The cobblestones beneath Cardinal Leone's feet felt slick with a sheen of recent light rain as he navigated the streets of Rome. Each step seemed to take him nowhere, no matter how far he walked or in which direction since his earlier meeting with Cardinals Russo, Esposito, and Moretti. Their solution to the "problem" – the cold-blooded elimination of Father Essex – had fractured something fundamental within him. A lifetime devoted to the Church wouldn't bend to accommodate murder as a political tool.
After he'd left the gathering, he was not even considering if there was an alternative to the proposal brought up by Cardinal Russo. So, he walked until darkness fell, hoping that his journey was metaphorically driven by God to find his way through the familiar streets of Rome that now seemed alien. And during his journey, he craved a conversation with Cardinal Russo, the architect of their meetings, hoping to understand, perhaps even sway him. Maybe, just maybe, reason could prevail.
With renewed urgency, he hailed a cab and rattled off the address. Upon arrival at his destination, he stepped out into the cool night air and ascended the steps to Russo's apartment with a sliver of hope. But on reaching the second-floor landing, a sound froze him in his tracks. Muffled thumps and hushed voices filtered down the hallway. Taking a few steps, he saw figures in black uniforms, Gendarmerie police, meticulously moving objects – files, undoubtedly, and a computer. Cardinal Russo, and by extension, their entire conspiracy, had been exposed.
Despair washed over Cardinal Leone with the realization that God’s journey had led him here to this moment—to that understanding that the meticulously laid plans, the whispered dissent, all lay in ruins. The hope for a bloodless solution dissolved entirely. He wasn't naive; the others wouldn't evade capture for long. The game was up.
Turning away with his steps soft, Cardinal Leone retreated into the streets once more. The moon, a pale sliver hanging low in the sky, cast long, accusing shadows on the ancient stones. And as he walked, a solitary figure swallowed by the immensity of the city, his faith in the Church, and perhaps in himself, felt profoundly shaken.
Reaching the familiar doorway of his apartment, he entered as the weight of the world appeared heavy upon his weary shoulders. Tonight would be his last as a free man knowing that God had forsaken him, and that alone was too much for him to bear.
* * *
Ninety minutes. That was all it took. Ninety minutes for the data from Cardinal Russo's apartment to be decrypted and analyzed with the disturbing truth revealed in stark detail.
As the final confirmation flickered on the central screen, digital evidence exposed Cardinals Leone, Moretti, and Esposito, revered pillars of the Church, as traitors embroiled in a plot that threatened the foundations of the Vatican.
Soon after, orders flowed with the efficiency of a well-oiled machine. The Swiss Guard, the elite protectors of the Holy See, received their silent summons via encrypted channels. Exits were sealed as they formed an unyielding barrier.
Across St. Peter's Square where the Corps of the Gendarmerie was stationed, the first squad car shot out of the gates and onto the Viale Vaticano, heading east. Other vehicles followed suit, some continuing east on Viale Vaticano, while two peeled off in a northeasterly direction.
The Vatican was flexing its muscles.
* * *
Cardinal Moretti knelt before the Altare della Cathedra di San Pietro, his face bathed in the golden glow of a single flickering candle. The vast emptiness of St. Peter's Basilica echoed only with the faint hum of a distant prayer group. But here, above the very tomb of Saint Peter, he sought solace – a desperate plea for forgiveness in the face of impending exposure as his lips moved silently, forming words of a prayer both heartfelt and laced with the bitter taste of feeling hypocritical given his actions.
Suddenly, a muted symphony of footsteps echoed hollowly on the polished marble floor. Cardinal Moretti's eyelids fluttered open, revealing a flicker of apprehension in their depths. He didn't turn, but the shift in his posture spoke volumes. The footsteps grew closer, a grim procession of figures clad in the black uniforms of the Corps of the Gendarmerie, flanked by the imposing red and yellow of the Swiss Guard.
A wave of deep resignation washed over Cardinal Moretti's face as he turned slowly until his gaze met with the unyielding expressions of the officers. No words were exchanged, none were needed. The weight of their presence spoke for itself.
With a sigh that seemed to carry the burden of a lifetime, Cardinal Moretti traced the sign of the cross upon his chest. Thereafter, his movements were slow and deliberate, the movements of an aged man. Laboriously, he pushed himself to his feet, his once-proud posture now stooped with the weight of his transgressions.
The officers made no move to restrain him. There was a silent understanding, a respect for the sanctity of the place, even for a fallen cardinal. In the echoing tones of footsteps, they ushered him toward the exit, the walls of the Basilica absorbing the sounds of their departure. Cardinal Moretti cast one final glance back at the Altare, a silent farewell to a sanctuary that would no longer offer him refuge. As the heavy bronze doors of the St. Peter’s Basilica closed behind them, the only trace of the Cardinal's presence was a single, flickering candle, now guttering in the sudden silence.
* * *
A staccato hammering jarred Cardinal Esposito from his reading, echoing through his furnished apartment. After he set down his well-worn missal and labored to the door, he peered through the peephole.
The sight that greeted him was unmistakable. The black uniforms of the Corps of the Gendarmerie filled the hallway, their faces appearing harsh in the hallway light. Cardinal Esposito knew what this meant.
Since he wasn't a man of theatrics, he reached for his worn wool jacket hanging by the door. As he threw it on, as the rapping continued, Cardinal Esposito opened the door. One officer stepped forward, wordlessly gesturing toward the exit, the message understood. Before he left, however, Cardinal Esposito allowed his eyes to linger for a moment on the worn crucifix hanging above the mantle of his fireplace. And then with a slap of his hand, he plunged the room into darkness with the click of the light switch the only punctuation mark in the silence.
Slowly, he followed the officers down the hallway with their footsteps the only sound in the near-sterile silence. Another officer, lingering behind, gently closed the apartment door that was the final act in this short, wordless drama. The darkness within the apartment held no secrets now, only the echo of unanswered prayers and the weight of an unknown future.
* * *
Officers of the Corps of the Gendarmerie and poliziotti, a combined force of elite Italian law enforcement, swarmed the corridor of an apartment building with their movements sharp and practiced. When they stopped at a nondescript door, an officer pounded his fist against the wood.
"Polizia! Gendarmerie!" Rossi cried out. Silence stretched as uneasy glances passed between the officers. Rossi slammed a fist into the door again, the sound reverberating down the hallway. Still, no answer.
"Breach!" Rossi's ordered. A burly officer, muscles tensed, stepped forward. With a swift, powerful kick, he connected with the door's center. The wood shuddered, then splintered on the third booming strike. The door swung wide, revealing a dark interior. Only a sliver of light emanated from beneath the closed bathroom door at the far end of the hallway.
Adrenaline pulsed through their veins as the officers swarmed into the apartment, guns drawn, the tight space filled with the metallic clicks of safety switches released. They reached the bathroom door and with a coordinated shove, it burst open. Inside, under the harsh halogen light, Cardinal Leone lay partially submerged in a bathtub filled with water so saturated with blood that it was impossible to see his legs beneath the surface. As Rossi and others entered the bathroom, a sickly-sweet metallic tang filled the air, the odor of a butcher’s shop. As Rossi holstered his weapon and took a step forward, he noted that Cardinal Leone's skin was unnaturally white and his eyes were glazed over and vacant, staring sightlessly ahead. In his limp hand, a glint of reflected light: a straight razor, its blade still slick with blood.
Scrawled in a desperate, unsteady hand on the damp tiles of the bathtub in blood were two words:
FORGIVE ME.
And in that moment, the bathroom became deathly still to those officers who served as witnesses to a tragedy that transcended their purpose.