℘ When your objective is far away, make it appear nearby.
℘ Display profits and entice them.
℘ Create disorder and take them.
℘ If they are substantial, prepare for them.
℘ If they are angry, perturb them.
℘ Be deferential to foster their arrogance.
℘ If they are rested, force them to exert themselves.
℘ If they are united, cause them to be separated.
℘ Attack where they are unprepared. Go forth where they will not expect it.
These are the ways military strategists are victorious. They cannot be spoken of in advance.
Eugenio found himself grappling with the enormity of the plans the Black Nobility had meticulously crafted for him. The certainty of his ascent to the papacy, as chosen by the Council, was the only clear aspect in this whirlwind of information. He had unwavering faith in his grandfather, a man of wisdom and experience who had served the Vatican in various capacities, including Under Secretary in the Papal Ministry of Finance and Secretary of the Interior. Eugenio was confident his grandfather would never steer him onto a path that wasn’t in the best interests of the Pacelli family, the Black Nobility, or Eugenio himself. He was ready to embrace his destiny with honor, guided by the wisdom of his revered grandfather and the Council of the Black Nobility.
Closing the book, he rose from his seat, a newfound sense of purpose radiating from him. He exited the study, his stride full of pride and determination. While he couldn’t fully grasp every detail of the intricate path that had been laid out for him, he was committed to following his elders’ guidance with unwavering discipline and diligence.
Eugenio Maria Giuseppe Giovanni Pacelli was certain of his destiny. He would be pope.
Chapter 12
March 6, 2000
Monday, 6 p.m.
Rome, Italy
Mario approached the imposing double doors of Roberto’s palatial mansion, his eyes widening in awe at their magnificence. They never failed to impress him. He gently pushed open a door and poked his head inside the opulent foyer. “Berto, are you in?”
“I’m in the kitchen,” came the distant reply.
As Mario ventured further into the house, the tantalizing aroma of garlic sautéing in butter, the earthy scent of mushrooms, and the rich, hearty smell of sausage and ground beef wafted through the air. Taken with the subtle hint of pasta boiling in the background, it made for an olfactory symphony that caused his stomach rumble in anticipation. He hadn’t intended to stay for dinner, but with every step the heavenly smells were becoming increasingly difficult to resist—provided there wasn’t a lady guest already being entertained.
Mario often marveled at the paradox that was Roberto—a man who cooked like an angel but lived a life that was anything but angelic. He held onto the hope that with enough gentle persuasion, he could steer his best friend away from his hedonistic lifestyle. Roberto was a man of immense potential, but he seemed to prefer the pleasures of the flesh. And who could blame him? With his wealth and leisure, why not indulge in the finer things in life—wine, women, and song?
Rounding the corner into the exquisitely designed kitchen, Mario was greeted by the familiar sight of the sprawling seven-foot-by-twelve-foot island, its white Carrara-marble top streaked with black veins littered with the remnants of dinner preparation.
Roberto stood in front of his commercial-sized refrigerator retrieving a bottle of Perrier. “It’s like you have a sixth sense when I’m making one of my signature dishes,” he quipped, handing the bottle to Mario.
“I was hoping you weren’t entertaining tonight.”
“Everything okay?”
“Um, yeah. Hey, would you mind if I stayed for dinner?”
“For you, anything,” Roberto replied, turning back to the six-burner stove to stir the simmering sauce. “What brings you out to my neck of the woods?”
“Can we check out some stuff on the internet?”
“Ah, the pasta’s done. Sure, but can we look after we eat?” Roberto suggested, the aroma of the cooked pasta wafting through the air. “I research better on a full stomach.”
“Good idea. I’d rather search on a full stomach too,” Mario agreed, his stomach growling in anticipation. “I’ll set the table while you dish out the food.”
Seated at the robust oak table, on chairs fit for royalty, the pair indulged in another of Roberto’s culinary masterpieces: spaghetti. After numerous visits to trattorias, bistros, and ristorantes across Rome, Roberto had been unable to find a spaghetti dish that satisfied his desire. Frustrated, he decided to create it himself. After several trials with fresh local ingredients sourced from farmers’ markets and butchers, he finally concocted the perfect spaghetti sauce. Everyone who tasted his signature dish was enamored by it—especially Mario, who had a particular fondness for spaghetti.
“What’s bothering you, bro?” Roberto asked, noticing Mario’s distracted demeanor.
Mario paused, savoring the mouthful of spaghetti before swallowing, then said, “This spaghetti is incredible.”
“Thank you,” Roberto responded, noting Mario’s evasion. “But you’re avoiding my question. What’s troubling you?”
“Do you remember the mysterious brown package I mentioned last week?”
“Of course, but I wasn’t going to bring it up. You got your panties all in a wad last time.”
“I opened it,” Mario admitted sheepishly, a wave of shame washing over him for his indiscretion.
“No way!” Roberto’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. His friend was not one to break rules. “Whatcha find?”
“A journal. A beautiful one, with a leather cover adorned with artwork the likes of which I’ve never seen before. It’s truly remarkable. You should see it, Roberto.”
“Forget the artwork—what was on the inside?” Roberto asked, his hand gesturing impatiently for Mario to get to the crux of the matter.
