“We cannot comprehend God’s timing, my child,” Rosetti replied, his words devoid of the solace she sought. “Just know that God’s timing is always perfect.” His words hung in the air, a cold consolation to the grieving nun. As her tears flowed freely, she looked up at the cardinal, her eyes pleading for a different answer.
Seeing this conversation wasn’t going to end, he cut straight to the point. “The pope’s personal physician informed me that he conducted the autopsy on Father Benedetti himself. He discovered an embolism, a lethal blood clot that obstructed a vital vessel, leading to heart failure.” His blunt voice echoed ominously in the hallowed space.
Sister Carlotta, however, was far from convinced. A nagging suspicion gnawed at her, refusing to be silenced.
“The physician also emphasized that an embolism could remain hidden, striking down even the healthiest individual at any age,” Rosetti added, his gaze piercing through the nun. He could sense her growing doubts—a potential threat in the days to come.
“Go in peace, Sister, and remember, everything is under God’s watchful eye.” The cardinal extended his hand, tracing the sign of the cross on her forehead with a solemnity that belied his underlying contempt.
“Amen,” Carlotta whispered, yet her doubts persisted. Beneath her outward sorrow, a troubling suspicion that something was amiss continued to fester.
As Sister Carlotta withdrew from their presence, Cardinal Rosetti nodded at Monsignor Giordano, commanding him towards the tabernacle for a private discussion. He couldn’t afford the slightest risk of their conversation being overheard. Only the towering crucifix of Jesus bore silent witness to the cardinal’s ominous words.
“Sister Carlotta will be a problem,” he seethed, his voice laced with an icy determination as he turned to face the monsignor. “Reassign her to the church in Harare, Zimbabwe.”
The monsignor was taken aback by the harsh directive from his superior. Without uttering another word, the livid cardinal abruptly spun around and stormed away in a fury, leaving Giordano to execute the damning order. Monsignor Giordano, ever loyal to the cardinal, would fulfill this command without question.
Turning to gaze out over the sanctuary, he watched as Rosetti made his way down the central aisle. The cardinal roughly brushed past Sister Carlotta, who was kneeling in the first pew, her prayers fervent and earnest. The monsignor looked upon her with a heavy heart, knowing her fate was sealed.
She would never lay eyes on Rome again.
Chapter 2
February 7, 2000
Monday, 8:22 a.m.
Vatican Antechamber
The antechamber in the Vatican was pulsating with centuries of history, each artifact a testament to the past. The marble floor, still in immaculate condition, had borne silent witness to the passage of time since its installation in 1507. Oak shelves, crafted by the renowned Italian carpenter Luigi Bernini, spanned an entire forty-foot wall, cradling volumes of ancient books and priceless artifacts. The grand oak desk situated near the center of the oak shelves, a gift to Pope Benedict III, stood as a symbol of power and authority. Ageless paintings from the sixteenth century adorned the walls, their subjects gazing down from their frames, while sculpted angels dotting the cornices in turn watched over them. At the end of the antechamber, solid oak double doors bore the inscription “PAVLVS III PONT MAX”, a tribute to Paul III, the Supreme Pontiff of the Universal Church.
This was the chamber of choice for the pope when it came to conducting special meetings. A room shrouded in mystery and magnificence, its walls echoing with the whispers of countless confidential discussions. The air was thick with anticipation, the room itself seeming to hold its breath in the face of such significant encounters. The pope’s chosen setting for these unique gatherings was not just a room, but a stage set for the unfolding of events that could alter the course of history.
Father Mario Marino sat there frozen within the colossal antechamber, his breath held hostage by the impending arrival of Pope John Paul II. The most revered and exalted figure on the globe was about to confer with the young priest in a discussion of paramount significance. The private audience with the pope felt like a surreal dream.
Marino was a whirlwind of emotions —a volatile mix of trepidation and exhilaration. His senses were on overdrive, each noise around him amplified to an almost deafening degree. He could practically hear his own heart pounding like a drum, its rhythm echoing ominously throughout the expansive room. With bated breath, he kept his ears attuned on the formidable oak doors, straining for the faintest whisper of movement that would announce the much-anticipated arrival of the pope.
Father Marino was acutely aware of all the details in the room; he craned his neck about absorbing every nuance, every whisper of history, determined to etch this moment into his memory. I can’t believe I’m here. That thought echoed incessantly in the mind of the priest ordained Father Mario Eduardo Marino.
The young priest sat in silent contemplation, clad in his usual attire of short-sleeved black shirt adorned with a stark-white clerical collar, along with black trousers and a pair of polished black shoes. His dark-brown hair, freshly trimmed the day before, added to his air of confidence. His tanned hands, resting lightly on the armrests, were in harmony with his overall body. If Mario weren’t a priest, his handsome countenance would undoubtedly be the object of many a woman’s affection.
The silence in the room did nothing to pacify the young priest’s racing thoughts. “Lord, help me ease my heart,” Father Marino implored in a hushed prayer, taking slow, deliberate breaths in an attempt to still his mind. Yet, beneath the surface of his anticipation, a disquieting undercurrent of unease persisted, a nagging that refused to cease.
The massive oak door groaned open in slow motion, the sound reverberating ominously throughout the hushed silence, amplifying its enormity. The cardinal, a figure of authority and reverence who initially ushered him in, stepped into the room, his footfalls echoing in the antechamber like a solemn drumbeat. Father Marino sprang to his feet in an instinctive show of deference.
“Father Marino, it is my esteemed privilege to present to you His Holiness, Pope John Paul II.”
The moment of truth was upon him. His heart hammered against his chest like a wild beast trying to escape its cage. Oh, dear Lord, don’t let me throw up now.
The pope, a figure of serenity, glided through the grand oak doors, his presence filling the room with an overwhelming sense of tranquility. This peace washed over Marino, slowing his racing heart and calming his nerves. He found himself captivated by the pope, his gaze fixed on the holy figure wheeling into the room. Marino, mesmerized by the pope, didn’t hear the cardinal exit the chamber. Staring for but a moment, Marino dropped to one knee and bowed in reverence.
“Your Holiness, it is an immense honor to be in your divine presence,” he said, his head bowed in respect.
The pope slowly navigated his wheelchair towards him. “Let your heart be at peace, my son,” he responded, placing a hand gently on the priest’s head. A soothing sensation coursed through Marino’s body, further calming his nerves. “You may rise.”
Slowly, Father Marino rose to his feet, his gaze meeting the pope’s. He was in awe—the moment felt like it was stretching out to eternity.
With a wave of his hand, the pope gestured towards the nearby chair in front of the oak desk. “Please, take a seat. I have been eagerly awaiting our meeting.”
The pope has been eagerly awaiting to meet me?
Weak-kneed, Marino sank into the plush leather chair, his eyes never once leaving the pope. He took in every detail: the red papal shoes peeking out from the footrest, the white cassock adorned with the papal coat of arms, the pectoral cross hanging from a gold cord, the wispy white hair peeking out from beneath the white skull cap.
“You look nervous, Father. How do you feel?”
“Yes, Your Holiness, I am indeed nervous. This moment—meeting you—has been a dream of mine since childhood. It feels surreal, like I’m in a dream. I can’t believe I’m here. This is the greatest moment of my life,” Marino confessed, his words rambling out like a little schoolboy’s in a rush of excitement.
“Is it everything you expected?”
“Your Holiness, this is beyond anything I could have ever imagined,” he began, his voice trembling with awe. “The splendor of this cathedral, the sheer magnitude of this chamber, the priceless artifacts bestowed upon the popes throughout history . . . it’s all so overwhelming. The kindness and grace of the cardinals have been humbling. And being in your presence . . . it’s a tranquility I’ve never known, a sense of awe that’s simply indescribable. I—”
He halted abruptly, the echo of his best friend’s advice reverberating in his mind. “Mario! You’re talking too much. Even a fool appears wise when he keeps his mouth closed. Shut up!”
“You were about to say. . . .” the pope gently prodded.
“I . . . I . . . I fear I may be speaking too much, Your Holiness,” Mario confessed, his gaze dropping to the floor in embarrassment.
“You’re doing just fine, my son. I imagine you have a multitude of questions. I will explain why you were chosen, and should you have any queries once I am done, I will do my best to provide answers.”
