10 February 1939
4 a.m.
Pope Pius XI’s Living Quarters
Vatican City
Dante found himself once again in the pontiff’s quarters sitting across the room from Pope Pius XI, who was bound anew to the very same Victorian chair that held him the prior year. “Déjà vu, Your Holiness,” he taunted.
“Your threats hold no power over me. I have rallied all of Italy’s clergy to Rome—I am ready to unveil this monstrous deceit,” the pope retorted, his voice seething with defiance against the Black Nobility. He had no intention of bowing to the Council’s outrageous demands. His objective was not theirs. His motto “The peace of Christ in the kingdom of Christ” stood in stark contrast to the pagan agenda dictated by the Black Nobility.
“That is precisely why I am here. You assembling the clergy is what alerted the Council’s attention. Hence we find ourselves in conversation to change your mind yet again, Your Holiness.”
“You will never sway me. I will deliver my speech tomorrow to the entirety of the Italian clergy. You cannot stop me.”
“Obviously, your memory fails you, Your Holiness. You seem to have forgotten what was said during our previous encounter. Decisions were made.”
Dante strode over to the table beside the pope. With the same calculated precision as before, he unlatched the briefcase, opened it, and swiveled it so the pope could clearly see its chilling contents. Reaching into the meticulously organized briefcase, the assassin selected a vial and syringe specifically intended for the pope. Holding the vial aloft, he inserted the syringe into the cap, drawing out exactly two-tenths milliliters of fluid. He placed the syringe onto the table and returned the vial to its designated slot. Turning towards the pope, he asked, “So I ask again, for the last time: what is your decision, Your Holiness?”
Pope Pius XI immediately noticed the absence of a second syringe and vial. There was no room for negotiation this time—only a choice between compliance or death. “If I accede, I’ll be forever dead inside, as Judas was after his betrayal of Christ,” the pope confessed, his head slumping forward in defeat. “If I don’t, then I die at your hands.” Taking a deep breath, he said, “I choose peace.”
Dante’s voice was a whisper as he seized the syringe. “As you wish, Your Holiness. Allow me to paint a picture of your imminent fate: upon injection of this serum, I will depart, stopping only to alert the waiting witnesses of your impending demise. These witnesses, incidentally, have already crafted your final words, which will be circulated among the press when the time is right.”
The pontiff, bound to the Victorian chair, sat upright, his gaze locked on the assassin as he listened to the chilling narrative of how his final moments would play out. It was as if the assassin were relishing every horrifying detail. Searching the assassin’s eyes, the pope sought any hint of mercy, a glimmer of hope—but all he found was an abyss of darkness. A soulless void. This man had already surrendered his soul and its rights to the Black Nobility.
“Later this morning , Archbishop Pacelli will announce your departure from this world, Your Holiness.”
“Then make it swift, you soulless brute,” Pope Pius XI retorted, sitting upright, his head held high as he faced his impending death with unyielding courage. There would be no swaying his opposition to the Council.
“I commend your resolve, Your Holiness,” Dante noted, a hint of admiration in his voice. The pope would mark his first victim who hadn’t wept, begged, or pleaded for his life. The assassin was somewhat surprised to find this diminished the satisfaction he derived from this final act.
He held the syringe aloft, expelling any air trapped within the tube—he didn’t want an air bubble to enter the pope’s veins and grant him an instant death. The purpose of this injection was a slow, agonizing death, defining the final moments of the pope’s life.
Moving behind the chair, the assassin tilted the pope’s head to one side and plunged the syringe into his neck.
The pope’s reaction was immediate—the injection rendered him helpless incubating the slow death. Dante untied the frail figure from the chair and moved him to his bed before covering him with blankets. Returning to the table, he stowed away the syringe, closed the briefcase, and exited the room, leaving the pope to his fate.
Archbishop Pacelli entered the room, ready to oversee the final chapter of the pope’s life. Crossing the room to check on the pontiff, he could see the pope was barely conscious.
“My soul parts from you in peace,” the pope whispered weakly, his gaze meeting Pacelli’s.
Dr. Francesco Petacci, the pope’s chief physician and a pawn in the Black Nobility’s grand scheme, entered the room mere moments later. His presence was no mere coincidence—he was the father of Claretta Petacci, the infamous mistress of Benito Mussolini. The Black Nobility had strategically placed Dr. Petacci as the pope’s primary physician to ensure they had a constant, watchful eye over the pope. The Council left no room for error, orchestrating every move, every interaction so that no single individual could ever disrupt their ultimate mission.
The doctor crossed the room to join Pacelli. Both men loomed over the pontiff. At precisely 5:31 a.m., the pope, his eyes flickering with the last vestiges of life, looked up at the two men before uttering his final words as he succumbed to cardiac arrest. “Peace. Peace.”
Dr. Petacci, his duty done, crossed the room to open the doors, allowing the four chosen cardinals into the papal quarters to initiate the solemn proceedings that accompanied a pope’s passing.
This included the prescence of the Camerlengo, a figure of authority chosen by the College of Cardinals who was tasked with the final confirmation of the reigning pope’s death. This archaic procedure required the Camerlengo to call out the pope’s Christian name thrice while gently tapping his forehead with a silver hammer. Upon receiving no response, the Camerlengo would declare the pope officially deceased. As it so happened, the Vatican’s Secretary of State, Pacelli, had been appointed to this honorable position by the College of Cardinals to carry out these duties.
“Truly, the pope is dead,” Pacelli announced, his voice reverberating with a chilling finality in the hallowed chamber. The select group of individuals chosen for this solemn occasion watched as the pope remained unresponsive to the soft, rhythmic taps of the silver hammer and the repeated calls of “Achille Ratti”, the pope’s baptismal name. The silence that followed each call was deafening, a grim reminder of the pope’s mortality.
With a solemn expression, Pacelli reached out, his fingers gently wrapping around the pope’s right hand. He carefully removed the Ring of the Fisherman from the pope’s fourth finger, a custom-made symbol of authority that every pope wore to signify their succession of Saint Peter. This was the same ring the pope used to imprint the wax that sealed all official papal correspondence.
In the silent room, the only sound was the snipping of shears as Pacelli cut the ring off the pope’s finger, a symbolic act witnessed by the select few marking the end of the pope’s reign and authority. His era had come to an end.
In the absence of a pope, the Camerlengo was to ascend to the highest role, temporarily serving as the Acting Sovereign of Vatican City. Pacelli, in his capacity as Vatican Secretary of State and the Executive Director of Vatican Operations, would now make all decisions during this interim period until a new pope was elected.
The weight of the Vatican now rested squarely on his shoulders.
Chapter 48
3 March 1939
The Art of War
The greatest victory is that which requires no battle.
I Am Pope.
On my sixty-third birthday yesterday, the Council fulfilled my ascension to the papacy. My confirmation was the fastest in history, requiring a mere three ballots. Thanks to the Council’s influence, all sixty-two cardinals took part in the voting, helping to push through my landslide victory.
The Council instructed I take the name Pope Pius XII in honor of both my predecessor and the founder of the Vatican Secret Archives. An honor, indeed.
I am grateful to you, Grandfather, for this honor. It was your hand that guided me to the papacy. Now I am positioned to fulfill the Council’s mission. I will not disappoint you.
Chapter 49
March 9, 2000
11:55 a.m.
Vatican Secret Archives
In the dimly lit aisle, Mario cast a furtive glance at his wristwatch and realized with a start he had been utterly consumed reading the pope’s cryptic journal—over three hours had passed without him noticing. The clock was ticking towards noon and now here he was, grappling with the daunting task of creating a convincing forgery that might deceive the cardinal overseeing him. The question that gnawed at him was how he could execute this audacious swap without arousing Cardinal Borelli’s suspicion.
His eyes darted back to the journal as if seeking divine inspiration from its ancient pages. Suddenly, a sinister idea began to take shape in his mind. “Bait and switch,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, addressing the journal as if it were a sentient being he was plotting to abduct from the Secret Archives’ hallowed confines.
With a newfound determination, he swiveled towards the towering bookshelves, his gaze sweeping over the countless books that filled the cold steel shelves. He selected five books whose size shared a striking resemblance with the journal. With a sense of urgency, he carried them over to the worktable, meticulously placing each one atop the journal to gauge if there was a perfect match. The third book he tested fulfilled that purpose. Gingerly opening the book, his eyes darted across the pages, scanning its contents to determine whether it would be intriguing enough to divert the cardinal’s attention:
Pope Benedict XIII’s reign was tarnished with double-dealing by one of his main administrators, Niccolo Corscia, who engaged in extraordinary levels of bribery and corruption. This resulted in distrust of the papal authority, which continued throughout the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries . . .
“That’ll do,” he murmured to the ancient book that appeared to hold its own cryptic secrets from the Vatican’s scandalous past.
That revelation hit Mario like a freight train—there were centuries of corruption that had festered in the shadows of the Catholic Church long before Pope Pius XII took the helm. The Church—his Church—had a dark underbelly, that much was undeniable. It was as though a long-hidden facet of the Church had been unveiled, and it was almost like those with the power to do something about it had conveniently overlooked it, akin to having an alcoholic brother-in-law whose existence everyone quietly acknowledged but would never discuss. It was easier to turn a blind eye to such uncomfortable truths, bury them deep beneath layers of denial.
But now, Mario found himself face-to-face with a harsh reality that he could no longer ignore. The Church he had pledged his life to had been weaving a web of lies long before he was ever born. His faith, once unshakable, now trembled on the precipice of doubt. The trust he’d placed in the Catholic Church had shattered, leaving him with the daunting task of concealing this truth from the world. The thought of the devastation that truth would wreak on the hearts of the world’s faithful—a quarter of the global population—felt unbearable. The revelation would be a blow too harsh for many to bear. What would ensue if those billions learned of the corruption wrought within the hallowed halls of their beloved Catholic Church?
