“I’m all in, brother. This conspiracy stuff is my jam.”

Roberto’s fingers danced over the keyboard, clicking on the next entry in his search. As he sifted through it, his mind indeed began weaving a conspiracy theory.

Mario, laptop balanced on his knees, was unearthing more about the Nazi war criminals’ escape. He hoped ignoring Roberto would deter him from launching into another one of his monologues. Mario was just as keen to uncover the Vatican’s hidden secrets but didn’t want Roberto’s crazy theories sidetracking him. Alas, he knew Roberto was bound to share any theory that popped into his head regardless. His friend’s mind was a breeding ground for suspicion, especially towards those in power. The only difference now was that there was solid evidence backing up those paranoid thoughts.

“Here’s a wild thought.” Roberto reclined, hands clasped behind his head, his gaze distant as he pondered the Vatican’s future. “Given Pope John Paul II’s advancing age, I wouldn’t be surprised if the next pope came from Argentina.”

“Ha!” Mario scoffed at his best friend’s outrageous prediction. “Now you’ve lost it. You clearly don’t know your papal history. No pope has ever been elected from the Americas.”

“Look at all this evidence. Those connections. Don’t you think it’s plausible?”

“There’s no clear lineage from the Americas to Saint Peter. It’s never going to happen.”

“But consider all this evidence,” Roberto said, waving his hands towards his computer monitor. “After digesting all this, don’t you think a pope would eventually have to come from Argentina? An Argentinian cardinal would have insider knowledge about the war criminals the Vatican sent to his country post-World War II. This future pope, being from Argentina, would be perfectly suited to deflect any suspicion that might lead to an investigation.”

“Your intelligence sometimes borders on arrogance. There has never been a pope from the Americas, got it?”

“Alright, alright.” Roberto paused, recalibrating his theory. “Then how about this: if not from Argentina, then the next pope will have to be from Germany to make sure this mess stays hidden. If this information leaks, someone will have lots of splainin to do, Lucy,” Roberto said, mimicking Ricky Ricardo from the American TV show I Love Lucy.

“I see your point,” Mario conceded, though he still kept shaking his head in disagreement. “But the Vatican has its protocols for when the College of Cardinals convenes to vote for the next pope.”

“Do you really believe the Vatican isn’t aware of this ticking time bomb within its walls? Consider the scandals they’re already grappling with—the child-abuse allegations that are shaking the Church to its core. And yet, this . . . this is a whole new level of cover-up.” Roberto was grappling with the mountain of undeniable evidence of the Vatican’s decades-long deception. Who could say if this holy autocracy was still pulling the world’s strings?

“But . . . this information stays buried. You gave your word.”

“Unbelievable.” Roberto was astounded at his best friend’s unwavering loyalty to the Vatican.

“I can’t be the one to shatter the faith of millions worldwide with this revelation, do you understand?”

Mario could see the frustration etched on his best friend’s face. He had to carefully plan his next move with the journal. How was he going to justify removing it from the Vatican Secret Archives?

“You know what?” Roberto rose abruptly, his patience with his friend wearing thin, “I need a break. I’m going to take a shower and clear my head.” He’d decided to hit his favorite bar since it was Friday night. He needed a distraction after all this intense research involving the pope and the Nazis. His irritation was further fueled by his best friend’s insistence on keeping the conspiracy a secret.

“Okay, I guess I’m going to head home and change,” Mario said as he watched Roberto stride towards the office door. “Can I come back tomorrow and stay for the weekend?”

“Whatever,” Roberto replied curtly, exiting the room. “Just don’t show up too early. I might have company over.”

“Got it. No need to explain.” Mario heard Roberto’s bedroom door slam shut down the hall, signaling the end of their discussion.

Mario logged into his Vatican email, hoping there would be a message from Cardinal Borelli waiting for him. Perhaps the cardinal, paranoid about getting sick by Mario, would grant him a day off on Monday too? He could use the extra day for research.

But there were no new emails from the cardinal. Mario knew he would have to face his duties on Monday: scanning the Archive documents, while doing his best to avoid Cardinal Borelli. Any questions about the decoy journal could send him into a panic, arousing the cardinal’s suspicion. If questioned, Mario knew he would eventually crack and confess to stealing the journal from the Vatican Secret Archives. He was a terrible liar. Ultimately, he would lose his esteemed position in the Vatican.

Closing his laptop, he decided it would be safer in Roberto’s mansion than in his own apartment and left it on the couch. He grabbed his backpack and departed Roberto’s mansion, heading back to his apartment for the night.

Chapter 70

March 10, 2000

Friday Evening, 11:30 p.m.

Rome, Italy

Roberto roared up to the swanky Roman nightclub, La Dolce Vita, in his gleaming, brand-new sunflower-yellow Lamborghini Murciélago. The intoxicating growl of its 6.2-liter six-speed V-12 engine, boasting a staggering 575 horsepower, rattled the Roman streets as he drove, turning heads and drawing attention. He made sure to rev the engine just before pulling up to the nightclub, a siren call to the valet.

Giuseppe, the valet, always looked forward to Roberto’s arrival. He was like a signal flare to the city’s most stunning women. Word would spread like wildfire through the female network in Rome of his presence, and soon the nightclub would be awash with women in figure-hugging dresses and vibrant colors. Giuseppe would offer his hand to each as they stepped from their limousines and cabs, each one a vision of beauty, each one hoping to be chosen to accompany Roberto home that night.

Giuseppe recalled a quote he’d read in Car & Driver that seemed to encapsulate Roberto’s lifestyle perfectly:

“A Ferrari,” the owner of both sports cars explained, “is the nice girl you take home to Mom and Dad. The Lamborghini is the wild slut you sleep around with on the side.”

Roberto, with his newfound wealth from the Microsoft windfall, had no interest in settling down or discovering his roots, no need for a nice girl. His Lamborghini and insatiable lust for pleasure suited his chosen lifestyle to a tee. With his money, his Lamborghini, and his reputation, he had his pick of the stunning women inside the nightclub. The possibilities were endless.

This is going to be a wild night, Giuseppe mused to himself, striding towards the Lamborghini.

“Buona sera, signore,” the sleek-tuxedo-clad Giuseppe called out over the Lamborghini’s engine, greeting his favorite patron.

“Buona sera, Giuseppe. What’s the atmosphere like inside?”

“You’ll want to have a word with Romeo,” the valet suggested, taking Roberto’s keys and shaking his hand, accepting the generous tip. “He’s got a real catch for you tonight.”

Slipping into the driver’s seat, Giuseppe maneuvered the powerful supercar a mere twenty feet to its prime parking spot right in front of the elite establishment. The owner had a clear strategy: showcase the most luxurious cars right at the entrance. This was free publicity, luring people to queue up and pay the cover charge for the privilege of rubbing shoulders with the nightclub’s elite guests. Displaying Roberto’s car was a particular favorite, as it attracted the crème de la crème of female clientele. With Roberto in the house, the presence of these high-end beauties drew in wealthy hangers-on eager to impress, hoping to escort one of the remaining ladies home for the evening. On such nights, the upscale nightclub reaped handsome profits thanks to Roberto’s presence. He was always a welcome guest, and in return, Roberto enjoyed unparalleled service during his visits.

“Buona sera, Romeo. I hear you have some news for me.”

Romeo, having already prepared Roberto’s drink as soon as he spotted his high-tipping regular, slid it across the bar.

Leaning in for a discreet conversation, Romeo subtly nodded to the left. “The lady in red at the end of the bar might pique your interest.”

“Mille grazie.” Roberto placed a $100 bill on the bar, picked up his drink, and began to saunter towards the lady in red.

“Hold on, signore,” Romeo called out, stopping Roberto in his tracks. “She’s drinking this.” Romeo slid a martini with two olives across the bar towards Roberto.

Roberto grinned at Romeo. “You’re a lifesaver. You always know how to take care of me. Grazie.” He slid another $100 bill across the bar, picked up both drinks, and resumed his journey towards the woman in the red dress.

“Buona sera, bellissima,” Roberto greeted.

The blonde swiveled, her smile a dazzling display of pearly whites framed by ruby red lips, her flawless skin barely concealed by expertly applied makeup. Her golden tresses cascaded around her shoulders, partially veiling her ample bosom as she turned to face Roberto. “Buona sera.”

Roberto’s usually smooth facade faltered at her radiant beauty. This woman was in a league of her own. Despite his wealth and status, Roberto was fundamentally a geeky programmer. He tried to emulate the suave James Bond with his designer clothes, luxury cars, and opulent mansion, but at his core, he was a lucky nerd who had struck gold by selling his software company. It was his millions that made him attractive to women. But this woman was different. She was sophisticated.

“I’m Roberto,” he managed to say, regaining some of his composure. “The bartender said you’re drinking one of these.” He raised the martini towards her, his confidence returning.

“How thoughtful of you,” the blonde responded flirtatiously, tilting her head to the side and grinning. “I’m Paola.”

Paola’s warm response eased Roberto’s nerves. He might even stand a chance with this goddess. “Care to dance?” He extended his hand, attempting to appear confident. This was his usual tactic to progress to the next stage of his pickup routine—lead the woman to the dance floor.

Placing the cocktail on the bar, Paola delicately took his hand and followed Roberto’s lead. They took to the floor and began swaying to the rhythm of the music, cutting loose. The song soon transitioned to a slow dance, and without hesitation, Paola draped her arms over Roberto’s shoulders, her hands clasped behind his neck, indicating she wanted to continue dancing. He reciprocated, his arms encircling her slender waist, their bodies swaying in sync. The woman moved closer, resting her head on Roberto’s shoulder.