Aldo. How’s it going over there?”

“Are you surfing?”

“No, I wanted to type 'Are you surviving?'”

“I had dinner with His Holiness today. We prayed for you.”

Bellini stared at the message a moment longer, then tapped to call. He could never bring himself to reply to Lawrence with a mere line of text—not when he could hear his voice instead. Also, the Dean was terrible at typing with his phone, and his one reply would take ages.

The call rang once, twice.

Bellini stood and walked toward the window. With a faint click sound, the transparent door for the balcony opened smoothly. The air smelled faintly of salt and dry earth, the scent of October carried down from the sun-warmed slopes above during the daytime.

‘Aldo?’ the dearest friend’s voice said on the phone.

Bellini smiled. ‘Yes. It’s me. I’ve read your messages.’

A pause. He heard Lawrence sit down on the bed. There were sounds of rustling clothes and a small click.

‘I wasn’t sure you’d call. You must be busy,’ Lawrence said.

‘Well, it was an exhausting day, yes,’ Bellini replied, closing his eyes in the gentle breeze.

‘You alright?’ Thomas asked, quieter now.

‘Somehow.’

Then, he heard a small, sharp click sound. There were slow footsteps, and the artificial sweet smell drifted from afar. ‘Oh,’ Bellini murmured with a little irritation. Tedesco must have started vaping on his balcony.

‘Aldo? Are you alright?’

Bellini sighed and sat in a wooden chair. There’s no clean air around Tedesco, of course not. He tried his best to ignore it. ‘Thomas, how about you? How was your—’ he cut himself off.

He reached for the stone floor and ran a finger over the faint indentations. Nothing came off. No dust, no sand. But his eyes had adjusted to the evening darkness, and on the glass top of the low table, he noticed a fine layer of dust—barely visible, except where the light from the room caught it. The hotel had surely been cleaned just hours earlier, yet the sea breeze must have been relentless. So… dust on the glass, but nothing on the stone?

Did the technician wipe the balcony floor?

‘Aldo?’

‘Thomas, sorry, I’ve got to go. It was really nice talking with you. I’ll call you back when I have time.’

Bellini returned to the room and looked around.

Five minutes later, he found a 40cm square wooden door at the back of the closet. It blended in so well with the wall that it was almost unnoticeable. There was probably a wiring board behind it. He turned on the light on his smartphone and shone it into the keyhole. The brass edges were slightly tarnished, and the inside was dry. He was not a detective, but it seemed likely that no one had inserted a key into this door for at least a few days.

There was a sudden sound of a door closing in the distance, and Bellini’s shoulders jumped a little. When he stepped out into the hallway, Tedesco was just heading for the elevator, holding a red vape and a black smartphone.

‘Ah, it’s you,’ Bellini said. If he had told himself yesterday that he would feel even the slightest bit of comfort when he saw this man, he would not have believed it.

The Italian frowned. ‘Che c’è? What happened?’

Bellini ignored the question and asked, ‘Where are you going?’

‘Little walk,’ he said, still frowning.

Bellini hesitated a second, then said, ‘I’ll go with you, too.’

The Italian’s eyes widened. ‘Sembri ancora più fuori di testa del solito,’ you’re acting more strange than usual, he commented.

They stepped out into the mild evening air. Bellini went first, but he knew Tedesco was following him without saying any words. He stopped beneath the row of balconies. He tilted his head back, squinting at the upper storeys. Some of the rooms had lights on. He checked the lights in the hotel rooms. The suite directly above his own was dark—no soft yellow glow, no movement behind curtains, not even a shadow shifting past the glass. He stared at it for a few seconds, certain: no one was staying there.

Tedesco, a few paces behind, followed his companion’s gaze upward. ‘So, no guests above your room?’

‘Apparently.’ Bellini’s eyes did not move. His attention shifted then, slow and deliberate. He scanned the windows along their own floor—the one they were staying on. All dark.

‘The second floor’s empty,’ he said quietly.

Tedesco saw it too. ‘They’ve placed us on a floor with no other guests,’ he said sharply.

‘Well, there aren’t many guests overall,’ Bellini replied. “But yes. And… oh.” A flicker of memory surfaced. He had heard three clicks while he was calling Lawrence. The first had been his own. The third was Tedesco’s. But the second? At the time, he’d thought it was just a noise from his phone. But no. It had been the sound of a balcony door—sliding open. The matter was who did it.

A faint unease settled in his chest, tightening with each breath. His heart picked up its pace. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, eyes flicking once more toward the dark windows above.

‘Tedesco,’ he said, his voice lower now, more cautious. ‘They might be watching us.’

‘Boh. Isn’t that paranoia?’

Bellini did not answer immediately. He turned to look at the Patriarch, searching his face.

After a few seconds, Tedesco sighed and tucked his vape into his pocket with a sigh. ‘Va bene. Tell me why you think so.’

‘First,’ Bellini began, ‘I don’t think they ever did any proper wiring inspection in my room. Second, someone actually entered my balcony. They wiped the floor—just the floor. Not the table, not the chair, so it wasn’t the official cleaning. Thirdly, I remember we opened the window during dinner. And when I was on the phone after leaving your room… my neighbour—not you—opened their balcony door. I heard it.’

‘A neighbour who does not exist,’ the Patriarch added. ‘So, you’re thinking that they tried to overhear our conversations.’

Bellini frowned. Hearing that sentence from Tedesco, it now sounded like paranoia.

Tedesco let out a harsh laugh, louder than necessary.

‘Spying on us, huh? What is this, Cold War Sardinia?’ he said, gesturing wildly toward the windows. ‘Bellini, are you going to start jumping at every noise?’

He paced several steps down the gravel path, movements bold and brisk, kicking a loose stone as he went. His coat flared behind him. The usual swagger was there, but with an edge. Suddenly, Bellini realised that this irritating man was also anxious.

‘Then why are you pacing?’ he said gently, almost flatly

Tedesco stopped mid-step. His hand froze in the air. For a moment, he stared at Bellini. He exhaled through his nose, long and slow. Then he squared his shoulders, straightened his coat with a loud tug.

‘Fine,’ he muttered. ‘I don’t like it either. Happy now?’

Bellini almost smiled, but did not. ‘Not particularly.’

The Italian was pointing his vape toward Bellini like a knife. ‘Well—’ He hesitated, only for a second. ‘Still. It’s not wrong to be cautious.’

That admission landed like a sudden drop in volume.

Bellini raised an eyebrow, waiting.

Tedesco exhaled, short and sharp. ‘We have responsibilities. We’re here to work. If there’s any concern we can reduce, then why not get rid of it?’

They agreed on moving their accommodations the next day, and returned their room in silence.

Bellini slowed as he reached his door. He knew it was a decent thing to do to say a little greeting before they separated. From a sense of duty, he turned—a little too fast. He was raising his hand—a small, polite gesture, more out of formality than warmth. At that very moment, Tedesco was reaching into his cape to tuck away his vape. His head was down.

‘So, buounan—’ Bellini stopped. Their hands collided softly. Just a quick, unexpected brush—skin against skin, a knuckle catching lightly on the back of a hand. It lasted less than a second. And it destroyed him. Bellini heard a gasp. He could not tell whether it was his or Tedesco’s; perhaps it was both.

It was too late to regret forgetting the vigilance for their touching. He had not realised how nervous he had been until now, experiencing this strong comfort. Well, it was too strong, though. He felt something erupt inside him with unbearable sweetness. His polished calmness and thoughtfulness fell. He was standing there naked, not in body but in soul, and yet instead of shame, he felt…joy. Breathless joy. It made his knees weaken.

He pulled his hand away as if he had been burned. His eyes drifted to Tedesco, and he widened his eyes. The man was frozen. There was panic there. As if….

Bellini’s voice, when it came, was too thin. ‘You—’ But he could not finish it. Tedesco suddenly started moving and opened his door abruptly. As he entered, he said with a voice hoarse and sharp, ‘Non mi parlare.’ Don’t speak to me. Tedesco slammed the door.

Bellini watched this with his heart pounding. He turned, somehow managed to open the door to his room, and slipped in with a swiftness. He closed the door behind him, and let his back fall against the wood. He slid down slowly until he was crouched on the floor. One palm pressed against his mouth. The other hung limp beside him, still tingling where it had touched his skin.

‘I…’ he whispered, not knowing what to continue. He didn’t know to whom, either. To God? To himself? His fingers were trembling from the ghost of joy. He should not feel this.

He stared at the grain in the wood across the floor, willing himself to reason. To analyse. Anything. But all he could feel was that touch. That unbearable tenderness wrapped in something heady, something his body had no name for except yes.

He had held hands with others so many times. Intimately with friends. Sacredly as a priest. But never like that. Never as if, in one instant, the whole of him had been welcomed. And the craziest part was that it was just an instant brush on his skin. Fainter than a "shaking hands".

His throat tightened. He buried his face in his arms.

This was clearly an effect of the touch with Tedesco, and clearly related to the first contact. Something strange must have happened. He was terrified at the knowledge that this would happen again. Goffredo fucking Tedesco. And Bellini didn’t know if he wanted to scream or weep or—touch him again.

That man must have felt that sensation, too. Bellini saw it—beside him, Tedesco had frozen. He looked like a man struck through the chest. His lips were parted, eyes locked to a place that was not here, not entirely. He blinked, but slowly, like someone trying to wake from a dream. Then his jaw tightened. His nostrils flared. He straightened his back, stiffly, like a man trying to reassemble his own shattered dignity. But it was too late.

So, it was not just a brain error caused by fatigue, after all.

Chapter Text

Bellini did not want the morning to come. More precisely, he did not want that morning—the day he would visit the seminary with Tedesco—to come. Nevertheless, it came.

The morning light through the windows painted a glowing rectangle on the carpet. Bellini closed his travelling bag and locked it firmly using mini dial combination padlocks.

He had already eaten two tiny cornetti for breakfast, but a porcelain cup still sat on the bedside table, filled with espresso. He had packed all the necessary documents today in his well-used, deeply shiny leather bag. All he had left to do before leaving the room was finish the coffee.

He sighed and drank it at last.

Two minutes after Bellini arrived in the lobby, footsteps approached. He did not turn. He did not need to. He knew it was Tedesco. His presence saturated the air—dense, too large for the silence. Bellini noticed a little redness beneath his eyes, likely from lack of sleep. His curls looked more fidgety than usual.

‘Buongiorno,’ Tedesco said stiffly, his voice low and braced, as if even the simplest greeting might be dangerous.

His ridiculous scarlet cape was annoying. After the strongest happiness caused by the touch, Bellini was relieved knowing that he could still get irritated by him—he did not know irritation could provide relief.

He turned, measured. ‘Good morning,’ he said. Their eyes met. For a moment, neither moved. ‘You slept well?’ Bellini added, his tone curious than he intended.

Tedesco exhaled. ‘Well enough.’

Bellini studied him. There was a rawness to the man this morning—not in appearance, but in posture. The usual insufferable ego in his stance was cloaked in something defensive. His gaze darted, flickered. Avoided.

They did not want to perform a drama in front of the hotel staff, so they kept silent until they were outside the building. At last, Bellini said, ‘We should talk about yesterday.’

‘No,’ the answer was immediate and cold. ‘We need to visit the seminary.’ He started to walk away.

Bellini watched his retreat and followed carefully. ‘You can pretend all you like. But something happened. When—’

‘Stop.’ The voice cracked. It was not loud, but it snapped through the air like a rope gone taut. ‘Dio mio, you don’t even know what “no” is? I said no! So now you shut the fuck up, sì?’

Bellini did not flinch. He observed how Tedesco’s eyes opened and his hands waved wildly in anger. Now, by listening to his shout, something tugged sharply in Bellini’s chest. The Secretary stepped forward, just one step. Tedesco quickly backed away, swearing with more irritation. His lips pressed flat between outbursts, a twitch in the corner telling how close he was to losing composure. It was an involuntary spasm, like a frightened child trying not to cry. His eyes… they flickered too much. His shoulders were tight unnaturally. It looked defensive. As though fear was crawling up his spine and he had to brace against it.

Fear.

Bellini blinked. He had not doubted Tedesco had also felt the strong happiness. But what if the touch caused an intense fear for him, instead of joy? Bellini did not know anything about the phenomenon, after all. He realised that his mouth was dry.

He stopped pushing Tedesco more. If it affected Tedesco differently, perhaps it was best to give him time to compose himself. Bellini knew they would have to discuss it eventually—it wasn’t a natural phenomenon, after all. It was supernatural, either devilish or angelic.

A white car pulled up in front of them. The window slid down. ‘Salve, Eminenze,’ the taxi driver greeted. The Patriarch’s face lit up as if an actor when the curtain rose; he smiled and broadened his shoulders. ‘Ah, buongiorno! Tutto bene?’ He stepped toward the car with a steady, relaxed stride. He opened the front passenger door. Bellini was left with no choice but to slip into the backseat alone—safely out of reach of Tedesco, far from their accidental contact.

The car slowed to a halt at the gates of the seminary, a modest stone building perched on the hill. It looked historical but well-treated. Bellini stepped out and scanned the exterior.

They met a man, walking briskly toward them. His grey hair was thinning but carefully brushed. His face had the soft wrinkles of someone who smiled more often than frowned, and his hands moved with quiet assurance. He dressed in a black cassock that was impeccably taken care of. His monk shoes’ leather was a deep, lustrous dark charcoal sheen, with gentle creases across the vamp.

‘Benvenuti, Eminenze,’ welcome, he said in a steady voice. His slight hint of the Sardinian accent brightened his words. ‘I have been the rector here for nearly two decades. It is an honour to welcome you to this place.’

‘The honour is ours,’ Bellini said, extending his hand.

The rector took his hand, then continued, ‘This seminario traces its origins back to a monastery founded in the 12th century. For all these years, it has nurtured generations—men who serve not only the Church, but the very soul of our land. We are deeply committed to preserving our beliefs that bind us together.’

Tedesco stepped forward with a wide smile. ‘Padre—it’s nice to meet an italiano who cares about the roots and the faith.’ He said so with a wide grin and open arms. Before the rector could react fully, Tedesco drew him into a friendly embrace.

The rector smiled. After the hug, he said, ‘Altavento is a land that remembers.’

Tedesco nodded, gesturing toward the surrounding buildings. ‘I can feel it here. The discipline, the beauty. Reminds me of my own seminary days.’ He grinned.

Bellini watched the exchange, catching the familiar rhythm of the Patriarch—casual and drawing others in.

The rector’s office exuded its quiet authority and long history. A writing desk of dark mahogany and a high-backed armchair upholstered in rich, brown leather were sitting. The floor was covered with a Persian rug: a medallion design in dark crimson and navy. On the wall, portraits of past rectors looked down with austere expressions, their oil-painted eyes catching the light in subtle glints.

Tedesco stepped in first, his cassock swaying slightly, and Bellini followed, silent but attentive. He was relieved to see that there were two club chairs, not a two-seater sofa. He did not have to sit on a couch with no boundary between the Patriarch.

After a few words about the seminary’s history, the conversation shifted, and Bellini, ever the diplomat, leaned forward slightly. ‘We were told there was… an incident yesterday. A student—what was his name?’

The rector’s expression changed almost imperceptibly. He looked caught between memory and unease. ‘Ah,’ he exhaled softly, as though releasing a sigh he had not meant to hold. ‘The Tunisian boy.’ He paused, then gave a slow shake of the head. ‘Yes. The accident. Oh Lord, a dreadful shock for all of us.’

‘How did that happen?’ Tedesco’s voice rolled across the room. He leaned back in his chair, broad shoulders filling the space.

‘Well, Eminenza,’ the rector replied. ‘He fell on the stairs of the minor seminary. We are… still trying to figure out how we could have avoided such a tragedy. It was most unexpected.’ Then, he looked down with a regretful face. ‘I had heard he had been having some difficulty with his examinations, so I was meant to speak with him that very day. Perhaps, perhaps he was worried about his grades too much and had not slept well? Of course, we do our utmost to support each student no matter their performance, but….’ He sighed deeply, squeezing his hands on his lap. ‘If only I could talk to him earlier, maybe—’ his sad voice stopped, as if he could not bear to continue that.

Tedesco exhaled sweet vapour as he entered the modest common room of the small seminary’s north wing. Daylight seeped through the narrow windows, and dust was lingering like a veil.

Two boys sat waiting on the sofa. They stood immediately as he entered, their movement almost too perfect. He offered them a warm smile, which was broad and open, and gestured lightly for them to sit. ‘Oh, Luca and Adam, right? Please have a seat. I’m grateful you’ve agreed to speak with me,’ he said, waving a hand gently.

They obeyed at once, returning to their seats with careful movements. Both kept their hands in their laps. Their navy blazers had been carefully brushed, not a speck of dust resting on their surface. The small silver cross embroidered on the chest reflected a subtle light with every movement.　The black trousers bore crisp creases but were just a little too short at the hems.

‘You shared a room with the boy...eh, Nabil, sì?” Tedesco continued, easing himself into the armchair across from them. ‘Tell me about him. What sort of boy was he?’

A silence lasted for some beats, then Luca, who had soft, light brown hair, said, ‘He was quiet.’ He had a straight nose and high cheekbones. Some people might say his features were sharp, but he looked as if he had not grown into his expression yet. ‘Yes,’ the other, Adam, added quickly, ‘we didn’t speak much. He kept to himself.’

Tedesco nodded. ‘How about his grade? Or his health?’

The boys’ jaws were tightened. ‘I don’t think there’s much to say, Eminenza,’ Adam, the boy on the right, answered apologetically. His golden-brown eyes seemed to darken when he looked down. It sounded really polite, but served as a curt refusal.

‘I understand,’ Tedesco tried again—leaning back with a theatrical sigh, trying to soften the weight in his voice with a touch of nostalgia. ‘Well, I know what it’s like to live shoulder to shoulder in seminary. There must be ups and downs. In difficult times, we helped each other, prayed together, talked to the fathers, and we grew into men.’

He smiled as gently as he could. The boys gave the faintest smiles, too—polite ones. Like customers smiling at a shopkeeper. It was then he realised: the more friendly he tried to be, the more they folded inwards. Not rudely, but cautiously.

Tedesco continued, trying to keep the conversation easy. ‘You know, we all serve the same Lord, no? We are brothers. And when one young brother is suffering, I care. I’m not here to judge or punish. Just to understand. That’s the responsibility of any man who stands before God.’

‘…I’m sorry, Eminenza,’ the first boy said, eyes still lowered. ‘We don’t really know.’

Tedesco leaned forward slightly. He was irritated but tried to keep his voice friendly. ‘Maybe we can talk about the school, then? How do you find it here?’

The left boy answered first. ‘It’s a good school, Eminenza. We’re grateful to be here.’

The other one echoed with a nod, repeating almost word for word, ‘We are fortunate to study here.’ Then he added: ‘We pray every day to be worthy.’

Their words rang with careful gratitude. There was a faint air of self-monitoring about them: boys rehearsing a version of themselves, one they knew would be safe, though it was not deceit but a diligence.

After a few more minutes of talk, Tedesco said at last. ‘Well, if you remember anything about Nabil—anything at all— you can always come to me.’

They nodded in unison. ‘We will, Eminenza.’ They stood up and left the room.

Tedesco decided to talk with other students, though he was feeling tired already. The two boys reminded him of his own youth. Neat, polite, aiming to be spotless…. His stomach rose with something restless, similar to forlornness. The boy’s voice, “We pray every day to be worthy,” lingered in his head.

‘Dai, basta!’ stop, he said to himself, cutting off his sinking thoughts. He paced around the room.

Five steps forward. Turn. Five steps back. His hand dove into the slit of his cassock, fingers curling around the slick, metallic body of the vape. He clicked it once. Then again, impatiently. Finally, the device hummed to life. He brought it to his lips.

He knew what caused this. He tried so many times to forget, but he failed: that horrible moment flashed back. Bellini, who stared at him like an idiot. And that cursed moment. The dreadful torrent of emotion that tore Tedesco’s skin off, coursing through his veins, clutching at his exposed, bare part that he had never known existed in him. He was seen. He was pried open and watched. It was not a normal phenomenon. Even if it was not intentional, that americano must have done something to cause it.

The memory faded slightly as he exhaled the scent of the vape. ‘Ha!’ he exhaled mockingly. ‘Stupidaggine.’

Then, there was a door knock. ‘Come in,’ he said. The next student must have arrived.

After listening to several students, in the minor seminary and the major, Tedesco saw Bellini again. ‘How’s everything?’ the Secretary asked. His still facial expression said I’m calm and rational, which seemed a little too much for naturalness.

Not going well at all, Tedesco wanted to say in frustration. However, even imagining admitting that to this man felt humiliating, so he shrugged instead. ‘Mah. You know how it is…youth: molta confusione, zero substance. Pure chaos, really.’

Tedesco inhaled a sweet vapour, mostly out of habit. They were walking the corridor to the library. He heard the steady rhythm of footsteps behind him—Bellini’s—too smooth and too poised to be natural. It annoyed him.

‘For what it’s worth,’ the American’s voice came from behind him, ‘the financial records check out.’

Tedesco slowed, but did not turn. That was Bellini’s way: start with a casual fact, end with a judgment. ‘Oh?’

‘Yes. Everything is accounted for. The donations came mostly from regional families—wealthy, old money types. Nothing unusual. Mostly agricultural landowners, a couple of magnates in other industries. They’ve been giving for decades. It’s all been filed properly.’

Tedesco exhaled sharply through his nose. ‘Well, it’s great that the seminary still inspires devotion,’ he muttered, more sarcastic than reverent.

Bellini did not rise to it. ‘The rector’s books are clean. The bursar even offered me three years of reports, unprompted.’

‘Then he’s either decent, or a coward—a good man, or just scared he’ll be blamed.’ Tedesco waved his one hand with indifference. ‘Well, both are pretty much no problem. A sincere man and a timid man cannot be the cause of any big troubles. So, what should we do next? Sneak into the rector’s bedroom?’

‘Tedesco.’ Bellini said so, voice low, sharp. A silence stretched. The wall was cool stone on either side, and the soft tap of their footsteps echoed faintly. Then Bellini spoke again. ‘As for Nabil—his grades were... inconsistent. He performed well in subjects requiring memorisation. But his scores on essays were not great. So, it wasn’t a lie when he mentioned his grade.’

Tedesco gave a half-laugh, a small mocking sound. ‘Non è bravo with l’italiano, then. That’s what happens when we import seminarians… eh,’ he waved a hand vaguely, searching for the right word. Then, with a grin, he added in crisp English: ‘Pretty label, wrong shelf. A good boy, wrong country.’

Bellini’s head turned slightly. Before he could say anything, Tedesco doubled down. ‘Look, I’m not against the boy, but we can’t pretend this path was ever going to work. These essays aren’t kids’ compositions. They require... nuance, argument and thought, which are expressed with language. Pushing for all this “diversity” and taking in people who can’t even speak the language properly… it only ends up making the children who can’t keep up miserable.’

‘The curriculum is difficult, yes,’ Bellini’s voice had a faint, sharp edge now. ‘But the Church is not a finishing school for “Italian men.” It’s a communion. We serve God through faith. Nothing more, nothing less.’

Tedesco’s mouth tightened. ‘You’d make a lovely pamphlet, Bellini. About… what? Cultural relativism?’ Bellini did not blink. ‘And you’d spread lovely ethnocentrism and egocentrism. Rejecting everything you don’t like.’

They paused. Neither spoke. Tedesco felt good. He was irritated, of course, but that unsettled feeling that had lasted from last night finally disappeared. This was just a usual argument between the nonsense americano and confident Tedesco.

It was then that two students appeared. They almost bumped into Bellini, who was standing at the dead angle of the corner. The boys froze in their mid-step, eyes widened. ‘Allow me to apologise...’ They looked at Bellini’s zucchetto, then added: ‘Um...Eminenza. It’s our fault. Ci perdoni.’

Bellini smiled softly. ‘Oh, I am sorry. Tutto a posto?’ Are you two alright?

Tedesco recognised them instantly: Luca and Adam, the roommates of Nebil. Are you always this restless, or just when someone’s in your way? he thought and almost said so. When he raised his hand halfway, Bellini reassured, ‘It’s totally OK.’

However, Luca still stammered, ‘I am sincerely sorry, Eminenza…I, I didn’t mean to—’

‘—I know. Lo so che non l’avete fatto apposta. It’s all right,’ I know it’s not intentional, Bellini cut in, his accent shifting just slightly. His Italian remained correct, but a thread of foreign cadence crept into his vowels: a faintly wider a, a little blunted final vowel. Subtle, but unmistakable.

It caught Tedesco off guard. He looked sharply at Bellini, frowning. Did he always sound like that? The thought was absurd—Bellini’s Italian was always free from an American accent. Hearing the deliberate imperfection, Tedesco realised he had never heard Bellini sound foreign, in a pronunciation sense. Not once. Until now.

‘Thank you very much for your generosity,’ Adam said. The boys—Tedesco realised—were less afraid. Not relaxed, no. But less like cornered animals. They stood straighter. They even looked at Bellini’s face, rather than his chest.

‘Are you heading for your lunch?’ Bellini asked.

Luca nodded, ‘Yes, Eminenza.’

‘Hm. At the hall, right? What kind of menu would it be?’ Bellini's tone was casual. He kept that slight accent in place.

Adam glanced at Luca. Then looked at Bellini. ‘Uh…it’s Tuesday, so soup of lentils.’

‘Is it self-serve?’ Bellini asked. Adam answered, ‘Yes, it is, Eminenza.’

‘You like the food here?’ Bellini tilted his head, sounding every word light and tender.

‘Yes. Actually, lunch is my favourite.’ At that answer, Bellini smiled genuinely. ‘That’s great. So, you’re enjoying… They kept chatting for a while. And listening to their soft exchange and small laugh, Tedesco stood very still. The clench of his fists tightened, but he had not realised that until the nails on his own skin caused some pain. The boys were still tense—but they were responding. That was what irritated him. He had sat with them for nearly a quarter of an hour earlier. Offered smile and empathy, and remained we’re brothers in Christ. And they’d curled up like dogs. And now? One American smile and a few botched vowels broke that wall?

Tedesco forced himself to speak, interrupting their conversation. ‘Boys, if you’re done loitering, you should go now. Lunch time will be over.’

Luca and Adam startled slightly, the old fear creeping back over their shoulders like a cold wind. ‘Yes, Eminenza,’ they said together. ‘We’ll be going.’

Bellini gave a nod. ‘You’re welcome all the time, if you want to talk. About anything.’

They hesitated, then nodded. Not out of obedience. Out of something closer to trust.

As the sound of footsteps decreased, silence fell in the corridor again.

Tedesco started walking. Then spoke without looking back. ‘Is that what you do? Pull out the americano when you want to look like... simpatico?’

Bellini did not answer for a moment. Then he said, ‘Sometimes, imperfection is more persuasive than being perfect.’

Tedesco looked at him now. Bellini’s eyes were calm, but not triumphant. No smugness. Just that same infuriating restraint.

‘Don’t like it,’ Tedesco said, flatly.

‘You don’t have to.’

‘You can’t speak italiano like that!’

Bellini didn’t flinch. ‘Well. I was born and raised in the U.S., in case you have forgotten.’

Tedesco scoffed.

Then, he saw an ironic twist on Bellini’s lips. The Secretary’s eyebrow raised, and he said with a perfect Italian: ‘Non dirmi che quel tuo accento inglese è davvero spontaneo.’ Don’t tell me that the Italian accent in your English is unintentional.

Chapter Text

When Bellini approached the counter with a travelling bag in hand, Marco, the concierge, stepped forward at once. His tie is a precise Windsor knot with a symmetry dimple. He looked at the Secretary of State, then the Patriarch of Venice, who was following Bellini with his suitcase.

‘Your Eminences,’ he greeted them with his usual grace. ‘You’re checking out? May I ask… is something unsatisfactory? We sincerely apologise if—’

‘Oh, no, no,’ Bellini interjected smoothly, voice warm with deliberate ease. ‘Nothing of the sort, Marco.’

Tedesco, standing slightly back with arms folded, added, ‘Quite the contrary. This building is a marvel, and so is your staff’s attention.’ A faint, amused smirk tugged at his mouth. ‘But we thought… it might be interesting to explore the local area a bit more closely, no?’

‘We’d like to experience a different atmosphere,’ Bellini said.

Marco gave a pause, then nodded. ‘Of course. May I arrange something for you? A hotel of equal discretion, perhaps? Which area would Your Eminences prefer to stay in?’

‘Oh, that won’t be necessary,’ Bellini said, still smiling. ‘We’ve a few ideas.’

Marco’s brow flickered, barely visible. ‘Is that so? It’s only that… finding somewhere truly comfortable can be...’

‘Non preoccuparti,’ Don’t worry, Tedesco interrupted with a casual tone. He waved his hands, so his ring was reflecting the noon light. ‘We’ll enjoy discovering places ourselves. We’re the spontaneous type.’ His grin was lopsided. Bellini was obviously not a “spontaneous type,” but Marco did not need to know that.

Bellini kept smiling gently. ‘However, Marco, if you could kindly jot down a few hotels you trust—only the names—we’ll take it from there. Just in case we have less luck than we’d hoped.’

For a heartbeat, Marco said nothing. The lobby clock ticked faintly. Then he bowed his head slightly, lips parting into his polished, professional smile once more. ‘Of course, Your Eminences.’

When they finally left the hotel, he bowed with a fluid motion. ‘You’re always welcome here.’

The sun-drenched stone path outside looked warm, but the air felt cooler than expected with the arrival of autumn.

‘So? Was this our best teamwork ever, huh?’ Tedesco asked from the back. Bellini turned and looked at the Patriarch’s clothes under the sun: he wore a light blue shirt, tucked loosely into beige trousers. His jacket was beige too, but a little darker. Faint wrinkles were there, surely caused by being stuffed in a suitcase, but he seemed not to care about them. He was so relaxed and casual that Bellini might not be surprised if he saw this Italian at a terrace seat of a shabby bar as a retired local man.

Bellini, in contrast, was more subdued. A grey linen shirt, pressed black trousers, and a crisp jacket. Together, we looked like two men on very different kinds of business, Bellini thought. Well, “different kinds” won’t be a lie.

They started walking so that the hotel staffs could not look or overhear them. Then Tedesco said, casually but low, ‘Let’s take an Uber.’

The gravel beneath his shoes gave a soft crunch. ‘An Uber?’ Bellini echoed, not quite masking his surprise. He had always imagined Tedesco as someone who considered every new technology a soft assault on tradition, a slow erosion of authority.

Tedesco did not look at him. He was already pulling out his phone. ‘The drivers don’t work for hotels or local old companies. And we don’t need to use our real names on the app. Fitting for our need now, no?’

Bellini tilted his head slightly, studying him. ‘Since when do you use Uber?’

‘Bah.’

‘Anyway,’ Bellini said. ‘I agree. It’s a good choice for now.’

Tedesco gave a small grunt and tapped the screen with deliberate motions. ‘I’ve set it to a restaurant as the destination,’ he muttered, eyes still on the phone.

Bellini nodded. ‘Good. And the pickup spot...how about the church? The new one.’ Then, we will look like tourists, unless the driver reads the Vatican news often. Tedesco said nothing, but tapped the screen again.

The Uber car smelled of citrus air freshener. This time, Bellini was sitting next to the driver. He did not want to stand out in the driver’s memory, so after talking to him with a short Italian greeting, he started to speak in English. Typical tourists’ behaviour.

‘So, you’ve been here for long?’ Bellini asked, his tone light, polite.

The driver, a man in his forties with a soft jawline, glanced at him. ‘I’m originally from Pakistan. But I’ve been here… ten years?’

Then, a rough voice interrupted their conversation. ‘Si vous êtes de ce pays-là, vous ne parlez pas français, n’est-ce pas?’ Bellini froze for a second. His brain was only expecting English and Italian. Then he realised it was French. Tedesco let the silence last for two seconds, then he continued. ‘Alors… qu’est-ce que O’Malley t’a envoyé, au juste?’ Suddenly, Bellini’s brain started to process the sound: So… what exactly did O’Malley send you?

Tedesco kept speaking in French: ‘The driver does not understand French, yes? It is better that we speak in this language. So, tell me, where are the options?’

‘Attends, tu parles français?’ Wait, do you speak French, Bellini asked. It was not unexpected that Tedesco read French fluently. But oral conversation? With this ease and fluency? No. The Patriarch of Venice, though a staunch advocate of Latin liturgy, was himself hardly proficient in the language. Therefore, Bellini might have underestimated his ability to acquire other languages. Besides, Tedesco was a man who spoke Italian as though performing a role, which made it all the more jarring to hear him speak French almost entirely free of an Italian accent.

‘Surely I can, t’as pas d’oreilles?’—you don’t have ears?—’So, you are not going to answer me, and instead you ask such an obvious question?’

His mocking tone was always irritating, but this time, Bellini was so taken aback that he felt nothing else. So, he just answered in French: ‘Oh. Ehm… Mons… ah, Ray, he has kindly sent me three options where we may stay. He added that he didn’t call each inn to check for tonight’s availability, because, you see, he thought it was not wise to tell these owners there might be customers… connected with Rome.’

When their conversation ended, the driver glanced at Bellini with a friendly smile. ‘So, are you two from France?’

‘Well, I’m from the U.S., and he isn’t, but we both speak French. And… this is actually our first time in Sardinia. Are there any places you’d recommend visiting?’ Bellini silently congratulated himself for managing to sound like a tourist without actually lying.

The driver began describing the most popular sights among visitors, and all Bellini had to do was nod and murmur the occasional uh-huh or hmm. Tedesco huffed in the back seat, but said nothing.

They had lunch at a restaurant. Having a meal while looking at Tedesco’s face was hardly a pleasant experience, but compared to the occasional heavy silence of last night’s private dinner, the public place was a relief of sorts. Still, the effort to eat, caring for their hands never to brush was a strain.

The Patriarch of Venice—usually in high spirits whenever food was involved—grew quieter as the meal went on. Bellini studied the deep line between his brows and the way his plump hands moved only as much as necessary. Perhaps because the man was so subdued, Bellini found himself able to eat in peace.

With only the briefest exchange of words, they agreed on that night’s lodging. Once again, Bellini took a travelling bag, and Tedesco dragged his suitcase as they climbed into an Uber taxi.

The accommodation lay between the bustling port, the heart of the tourist district, and a quieter residential quarter—far enough from the crowds to avoid their noise, yet not so far that a traveller’s presence would seem out of place. It was a relatively new guesthouse; therefore, no apparent ties to the local church. It was privately owned and beyond the reach of the local organisation. Not cheap, not shabby, but respectable. And, importantly, it was nowhere to be found on the list Marco—the concierge at their first hotel—had handed them. Everything about it was perfect.

The car’s tyres hissed on the gravel as it slowed. He stepped out. The autumn breeze felt comfortable on his cheeks. Behind him, Tedesco’s door slammed shut with unnecessary force, as if announcing his presence.

Bellini watched the soft yellow porch, framed by ivy and the faint sway of a hand-painted wooden sign. It looked picturesque.

The owners were a middle-aged couple. They had that kind of rural warmth that made strangers feel instantly welcome. ‘You are lucky,’ the woman said in clear Italian. The vowels in the diphthong were distinct, and the “r” sound was a little stronger than in standard Italian. ‘We have only one room left for tonight. Cosy, private. Two beds, ensuite. Spacious—we accept even three customers in that room. It will be perfect for you two.’

Bellini opened his mouth, then closed. His mind stopped just long enough to register “perfect for you two.” For a fleeting, absurd second, he imagined the words you two written over a photograph of him and Tedesco, posing as friends with forced smiles. ‘We—’ He began, but Tedesco’s sharp, clipped voice cut in. ‘One room, huh?’ He gave a sharp breath through his nose, not quite a snort.

The other owner, the husband, chuckled warmly, waving off the heavy sigh as though it were the smallest inconvenience. ‘Of course! Two big beds. You will be very comfortable.’ He smiled with the look of someone who assumes their guests are travelling companions of the most easy-going sort.

Bellini swallowed the urge to correct him. If he did, all it would take was making the moment awkward for everyone—especially here, in a place with only around ten rooms, on a day when they had booked nothing in advance. But the image of Tedesco across the room at night, breathing, moving—existing—appeared in his mind with unwelcome clarity.

He knew that refusing to share not-a-small room with his apparently travelling fellow would seem bizarre. Every instinct told him he wanted nothing to do with staying alongside Tedesco, yet his reason was too strong to let emotion win. A small, secret part of him even hoped the Patriarch would lose his temper and refuse outright. But—sadly, he admitted—Tedesco was too reasonable for that. Bellini listened as Tedesco asked the owners if they could see the room before committing, a futile attempt to find some natural excuse to move on to another inn. Bellini offered a faint, courteous smile as he listened, though inside he was thinking, I wish this place were fully booked, so that we had no option but to leave.

Inside, the hallway smelled faintly of lavender, the aroma from the front garden of the building. The couple led them to the door, chatting cheerfully about the town’s autumn festival and how lucky they were to arrive now. Bellini answered with polite, short acknowledgements; Tedesco said nothing, but his tread sounded heavy.

When the room door opened, afternoon light revealed a patterned rug, polished floors, and two beds, big as they explained, yet set closer than Bellini would have liked. The large window was open, and the clear sky looked down at the chamber, as if mocking the situation.

To his disappointment, the room was excellent: spacious enough that most people could share it with a friend without the slightest discomfort. The bathroom was spotless, the view from the window pleasantly refreshing, and the wooden furniture gave the space a warm, homely feel. There was nothing at all to criticise. No black marks to mention, especially when they wanted to avoid leaving any strong impression in the owners’ memory.

After they signed, Bellini placed his bag gently on the nearest bed, a deliberate act of control. Behind him, Tedesco stepped in and put his suitcase with a thud. He surveyed the room like he was evaluating a battlefield.

‘Well, at least there are two closets,’ Bellini murmured.

Tedesco’s answer was a short, humourless snort. ‘Let’s see if that’s enough.’ He pulled out his vape again.

Bellini could not stand the image of sleeping in a room filled with that artificial sweetness. ‘Stop,’ he said sharply, before the red vape could be turned on.

Tedesco switched to English suddenly. ‘You should know that this is our room, Your Eminence,’ he said, giving a piercing look.

Bellini answered: ‘E sappia che a questa stanza è annesso il nostro bellissimo giardino frontale, Eminenza.’ And you should know that there is our beautiful front garden attached to this room, Your Eminence.

When Tedesco slammed the window door shut, the silence in the room thickened, settling like a dense fog. Suddenly, the weight of reality struck him: tonight, he would have to stay with Tedesco. The thought was pressing down on him. He knew he needed to speak about the strange phenomenon—the touch. Delaying the conversation wouldn’t solve anything, no matter how much he was tempted to put it off.

Ten minutes later, they were once again seated in the car, heading towards López’s office. A faint, pleasant scent from the air freshener drifted through the cabin—a stark contrast to the tightening knot in Bellini’s stomach. He sat in the back seat, eyes fixed absently on the shifting shadows that stretched and twisted over the city’s worn streets. Though he feigned pondering questions for the upcoming meeting, his mind was elsewhere. The car hummed softly beneath them.

Up front, Tedesco leaned towards the driver, his voice sliding through the cramped space with an unsettling ease. It was too loud, clipped, and friendly. The way he pried the driver, prodding about the neighbourhood, grated on Bellini’s nerves. He clenched his jaw, biting back the impulse to tell him to stop.

The car gradually slowed down and parked in front of the old church.

Chapter Text

‘Welcome back, Eminenze,’ López, the sick bishop’s assistant, greeted them at the door with a warm smile. This younger priest looked a little tired. ‘Please, come in. I’m terribly sorry that I couldn’t speak with you yesterday.’

‘No worries at all,’ Bellini said. ‘How’s the boy doing?’ he asked with a worried face.

‘I cannot say he’s well,’ López admitted, holding the door to the small office as Tedesco stepped inside. ‘But he’s stable. Thank you for caring about him, Eminenza,’ he offered Bellini another smile.

The room had not changed from yesterday: the faint scent of paper and ink lingered in the air. The wooden shelves stacked with books, folders, and receipts or ledgers.

López gestured toward the chairs. ‘Please, make yourselves comfortable.’ They sat, each choosing a spot as far from the other as possible.

Bellini inclined his head courteously, his sharp eyes scanning the modest interior even as his voice remained calm. ‘It’s a relief the boy hasn’t worsened. I’d like to visit him, if I find the time.’

‘And,’ Tedesco cut in, ‘we’d also like to see Bishop Galli. He can still speak, yes? Even just for greetings.’

‘Of course. I’ll ask about his condition and see if he’s well enough to receive you later,’ López nodded. ‘So,’ he straightened his posture a bit. ‘Let me speak about the current situation. I believe Bishop Galli’s letter explained it to some extent, but it will be clearer if I tell you directly.’

The afternoon light caught the dust in the air, making it glitter faintly. Bellini’s pen moved with quiet precision, while Tedesco’s sharp gaze fixed on the man before them. López rested his fingers lightly on the cross at his chest, steadying his breath before he began.

‘Regarding the seminary,’ he said, his voice measured, ‘there have been reports that some students are not treated with fairness. Grades are inconsistent, and quarrels among the pupils are not always dealt with as firmly as they should be.’

Bellini gave a slight nod and noted this down.

Tedesco’s low voice cut through the air. ‘So, misconduct has been tolerated within the seminary?’

‘…Sì,’ López admitted, lowering his eyes from Tedesco’s sharp gaze. ‘I wouldn’t say it was the fault of any one teacher’s malice. It is more the result of flawed management or of the system itself. Children of…’ He faltered, his eyes flicking for a brief instant toward Tedesco. Bellini’s pen froze in mid-stroke. His gaze lifted to the young priest, catching the hesitation.

López drew in a quiet breath and adjusted his words. ‘A seminary should be a place for sincere learning. When students cannot focus on their studies because of the seminary’s system, that is a problem.’

López continued.

‘There is also a financial concern. The seminary relies heavily on donations from prominent locals. These gifts are genuine and freely given; there is nothing shady about them. But the dependence is so great that the finances have become inflexible. It limits their freedom to act, and decisions risk being swayed by the donors’ expectations.’

Bellini laid his pen down softly. ‘You think the will of the benefactors is binding the seminary.’

‘…Such an interpretation is possible,’ López replied, lowering his eyes. His tone was steady, his bearing respectful, but something in the careful phrasing left the sense that more remained unsaid.

Tedesco leaned forward at last. His voice sharpened with accusation. ‘But then, what of the bishop’s duty, eh? The seminary is under his authority! If he truly knew of these failings, why did he not act? Why let the rot linger, grow, until sickness struck him down? It makes no sense!’

López’s mouth tightened. He answered slowly, almost painfully.

‘His Excellency did take the matter seriously. Yet the dependence upon donations made independent reform… difficult. Even so, he sought a path forward. Only when his health declined did those efforts falter.’

His words ended, and silence filled the chamber. The silence sounded very much like the shadow of something hidden.

After several further explanations, Bellini cleared his throat.

‘By the way, we would like to understand the current state of the diocese. Could you provide the latest reports?’

‘Certainly,’ López replied, his voice weary.

As he disappeared into the back room to fetch the documents, Bellini’s gaze wandered. Something caught his attention on the wooden shelves: a series of diocesan yearbooks. They were slim, seemingly intended only for parishioners. Being neatly bound, they were out of place among the dog-eared ledgers and half-stacked folders. At first, they seemed innocuous, yet Bellini’s fingers itched to examine them. They were annual publications, unavailable in bookstores or online: records not meant to be seen by those outside the region.

‘Tedesco,’ he murmured, gesturing toward the shelf without moving much. ‘Perhaps we might…’

Tedesco’s eyes followed his glance and narrowed slightly. ‘Sneaking a peek. Suits you,’ he murmured. ‘Dastardliness will be your undoing.’

‘So, do you think stopping me is your duty?’ Bellini asked, glancing at him.

The Italian offered no answer; he only raised his red vape and inhaled. The sweetness was cloying as ever, but the flavour was different from yesterday. It was orange this time. Bellini almost winced at himself for noticing.

His lips pressed into a thin line. ‘Orange,’ he muttered, more to himself than to Tedesco.

For a fraction of a second, the Italian stilled. Then, just as quickly, his smirk returned. ‘You notice too much,’ he murmured, leaning back, trying for indifference.

Bellini hummed. The spines of the yearbooks beckoned. He knew he could wait for López to return, but instead, he whispered, ‘just a glance.’ Curiosity outweighed hesitation. He rose and crossed to the shelf.

With deft hands, he slid out one booklet. Tedesco’s eyes followed, curiosity plain, but he remained seated—perhaps unwilling to risk getting close enough to peer into the same book.

He turned a few pages. Photographs of smiling locals, children at First Communion, elderly parishioners gathered at the altar. Then, a two-page spread: “Thanks to the generosity of our supporters, the renovation of our church has been completed.” The wording was cheerful, the tone celebratory. A paragraph mentioned donations from companies and local partners and stated plainly that “their donation covered the costs.”

Bellini’s brow furrowed. A number was printed further down. Simple charts, notes, and donation records stared back at him. The approximate cost of the renovation was high, considering the size of this diocese. It was surprising that such an amount of money had been donated.

Tedesco suddenly whispered, ‘Hurry. He will be back any second.’ His voice was low, careful not to attract attention. It was a cooperative act, which felt uncanny coming from Tedesco.

Bellini made a brief, almost imperceptible sweep of the pages. Then, calmly, he returned the yearbook to its place, leaving it seemingly untouched. He sat and adjusted his glasses. Pondering, he traced his ring unconsciously.

A moment later, López returned with the diocesan reports, placing them carefully on the desk. ‘Here you are,’ he said, his tone calm and courteous. ‘I hope these will be helpful.’

‘Thank you,’ Bellini said, his voice even but threaded with a cautious tension. ‘Well, may I have a copy of this?’

‘Of course, Eminenza. There should be no problem,’ he replied, lifting the thin folder.

Looking at López standing in front of a copier, Bellini spoke again, almost as an afterthought: ‘While we are at it, could I also see the internal ledgers concerning the diocese?’

The younger priest stopped, and turned to the two cardinals.

‘The internal ledgers… they may contain detailed personal information,’ he began cautiously. ‘I could show them, Eminences, but perhaps I should consult the bishop first. We could make them available without delay. May I ask which period you wish to examine?’

‘The past two fiscal years will suffice,’ Bellini said, his tone measured and firm.

López nodded. ‘Certainly. Oh, and regarding the seminary’s operations, the detailed records, I mean the internal financial flow, are kept by the school office. Our diocesan accounts only contain aggregated figures for the seminary. If you want to see the full details, we’d have to go directly to the school.’

‘By the way,’ Tedesco said, pointing at the shelf. ‘That’s the diocese yearbooks, no? Would you mind showing them to me? Nothing serious, just curious.’ he was so good at keeping his tone friendly but with a weight that made others feel there weren’t entirely free to decline.

‘Eminenza,’ López answered politely. ‘The yearbooks are mainly prepared for the parishioners, so they are not very precise in their figures. As you will be reviewing the diocesan accounts shortly, which are far more accurate, I thought it best to avoid confusion by waiting for those.’

o0o

Bellini spent the remainder of the day in the guest house, doing his job as the Secretary of State. Although the recent major work had been completed before he arrived on the island, it was impossible for him to be truly away from duty. Of course, he could manage about a week without responding to emails, provided he had prepared in advance—but if he wished to avoid a week with too short bedtimes and much frustration after his return, it was sensible to finish some chores whenever possible.

Tedesco had gone out, announcing he would take a stroll around the local streets. All Bellini could hope was that the ever-irritating Tedesco would not find some new way to make trouble during his absence.

Sitting at the small writing desk, Bellini stared at the laptop screen. The desk stood beside the large window that opened onto the private garden, so he could enjoy the shifting colours of the sky before sunset. For the first time since his arrival in Sardinia, he felt a sense of quiet and peace. He was alone in his room—though his mind refused to acknowledge that this was their room—and he was carrying on with his usual work.

He took in the faint smell of cooking drifting through the half-open window and the slow ticking of the bedside clock. His fingers moved over the keys as he focused on the messages and reports awaiting his attention.

After replying to the initial three emails and commenting on one document, Bellini stood up and stretched his arms. He went to the large, shared dining room. There were few other guests: only one couple was discussing which bar to visit tonight.

The smell of freshly ground coffee drifted from the communal machine as Bellini filled a small ceramic cup, the steam curling lazily toward the low ceiling. As he carried the cup back toward his room, the owner, the wife, appeared from the reception with a warm smile on her face. ‘Salve, Signor,’ she said. ‘We wanted to ask… how about breakfast tomorrow? We can prepare it if you like. There’s an extra charge, though.’

Bellini inclined his head slightly. A ready-made breakfast would make things easier in the morning. ‘Two, please. For both of us,’ he said.

‘Certainly.’

Her husband then appeared from the back, wiping his hands. He realised Bellini. ‘Ah, Signor! Have you decided where to eat dinner tonight?’ he asked friendly. ‘Unfortunately, we don’t serve dinner here.’

His wife grinned. ‘But we do have recommendations,’ she added.

Bellini hadn’t given tonight’s dinner a thought. ‘Um…’ he began, hesitating. ‘My… ah, my companion went out to explore the town, but I had some work to do and stayed here. I don’t think I’ll have time for a proper dinner.’

The husband nodded sympathetically. ‘Ah, remote working, right? But it’s a shame to miss the delicious meals you could enjoy here.’

The wife suggested brightly, ‘Then why not ask your friend to buy your dinner for you? There’s a nice place nearby. Panini there are excellent. You can dine in, but you could take some, too.’

Bellini’s phone buzzed at that precise moment. The message was from Tedesco: “Any plan for dinner?”

Bellini sighed. Everyone here apparently cared about meals a lot. On the contrary, he had sometimes skipped his dinner in the Vatican.

He tapped out a quick response, curt and factual: “Don’t bother.”

After a while, he sent the shop name based on the owners’ recommendation. “The owners said they serve good panini. You can try.” No reply came, so Bellini returned to his room and resumed his work.

An hour and a half later, the door clicked open. Tedesco appeared, carrying two warm, wrapped panini. ‘I ate already,’ he said, setting them on the side table with a mechanical sort of obligation. With his presence, the room suddenly felt small.

Bellini murmured grazie and glanced down at the two sandwiches. Two? ‘I can’t eat both, one is already enough,’ he said mildly, reaching for just one.

Tedesco’s dark eyes opened in disbelief. ‘Ma come? Solo quello?’ What? Only that? It was a rare moment when any sarcasm disappeared from his surprised voice.

Bellini shrugged.

‘Fine,’ Tedesco said after a long beat. ‘Then I’ll have the other myself.’

What? This time, Bellini was surprised at this man’s appetite. He had his dinner already, hadn’t he?

Tedesco realised his gaze. ‘Cosa? You cannot accuse me of gluttony,’ he said. ‘If anything, you should thank me for sparing you a sin. “Gather up the fragments that remain, that nothing be lost,” you know.’

Bellini sighed softly, closing his laptop. The panino was still hot, the cheese already melted out through the folds of bread. It would be impossible to eat and type at the same time without disaster. Rising, he carried the bread to a small booth in the shared area, one of the semi-private nooks that offered a little distance from the other guests.

Tedesco didn’t come right away, and Bellini began to wonder if he had decided to eat in the room instead. But shortly after, he stepped into the booth carrying a bottle of red wine and a glass. He must have asked the guesthouse owner for them. He poured himself a glass, swirling it slowly as though staking out his territory in this makeshift dinner.

They ended up eating face-to-face again. A faint scowl flickered across Bellini’s features.

Tedesco sipped the wine. After a brief pause, he said, ‘You can get your glass if…’

‘I don’t need one,’ Bellini cut in.

The disbelieving stare returned. He didn’t roll his eyes, but it was surely not pure surprise this time. Bellini ignored him, unwrapping the panino with careful fingers. The warm aroma of roasted bread and melted cheese filled the small booth. He took a bite, his thoughts drifting back to the documents he had just been reviewing in the room.

Tedesco sipped his wine, muttering sarcastically something under his breath about “the busiest man in Italy.” Surprisingly, Tedesco’s panino had already disappeared. Bellini had not finished half of his yet.

The booth settled into a strange rhythm: the soft thud of a wine glass placed on the wooden table, and the rustling sound of bread wrappers. The silence was filled with the muted conversations and laughter of other guests, and the occasional distant click of coffee cups meeting saucers.

All of a sudden, Bellini realised that he could not focus on his memory of work anymore.

He remembered the feeling—like a pressure building behind his ribs. The unspoken thing that had shadowed them. The phenomenon. The touch. They had avoided it successfully for a while. Yet, he knew they had to talk. He hoped Tedesco would have the sense to admit that.

Bellini cleared his throat. The words were bitter before they even left him.

‘We should talk about it.’

Tedesco looked up, putting up the glass deliberately slowly, as though buying time. ‘About what?’

‘You know that,’ Bellini said. He kept his voice low, pitched for the booth, but firm. ‘It’s not usual. What happens when—’ He hesitated, unwilling to name it outright. His gaze flicked briefly to Tedesco’s hands, then away. ‘—when there’s contact.’

Chapter Text

Tedesco set down his wine with a little too much force. The glass rang faintly against the wood. ‘There’s nothing to talk about,’ he muttered.

‘There is,’ Bellini pressed. ‘Twice now. And you felt something. Don’t insult me by pretending otherwise.’

Tedesco gave a low laugh—short, humourless. ‘Maybe you’re imagining things.’

‘Hey,’ Bellini started to get irritated. ‘I can touch your hand now, if you keep doing this.’

Somehow, he knew Tedesco avoided their contact more than he did.

Bellini leaned forward. It was a slight movement. His fingers were trembling a little, but he thought he could hide it.

‘NO!’ Tedesco jolted and shouted. His voice was loud, and he looked frightened.

Bellini realised that the other guests’ talk had quietened for that.

He sighed and stood up, sticking out his head from the booth with a quick flash of a smile, with an unspoken sorry. He touched his chest and flicked his hand outward in a loose wave, dismissing the fuss as nothing at all.

As other guests returned to their conversations, Bellini sat as distant as possible from Tedesco, who reacted harder than he had expected.

‘Sorry. I don’t do that without your agreement. However,’ he had to add. ‘I think it’s better to talk about it here, rather than in a completely private room. Less suffocating.’

Tedesco kept his silence for a while, then suddenly his voice came out in a harsh whisper: ‘Don’t—’ his hand sliced the air with strong anger, ‘don’t you dare talk to me like I’m some wounded animal! I don’t need your pity. Cazzo, I’m capable of discussion!’

‘I wasn’t…’ Bellini blinked, caught off guard. For a heartbeat, he almost snapped back. He felt foolish for worrying Tedesco. But the raw edge in the other man’s voice, the way his pupils seemed dilated as though cornered, stopped him. He pressed his lips together, swallowing the retort.

He sat back, tilting his head slightly, studying Tedesco. The anger… it wasn’t only anger.

‘So, you are ready to discuss,’ Bellini murmured.

‘I said so.’ The Italian said in a displeased voice and took another sip of wine.

Tedesco, for all his earlier outbursts, had begun to settle. His breathing evened, the sharp lines of his jaw softening.

Bellini suddenly felt something shift inside him. Anxiety. Unease. A creeping awareness that this situation wasn’t merely Tedesco’s problem—it was his as well. And theirs. He had been carefully constructing a method to clarify the phenomenon, but now that scaffolding seemed flimsy.

Even so, the voice of the Secretary of State stayed steady.

‘All right,’ he began. ‘Let’s keep this structured. First: has anything like this ever happened before—outside of… us?’

Tedesco looked like he wanted to say something, but instead, he gave a crisp answer, ‘No.’

‘Nor with me,’ Bellini admitted. ‘Second: between the first time and the second, did the, um, sensation change? Did the intensity…’ He hesitated, swallowing the word pleasure, unwilling to say it aloud. ‘…Did the intensity shift in any way?’

This time, Tedesco interjected. ‘Before that, we should be clear about when the first time was. The corridor, yes?’

‘Yes. And the second was yesterday.’ Bellini’s fingers tapped lightly against the edge of the table from anxiety, though his posture remained perfectly composed.

Tedesco’s gaze lingered. ‘And how was the sensazione for you?’

Bellini drew in a slow breath. He studied Tedesco’s expression, but the Italian’s face was unreadable. Finally, he sighed. ‘It was… happiness,’ he confessed quietly. ‘A strong one.’

‘Ha!’

The other man exhaled sharply. ‘If it was a “happiness”, it’s too—’ Then, he cut his words. ‘Anyway, I have to say it was a strange sensation. Non naturale. And,’ after a pause, he muttered, ‘it didn’t get weaker the second time.’

‘So, no natural fading. Third: Is it only triggered by the touch of our hands? Or could any other contact set it off?’

At that, Tedesco flinched. It was very subtle, but Bellini caught the slight tightening of his shoulders. The Italian said in a low voice, ‘The previous times were hands. That is all we can say.’

‘All right. Then fourth, do you think it will grow stronger or narrower? Spread, or diminish?’ His own voice trembled slightly at the thought that it might get worse.

‘Want me to say a silly speculation?’ Tedesco snapped quickly.

‘Speculation is all we have,’ Bellini replied, his tone sharpening before he pulled it back under control. He let his eyes fall to the panino still wrapped on the table. ‘Finally… do you have any idea how it began? Any cause, any moment that set it off?’

Tedesco’s gaze flicked up. ‘I thought you knew,’ he said with a little accusing tone.

Bellini’s hand froze mid-tap against the table. ‘Wait, what are you implying?’

‘Oh, you don’t know anything?’ Tedesco’s hand struck the table once.

‘If I had known the answers, I wouldn’t be—’

‘You think you’re the clever one,’ Tedesco hissed. ‘Always dissecting, always arranging your questions. You poke and prod like some… some inquisitore. And now,’ his nostrils flared, his eyes blazing. ‘Now you try to tell me this madness comes from nowhere? Cazzo!’

Interrogator? Bellini widened his eyes. The other man’s presence was suffocating. Stay calm, I need Tedesco’s agreement to solve this, Bellini talked to himself inwardly. ‘If you feel cornered—’ He began cautiously.

‘Cornered?’ Tedesco barked, a dangerous laugh tearing from his throat. ‘Basta! Nothing corners me.’ Yet his hand, the one gripping the wineglass, trembled almost imperceptibly before he brought it up in a long swallow.

‘Then, don’t mistake why I’m talking, Tedesco. I’m asking because we’re both sufferers of this phenomenon. And we need to decide how to face it and fight it.’

The air around them had thickened. Bellini suddenly realised that a couple at the next booth looked curious, although they pretended as if they were not listening. He forced himself to smile faintly, an automatic diplomat’s mask, but inside he felt the noose tightening.

He leaned forward, lowering his voice to a near-whisper.

‘Tedesco… there’s no such thing as “calm down” for you, is there?’

The Italian’s mouth opened, ready to snap, but Bellini lifted a hand quickly—not to touch, just to gesture.

‘Don’t. Not here.’ His tone was firm, the kind he reserved for subordinates who tested boundaries. ‘If you raise your voice again, this entire room will remember it. And I can’t—we can’t—afford that.’

Tedesco glared at him, jaw tightening, but for once he said nothing. The silence between them was taut.

Bellini wrapped the rest of his panino and stood. ‘Let’s finish this in the room.’

Tedesco drained the glass in one swallow, the muscles in his throat working hard. Slamming it down, he shoved himself to his feet.

‘Fine,’ he said, his voice low and cutting. ‘But don’t think for a second you can lecture me once the door is shut.’

‘Of course not.’

They left the booth together, their passage drawing a few curious glances. Bellini offered another quick smile and a wave to the room, an easy dismissal of the disturbance. He knew that the real confrontation was still ahead, behind a closed door.

o0o

The room smelled faintly of polished wood and old linen. Tedesco saw the Secretary of State walking to the writing desk beside the window with irritating neatness.

Tedesco paced instead, heavy steps across the carpet, jaw grinding.

The silence scraped at him until the words broke loose.

‘It wasn’t happiness,’ Tedesco said abruptly. His voice was sharp as a blade. ‘Not for me. It was a fire. Like a fist in my stomach. It wanted to take me down.’ His hand slammed once against his chest. ‘That’s what it was.’

He saw Bellini’s head lift, saw the flicker of surprise in those otherwise cool eyes. For a heartbeat, the mask slipped. ‘You felt it in that way?’ Bellini asked, voice low, almost startled.

‘Sì,’ Tedesco growled, leaning forward as if daring him to contradict. ‘And you—you call that happiness? Dio mio, if that’s happiness, then you’re crazy.’

‘So, maybe how it affects differs between us.’ Bellini’s fingers tapped against the corner of the writing desk too lightly, too quickly. He is nervous, Tedesco thought. The americano always wrapped himself in a cloak of calm, but the seams betrayed him when pressed.

Tedesco narrowed his eyes, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. ‘You’re trembling, eh? You pretend to be the calm one, but you’re rattled. Neurotic. Always trying to arrange and calculate something, because otherwise you’d fall apart.’

‘Oh, you are trembling, thank you.’ But Bellini’s jaw was tightened, and he said nothing more. The silence was admission enough.

Tedesco sat on the edge of his bed and leaned on the headboard. For a moment, Tedesco almost laughed. Bellini, known as a cold, untouchable Secretary of State, was nervous as a schoolboy. The thought should have pleased him. Instead, it unsettled him more.

‘Experiments are needed,’ Bellini suddenly said.

The word was enough. Tedesco’s shoulders tensed; of course. They both knew. They need to find out what exactly would trigger the sensation. First question: was it proximity, or skin? Second: was it the hand, or anywhere? Third: did it burn out with time, or only grow worse?

‘So,’ Tedesco muttered. ‘Start with touch over cloth?’

Bellini’s eyebrow flicked with approval. ‘Yes. Then, another part of the body to check the contact other than the hands trigger it.’

The agreement irritated Tedesco more than if Bellini had argued. It was as if they were conspirators now, moving in lockstep without speaking. He hated that.

Bellini silently stood and walked toward him. In the faint light from the window, his silhouette was dark, almost statuesque, and Tedesco realised immediately that they had not turned on the room’s light. Shadows stretched long across the floor, and the air felt heavier, charged.

The bed sank beneath Tedesco as the Secretary of State lowered himself beside him, careful, deliberate. Tedesco had to move next, before Bellini took full dominance of the situation. Goffredo Tedesco had never been timid, and he would not be.

His hand lifted; it was trembling despite his best efforts. It was hovering above Bellini’s arm, which was covered with the linen of his sleeve. He told himself the cloth would buffer the sensation, yet the memory of the fire coiled in his chest and made being certain impossible.

Bellini remained still and silent. He seemed almost impossibly composed. For a heartbeat, Tedesco felt a pang of envy at that unshakable calm, the kind of cold control he had never mastered.

The hand floated closer, fingers stiffening. Each movement was deliberate yet reluctant. The memory of that last overwhelming jolt—strong, animalistic, undeniable—tightened his stomach. What if it happened again? In this very room. There was nowhere to hide.

Five inches. Four inches. Three inches.

He could not retreat like a coward. Not here. Not now. Not in front of this man.

Two inches.

Bellini’s arm shook imperceptibly before the contact was even fully registered. A faint sound—irregular breathing—reached Tedesco’s ears. His eyes lifted, catching the subtle widening of Bellini’s pupils, the chest rising and falling just a little too visibly.

So, he’s nervous. This should be satisfying. It should strike some cruel, victorious spark in Tedesco. Yet instead, it made him even more nervous.

One inch.

The moment stretched impossibly, the seconds dragging, thick and heavy.

Zero.

Fingers brushed the sleeve. The spark he braced for never came. Only cloth beneath his fingers. Only silence in the air.

However, when his finger reached, he flinched. And so did Bellini. Both of them were startled by nothing.

Tedesco’s lips curled in frustration. He hated the tremor in his hand, hated that he had braced like a fool. ‘See? Through cloth—nothing,’ he muttered, withdrawing his hand as if the sleeve had burned him after all.

He heard echoes of heartbeats. Louder than ever. He could feel it thrumming in his chest, hammering in his ears. But whose was it? His own, or Bellini’s? He could not tell, and the uncertainty only twisted the tension tighter.

Bellini didn’t answer at once. Finally, he said, ‘Then it requires the next step.’

The voice of the Secretary of State sounded cold. Clinical. But Tedesco had seen the way his arm had trembled before contact. He knew that Bellini had just avoided saying what the next step was directly.

‘By the way, you looked ready to jump up,’ Tedesco snapped, more harshly than he meant.

Bellini’s gaze flicked toward him, sharp and assessing. ‘And you flinched as well,’ he said simply.

The words stung. He opened his mouth to bite back, but stopped, jaw tightening, but he could not lie. ‘…Eh, so, the next step.’

The silence stretched. Tedesco could hear the small clock on the writing desk tick louder than it had any right to.

Bellini shifted, as if he was uncomfortable. ‘With cloth between, it was nothing. The next step is obvious.’

Tedesco did not like the arrogant atmosphere of Bellini. He would not let this man order the trial forward like some scientist giving instructions. ‘Don’t think I need you to order,’ he said.

‘Why are you always like—’ Bellini stopped his words in the middle, as if he suddenly lost his energy to continue.

‘Proviamo il contatto pelle a pelle, but no hands, right?’ Next should be skin touching other than hands. The admission tasted sour. He hated the idea of touching this americano’s arms or hands, but he no longer knew whether that was because he just did not like him or he did not want to feel the sensation.

Bellini nodded and rolled up his sleeve to show his left forearm. The rustle of the cloth sounded loud.

Tedesco did the same to his right arm. They were going to put their forearms together.

He swallowed. Although the previous two touches were caused by the touching of their hands, it would not be a surprise if the true cause was their touching of their skin, not specifically their hands.

He saw Bellini’s arm furred with dark hair. But he has no hair on top. Amusing contrast, Tedesco thought, and suddenly wanted to laugh. But he knew it was only a trick of his mind, a grasp at escape. He felt suffocated, as if he were in deep water. He looked at the other man’s face, noticing that Bellini was staring at their arms, and the wrinkles between his eyebrows had deepened.

‘Lo farò,’ I’ll do it, Tedesco breathed. His voice was more air than sound.

‘Sì,’ came the whisper back.

They raised their arms together. Slow. Measured.

And then—

Contact.

Both gasped.

Heat flared. Not gentle warmth, but sudden fire, searing inward. It was too much, too vast. He felt small. He was swallowed by something too big, uncanny and incomprehensible. He shook his head. No. I’m not this weak. I am a grown-up. I was praised by scholars. I became a cardinale. Il Patriarca di Venezia. I am—I am—

‘Is this…I, you… Tedesco…’ Bellini’s whisper broke through, distorted, far away.

The storm inside drove him to retreat, but Bellini’s hand darted, seized his arm, held him in place. The grasp was a brand, as if fingers beneath his ribs, raw, invasive.

‘We need to know… the length of touch…,’ the americano was saying something, but it sounded foreign.

Tedesco stared, horrified, at the hand gripping him. Then at the man’s face. Bellini’s posture was stiff, his shoulder tight. His mouth loosened and was slightly open, his eyes were closed, and his eyelashes were trembling. His eyebrows furrowed. Suddenly, he opened his eyes, his gaze was cast on…. Oh, no, no, he was watching… watching this small Goffredo.

Strong fear was added to Tedesco’s inner burning fire, which was swallowing his organs and bones. His brain had remained to feel every torture. The sensation was starting to change into something, which was unknown yet scarier…and he saw Bellini’s cheeks were turning faint red as if he had drunk. Bellini looked like he was bearing something harsh, yet…he is…enjoying…? Suddenly, how he said pleasure was remembered.

Bellini’s hand around Tedesco’s right arm felt like magma sticking to his body and trying to melt bones. Trying to crush everything until he is nothing. Tiny, helpless, useless Goffredo….

His own arm shook, whether from his own weakness or Bellini’s grip, he could not tell.

In the chaos, he longed to pray—but he could not remember how to. The steady feeling of connecting to Him was lost in this inner storm. There were only heat, expansion, and dissolution.

It was just an expansion. And—

With sudden violence, he tore his arm free.

Bellini jolted, as if waking from paralysis.

The contact broke, but the storm inside Tedesco did not. His chest heaved, lungs fighting. For a second, he thought he was broken. The fact that Bellini was watching him was unbearable.

He wanted to hide, but he could not escape like that. His right arm trembled visibly, so he tried to steady it with his left—only to find both were shaking.

Chapter Text

Bellini was walking on the morning road of Altavento. It was rather close to the coastline, and tourists were walking sparsely. He finished his breakfast alone and decided to explore the region a bit. He could not bear to stay in the room, where Tedesco was sleeping. Well, maybe he was not sleeping, he thought, considering Bellini made some noise preparing in the morning. His accidental roommate was just faking sleep after all. The previous night ended up quite…emotionally intense.

He shook his head and tried to focus on observing the town. The main sightseeing season was about to end—the weather was getting cooler, and the days were getting shorter, but still in the range of “comfortable.” You can enjoy sunbathing on the beach, but it can be a bit cold in the shade. Besides the pavement, food stands and bakeries were giving off warm steam. Most of their signboards were written with both Italian and English, and it was obvious that their main target was the tourists.

The morning light was dull, filtered through the mist that hung above the street. He adjusted his flat cap; he knew his shaven head could be noticeable, and all he had was his grey flat cap—the hat he kept in his bag when he travels, just in case he needs it. He hoped that his white T-shirt and a worn-out dark blue shirt over that also helped him look like a holidaymaker.

His eyes stopped on a navy square sign with the bold white T gleaming faintly against the damp wall. It was a tabaccheria, a small shop tucked under a crumbling archway.

The image of tobacco reminded him of a man:

Tedesco.

He could not help but remember him; leaning against a wall with an annoying smirk, the little red vape pen between his fingers. Then, the image of him from last night was clearly recalled. His widened eyes. Choked breath. Shaky hands. That usually arrogant Tedesco looked like a frightened fawn. Bellini had never seen him like that before.

The Patriarch’s emotions had always seemed like squalls. Joy, displeasure, anger…they are all clear and strong, yet pass away in a minute. However, last night was different; his unsettling atmosphere did not diminish. He stared at Bellini, as if a little child who hides their fear.

Suddenly, Bellini realised that he stood still in front of the shop longer than necessary.

There was a note taped to the door saying, “We sell Altavento pamphlets.” Not surprising for a tabaccheria in a tourist destination. He straightened his shoulders, slipping into his disguise—the harmless tourist. ‘An American,’ he muttered under his breath, practising the role before stepping inside.

A small bell chimed as he stepped inside. Moving suddenly from sunlight into shade, Bellini—still wearing his sunglasses—found the interior too dim to see for a moment. The air was thick with the scent of tobacco and paper, and carried a faint ghost of coffee from somewhere behind the counter.

A woman looked up from a crossword puzzle.

She did not look like she recognised “Cardinal Bellini,” so he started his act as a tourist. ‘Buongiorno,’ Bellini said in deliberately clumsy Italian, giving the word a slow, uncertain rhythm. ‘I… eh… voglio comprare, uh… pamphlet? Altavento, per favore?’

‘Ah, you want to buy a pamphlet, eh?’ she said in English with a strong Italian accent, her voice both curious and kind. ‘That one for turisti, right?’

‘Turi… ah, tourists? Ah, yes… sì.’ He nodded. ‘I like it here, Altavento. It’s a beautiful town.’

The woman smiled. ‘Glad you like it.’ She turned to fetch the pamphlet. While she searched, Bellini’s gaze wandered to a shelf.

‘Oh, you have other booklets too? Perhaps something about the church? I’ve heard it’s lovely. I always like to read a little before I visit a place.’

‘For pamphlets, I have only this one, here. Others… no, sorry,’ she answered, handing the folded brochure to Bellini.

‘All right. Grazie mille. How much do I owe you?’ While paying, he added conversationally, ‘I imagine the church has quite a bit of history, doesn’t it?’

The woman smiled. ‘Oh sì, sì, very much. This region, it has a long history, you know. Many centuries ago, there was a monastery up there. Now, the church.’

‘Ah, a monastery before… centuries ago? That’s remarkable. Oh, by the way, if you don’t mind my asking—who’s leading the Sunday Mass this week? I thought perhaps the bishop might be here.’

‘Ah, Bishop Galli. I’m afraid he cannot make Mass this week.’

‘Then, when would it be?’

‘Hmm…’ The shop owner hesitated a little. With a long face, she sighed. ‘Actually, he’s… how you say… not so well. A little ill.’

‘Oh, he’s unwell? I’m sorry to hear that.’ He paused, his tone warm with concern. ‘I do hope it’s nothing serious.’

‘No, no, I think it’s nothing serious. They say he’s resting, to get strong again,’ she said, giving the change to Bellini. ‘He has… ups and downs, since one year and half ago. Is normal, no? He is not young anymore. So, he decided to rest for a while.’

When Bellini had spoken with López, he’d been left with the impression that the bishop was gravely ill. Were they hiding the truth from the locals—or had they lied to Tedesco and him to keep them away from the bishop?

‘If it’s nothing serious, well, that’s a relief,’ Bellini said, masking his thoughts. ‘It sounds like he’s earned the right to slow down a little.’

‘Sì. I hope I can see him sooner. He’s a very good man. Anyway, for this week’s Mass, I think Father López will do it.’

‘Grazie. I appreciate your time.’ He smiled again, slipping the pamphlet into his jacket pocket. ‘Buona giornata. Have a good one.’

Bellini bought a cup of coffee and sat on the patio of a café. The late morning sun filtered through the awning, scattering warm light over the wrought-iron tables. He took out the booklet. On the front page, it had a beautiful picture of Altavento: a town basking beneath a serene blue sky, its white stone pavements glinting, and the terracotta roofs continued towards a distant, glimmering sea. It was exactly what people from abroad would imagine as “Italy.”

He flipped through the first few pages until a heading caught his eye: Bishop Galli’s Vision for Altavento. The accompanying photo was arresting. It was taken just before sunset, when the sky shifted from translucent blue to amber. The church’s spires looked as though they had been cleanly cut from the heavens themselves. Was the Bishop’s name really used in a tourism promotion like this? Bellini skimmed the thin pamphlet and stopped at another heading: The Sacred Tears of Saint Altavento.

He remembered Tedesco had mentioned this at the airport when they arrived. It was…oh, it was only two days ago, though it felt like weeks had passed since then. Bellini could easily recall the Italian’s mocking voice, reading the article aloud. Bellini had asked, ‘Is it a kind of relic?’ Tedesco had snorted. ‘It’s never been declared a relic. Just rumoured to be linked to some ancient monk with damp eyes.’

Now, staring at the glossy page, Bellini tilted his head. The word “Sacred Tears” was there, in the very pamphlet where the bishop’s name was clearly used.

The back page had a chic logo saying CulturaViva Travel S.r.l.. He took out his phone and searched for the company. The screen lit up with a simple website: sleek and full of bright photos of sun-drenched plazas, winding alleys, and vibrant festivals. Just the sort of ordinary, polished travel agency that promised curated cultural experiences.

He looked at the pamphlet again. That was when he noticed the tiny letters printed beside the flowing logo of CulturaViva Travel: “Fondazione San Alfonso”— the Saint Alphonsus Foundation.

He entered the name into the search bar on his phone. None of the results had anything to do with the foundation. There was a Wikipedia page about the saint, a university named after him, and a handful of links triggered simply by the word San—and the list went on. He kept scrolling but found nothing.

He sighed. Perhaps he should ask the Vatican to look it up. When he opened the chat with Lawrence, he noticed a message sent the previous night—the night.

“Aldo, is everything all right?” it read. “I heard you’ve moved to a new inn. How’s your room?”

Bellini clicked the message box. “I didn’t see your message yesterday. Sorry about that. It was—” his finger hovered over the keyboard. You’ll laugh at this—we’ve ended up in the same room, he thought of typing with a half-amused tone. But he could not.

The touch. The way Tedesco’s shoulder had tensed. The slow approach of their arms.

‘It’s no use,’ Bellini murmured to himself, setting his phone down. He pushed his glasses up and rubbed his forehead.

His mind had decided to remember everything, and there was no stopping it.

—The room was dim. The Italian’s white hair glimmered faintly in the half-light. Bellini loathed the thought of having to touch this bigot under such strain; yet what unsettled him even more was noticing the minute shake in Tedesco’s arms and the dilation of his eyes. He could almost feel the heat radiating from Tedesco’s skin. The pulse of anticipation and the raw sense of exposure that sent goosebumps across his own.

Then they touched.

He heard Tedesco inhale sharply. A cry of excitement and pleasure welled up inside him, and his cheeks grew hot. He knew it was Tedesco—but he felt accepted. An intense heat swirled in his chest, wrapping around him as though embracing the man who had shed all his armour. His calm façade had never been false, but now he was open, defenceless and real. It was love, almost painful in its purity, embracing even his frailty. There was no fear of failing anyone; the feeling simply enfolded his soul.

Half-dreaming, wrapped in warmth and quiet joy, he slowly opened his eyes. Tedesco was there, watching him as though seeing him for the first time. Bellini’s eyes were glazed as if he had a fever, and he wondered how pitiful he must look. Strangely enough, he did not feel the hesitance that the thought must have evoked. Satisfaction filled him, powerful and complete.

At the same moment, desire crept in; he wanted more. He knew he shouldn’t—knew that impulse was unnatural. But he wanted.

When their gazes locked, Tedesco startled, instinctively drawing back. The warmth between them faltered, and Bellini grasped his arm. ‘We—’ His lips felt parched. ‘We should find out if the length of touch alters this… sensation.’ The words came in a murmur. His mind was dissolving, yet excuses bloomed there like smoke.

A torrent of unbearable warmth flowed in from beneath his grip. He knew he was exposed, and he knew intuitively that Tedesco was open, too. He knew he had to be cautious. Normally, he thought, I might have felt disgusted. However, it was a pure pleasure.

All of a sudden, Tedesco pulled his arm away.

The heat disappeared.

He released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His heart was beating wildly. Now he didn’t understand how he’d been able to reach out to Tedesco so shamelessly.

Bellini blinked rapidly as he heard the sound of a chair being pulled from a nearby table. He felt as if he were in his dream, but he rationally moved his arm and turned on his smartphone.

“Thomas, can I ask you a favour? I need to know about Fondazione San Alfonso,” he somehow typed.

A speech bubble appeared under Lawrence’s icon—a simple T form Thomas, obviously not being set any photo—indicating that he was typing. While waiting, the app received Tedesco's message: On my way to the church.

Then, he wondered, was he alright? After Tedesco pulled away, the Italian sat frozen in bed, silent. The Patriarch of Venice, over 70, looked like an anxious young man, and Bellini began to question his own sanity. He opened his mouth, only to find all the words had dried up. So, he had gone to bed in a strange silence.

It was scary even. It had been a long time since his emotions had turned into a smoldering bonfire. As a cardinal and the Secretary of State, they had flared up at times, out of a sense of duty and the need to protect people. But they were like coals that only glowed red when fanned. Other than that, they could slowly burn him, but he knew how to ignore them. As just Aldo Bellini, he had long since forgotten how to be overwhelmed by a flood of emotions, which were newly born every moment--especially when they were not negative ones.

Bellini shook his head. He finished the coffee, and stood up. His memory was toxic now.

Investigate, he said to himself inwardly. Maybe he can visit the church, too. It was, after all, where he wanted to check again.

Chapter Text

When he opened the door, the room exhaled a heavy, still quiet air, as if the emptiness itself had been waiting. The curtains were half drawn, and dust motes drifted in the sunlight slanting across the unmade bed, glinting faintly.

He tried not to look there.

He took out of his bag the clerical shirt neatly folded. Sliding it on, he buttoned it up slowly. The motion was careful and deliberate, until the collar framed the small white square at his throat. The tourist had disappeared, and the Cardinal had returned.

He exhaled, adjusted the cuffs, and left the room.

The car stopped at the familiar square, and Bellini stepped out. The church rose before him, pale and elegant in the late morning sun. It gleamed, unchanged, but his gaze was sharper now. Two days ago, he had just visited. Today, he was searching.

He walked slowly along the side of the building, scanning the base of the wall, then the low gate near the courtyard. He paused, pressing a hand lightly to his cheek as he thought.

It took him a moment to spot it: a small bronze plate. Too small, too dull; easy to miss. He pushed his glasses up and read the engraved lines listing the restoration sponsors. Most seemed ordinary—local companies, small donors. But one near the bottom made him stop. The construction company. He recognised it. The name had appeared on the CulturaViva Travel S.r.l. website, among the partner logos.

Then, he paused. He was aware of the quiet around him, when a shuffle of footsteps reached his ears. A prickle ran down his neck—that unmistakable sense of being watched.

He turned sharply.

‘Oh,’ he was surprised. ‘Why are you staring at me?’

Tedesco stood a few paces behind, half in sunlight, half in shadow. His expression was difficult to read, though the tension in his jaw betrayed him.

‘Why are you here?’ Tedesco shot back, the words quick and rough, as if he had been holding them in too long.

‘Because I’m working,’ Bellini said, his voice calm but edged with irony. ‘And checking the church again was needed. What about you, Eminenza Tedesco?’

Tedesco’s mouth tightened. He gave a short, derisive breath—almost a cold laugh. ‘So you think you’re the only one capable of taking an interest in this place? I was here before you arrived. Perhaps you should ask yourself who’s following whom.’

Bellini frowned. ‘I simply noticed you were watching me.’

‘Ha!’ Tedesco snapped, then hesitated. His gaze faltered for the briefest instant. ‘I was looking at the church, checking the impact of the restoration. You were merely in the way.’

‘Ah,’ Bellini murmured. ‘Then you may have seen it already. The small plaque by the gate.’

Tedesco frowned. ‘What about it?’

‘It lists several sponsors. One of them happens to be a company linked to CulturaViva Travel, the same one that published those glossy pamphlets about this city.’ He took out that thin booklet from his pocket. ‘There’s the name of the bishop, and the sacred something—the one you found amusing at the airport. I suppose…’

Tedesco exhaled sharply, impatient. ‘Stop beating around the bush, Bellini. You want to say the church, the sightseeing company, and the construction firm are all in collusion, no?’

‘I’m saying,’ Bellini started. His tone stayed calm, almost too calm, ‘that such a coincidence deserves attention. Especially when every trail seems to lead back to the same small circle of names.’

Tedesco’s eyes narrowed. Footsteps echoed behind them. His expression changed abruptly, into something between irritation and pride. He drew in a breath and straightened his shoulders.

‘You are not the only one investigating,’ he said quietly, almost to himself.

Bellini blinked, uncertain what he meant—until Tedesco’s gaze drifted beyond the gate. There, crossing the courtyard, a nun was appearing. Her habit shifted faintly with each step, the grey cloth catching the sunlight in thin, tremulous folds.

Tedesco’s lips curved, satisfaction flickering in his eyes. ‘I asked a nun who’s working here a long time to come,’ he added under his breath, not quite a boast but close enough.

He stepped forward briskly, his cassock brushing against the iron gate.

Bellini followed his glance, and surprise rippled through him. A nun? From Tedesco? The man who once dismissed women’s counsel as sentimental—and now he had summoned one as his informant? But as Bellini watched, the picture clarified.

Tedesco hadn’t invited her out of respect; he had summoned her out of convenience. He had not considered her schedule—only that she would be there when he called.

The nun looked up as Tedesco approached, a faint crease forming between her brows. She was small and not young, her skin a soft bronze tone that caught the sunlight gently beneath the coif. Her hands folded tightly around a worn leather folder. She stopped a few paces from them hesitantly.

‘Sorella,’ Tedesco greeted, his tone smooth and formal. ‘Thank you for coming.’

She inclined her head. ‘Eminenza…I came as you asked. I hope—’ her eyes flickering between the two cardinals ‘—I hope there isn’t trouble with the diocese?’

Tedesco smiled theatrically. ‘No trouble. I simply need a clearer picture of how things stand in this diocese.’

Before Tedesco could say more, Bellini stepped forward.

‘Sorella,’ he tilted his head and smiled softly. His tone was courteous. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Cardinal Bellini.’

The nun blinked. ‘The pleasure is mine, Eminenza.’

‘Let’s go into the church. It’s nearly lunchtime, so there will be no visitors now—I must apologise, sorella, for calling you at such an hour.’

As they walked in, Tedesco spoke with a casual, almost warm tone. ‘I suppose you’ve served here for many years?’

‘Yes, nearly twenty years now,’ the nun nodded.

‘Then,’ Bellini said with a faint smile. ‘You must know a great deal about this diocese.’

‘I’m not sure, Eminenza. I know only in part. Besides, Bishop Galli came here a year before me, so he’s served even longer.’

‘Ah,’ Tedesco said. ‘Bishop Galli. Tell me; how is he these days? I heard he hasn’t been well.’

‘He is…’ She hesitated, a shadow passing over her face. ‘He’s been unwell, yes. These last months he tires easily. The doctors come often. We all told him he should rest for a while—“Our Lord Himself withdrew to pray. Serving the people is holy, but so is taking time for quiet, private contemplation.” But it was only two months ago that he finally decided to take a break.’

She cares for the Bishop so much, Bellini thought. So, is he…

‘So, is he…’ Bellini almost asked—but it was Tedesco who spoke. ‘...not in any danger, I hope? Just taking time to recover?’

‘Um…’ She lowered her gaze. ‘That’s what he said. We all hope so, Eminenza. He told us things should be better soon.’

‘“He said”? So you don’t see him now?’ Tedesco asked.

‘No.’ She gripped the binder in her hands. ‘He’s staying at home, and sees only a few visitors. I don’t want to intrude on such a private space. Thankfully, we exchange emails, so I can still check anything I need about the church.’

‘Then it would be difficult to meet him?’

‘No, no—of course not. You are cardinals. He will welcome you.’

‘Sorella,’ Bellini started gently, ‘did Bishop Galli decide on the management of this diocese all by himself? Before taking his leave, he wasn’t in perfect health.’

‘Mostly yes, by himself,’ she replied. ‘But he asked Father López for help. Of course, someone had to keep an eye on things while he was on his break. Father needed time to get used to it, you see?’

Tedesco’s eyes sharpened a little. ‘Then Bishop Galli is thinking of Father López as his successor, no?’

The nun hesitated. ‘Successor?’ she repeated softly, as if the word itself made her uneasy. ‘I… I wouldn’t know, Eminenza. He never talked to me about any of that. All he said was that Father López should keep the diocese in order while he was away.’

‘Of course,’ Tedesco said lightly, though the gleam in his eyes did not match his tone. ‘Still, it would be natural, wouldn’t it? When a man grows tired, he must think of who will follow.’

Bellini glanced at him. The remark sounded almost casual, yet there was something too deliberate in it—too searching. ‘Sorella,’ he said gently, ‘when did Father López come here?’

She seemed to think for a moment. ‘I think it was… five years ago? Bishop Galli himself recommended him.’

‘Recommended, huh?’ Tedesco said. ‘Then, when did they meet?’

The nun shook her head. ‘They did meet in Rome before that, if I recall correctly. But I can’t remember exactly when.’

‘Ah, in Roma! Do you remember why he went there at that time?’

She looked at Tedesco. ‘Um…’ she looked like she was trying to remember. ‘I’m sorry… it was many years ago. Also, I… I don’t really know exactly how they came to know each other.’

‘Five years ago, with Bishop Galli’s recommendation, you said?’ Bellini murmured. ‘Did the diocesan council accept him smoothly?’

‘Well, Bishop Galli did recommend his transfer here to Altavento, but I had understood that it was originally on the Dicastery for the Clergy’s recommendation—from Vatican. So when he spoke to the council, no one raised any objection.’ Then she smiled nervously. ‘And of course, Father López is such a great person—warm-hearted and hard-working. We’re grateful that the Dicastery for the Clergy assigned him here.’

When the nun left, Bellini sighed deeply.
‘Cardinale Tedesco, you did not have to sound so...direct and rude to her.’

‘No,’ Tedesco snapped. His expression tightened, irritation flickering across his face. ‘You were diretto e maleducato. You were so obvious in showing that you suspect Padre López!’

‘Are you angry because I’m not Sherlock Holmes?’

‘What? I don’t like inglese.’

‘That’s not even what I’m talking about.’

Silence settled between them. Detective work had never been Bellini’s calling—he was a cardinal, after all. Bellini preferred to study his opponents beforehand. He was the sort of a person who liked to guess geography first and then walk into the fog, not the other way around. In addition, recently, there was always someone else to handle that groundwork. He simply had no time to move his own feet.

‘So,’ Tedesco murmured at last.

Bellini looked up. The warm sunlight filtered through the stained glass, casting fractured colours over the Patriarch’s face. His eyes were faintly red, and the shadows under them seemed deeper than usual. Bellini tried to see any trace of unease in this Patriarch of Venice—the same unease he had witnessed in the man who had stood before him last night, wide-eyed and silent, staring as though speech itself had abandoned him. Yet under this kaleidoscopic light, the memory felt strangely illusory.

‘…ni! Bellini! What—did you even hear me?’

Bellini blinked. ‘I beg your pardon? What did you say?’

‘Ah, fantastico! Have you forgotten how to show the least respect now?’ Tedesco crossed his arms.

‘Respect? How dare you—’ Bellini stopped himself.

He rubbed his temples, as if trying to smooth away both fatigue and emotional waves.

He did not forget what the late Holy Father had to fight with. He knew why he had allowed Sabbadin to run the campaign for him during the conclave. He knew what the title of cardinal, and the office of Secretary of State, truly meant—power, yes, but also duty. He thought of the people; the very ones Tedesco called filthy, unnatural, enemies.

Yet here, on this peaceful but uneasy island, everything felt unreal. Arguing with Tedesco suddenly seemed pointless.

‘Belli—’

Bellini rose abruptly. Tedesco instinctively leaned back, avoiding contact. The rustle of their robes echoed too loudly in the empty church.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t listen,’ Bellini said quietly. ‘I was thinking—there’s much to think about, you know. So… what did you say?’

At his calm tone, Tedesco froze. His arms hovered for a heartbeat, then fell limply to his sides. His face changed, as though a cold wave had extinguished the heat inside him. The redness in his cheeks drained away. The air between them seemed to tighten. Bellini noticed the faint tremor in Tedesco’s fingers, the way he pressed his thumb against his palm, as if holding something in.

‘I said,’ Tedesco finally managed, ‘do you think Bishop Galli or Padre López are involved in something?’

‘I—’

BEEP!

The sharp tone of a message notification shattered the stillness like glass breaking. Both men flinched.

‘Oh… hmm, that would be mine,’ Bellini murmured, drawing his phone from his pocket. ‘It’s from Thomas.’

‘Tommaso? Oh, of course—I’m sure he’ll solve everything from Roma.’

Bellini glanced at him. ‘Partly yes,’ he said, after reading the message.

o0o

Tedesco gazed out from the car window, quietly analysing the outskirts of Altavento. Streetlights were sparse, and the pavement rough. Bellini should have been in the back seat, but his presence was almost imperceptible.

Eventually, the car stopped, and Tedesco slowly opened the door.

From behind came the sound of Bellini’s footsteps. They clicked against the gravel in a steady rhythm, each step sharp. Tedesco felt the hairs on his neck prickle, as if the sound itself carried a pulse. Unconsciously, he rubbed his forearm. The breeze brushing against the skin beneath his sleeve reminded him of last night’s phenomenon—that fiery, consuming sensation.

‘Here?’ Tedesco asked, his voice as casual and relaxed as he could manage.

‘It should be,’ came the reply.

A small house in the countryside. Lawrence had listed this as the address of the Saint Alphonsus Foundation, but as far as Tedesco could see, there was no trace of a religious institution. The gateposts and nameplate were modest, blending seamlessly into an ordinary private residence.

Despite it being daytime, the curtains were drawn. A single letter, seemingly tossed carelessly, was caught in the mailbox.

Too quiet, he muttered inwardly.

He stepped forward, letting his eyes run over the front door, the texture of the walls, and the subtle peeling of the paint. People did come and go here, he could tell—but not frequently. Perhaps the place was tidied only when someone was expected.

Still, the garden was not completely neglected; the porch looked as though it had been cleaned occasionally.

He turned his gaze to the small window beside the entrance. No one could be seen inside.

Then he exhaled once.

Tedesco watched as Bellini walked forward, peering into the garden. His compact, taut silhouette was unmistakable.

Hearing his steady footsteps, he remembered Bellini’s breathing during sleep. Tedesco had not slept that night, fearing the dreams he might have. His entire body had throbbed as if it were a single, pounding heart. Yet Bellini had slept, his breathing steady and quiet; even the sound felt as expressing his neurotic nature.

A low engine growled in the distance. Tyres crunched over the dry road. Tedesco lifted his head.

‘Who’s that…?’

From around the corner, a small car appeared. He recognised it. He had seen that.

It slowed, as if hesitating after noticing the two men standing in front of the house. It slipped into the space in front of the garden and stopped. Before the door even opened, Tedesco grew restless, turning the vape in his pocket between his fingers.

A man stepped out quietly. With a black shirt with a clerical collar and black trousers, the figure looked as a shadow. His expression was difficult to read, because the shadow hid his eyes beneath the sunlight.

Tedesco saw Bellini’s back straightened—just as it did when he was Cardinal Bellini, the Secretary of State. ‘Father López…’ the amelicano said.

A breeze swept through, and the cross at López’s chest glinted faintly.

‘Eminenze…? How did you know here?’

A surge of exhilaration—so close to the enemy he could almost touch him—rose within Tedesco. ‘How? Oh, was this a secret?’

‘I told you I would contact you later, Eminenze. …Have you already seen him?’

López’s tired posture cast its shadow at his feet, making him appear almost ominous.

Suddenly it felt as though a thread he had believed he held securely had snapped. He knew that asking What do you mean? would be a mistake.

Bellini was watching López closely. ‘No. Not yet,’ he said. It sounded almost like a whisper.

How ironic, he thought. Even after that night, they are forced by the situation to work as allies.

López stopped several paces short of them. He drew a breath, narrowing his eyes as though weighing the balance of the moment.

‘As I said before, he may not be able to receive you today.’

He glanced back at the entrance. A plain terracotta pot sat there—nothing growing in it, the soil looking bare.

‘Please wait a moment. I’ll ask—’ López took the house key from his pocket. ‘—Bishop Galli.’