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Chapter Text

The Vatican City was a rare jewel in Italy. It was its own country and city, with its own rules and a plethora of secrets. There, secret orders were born and faded as the power of the Catholic Church grew with the passing centuries.

So many people visited, whether as tourists or for a religious trip, yet few knew what was hidden behind the ancient walls and fancy architectural miracles across it. Not even you, someone who was raised at the very heart of everything, knew of all the secrets they were kept buried.

Your father was the Inspector General, and that had opened many doors for you, giving you exclusive access behind the scenes, as some would call it. Yet, your mouth remained shut, and the secrets of Vatican City were well guarded.

You guarded not just their secret but also yours. For years, you portrayed the perfect soldier and a potential future investigator—the first woman to do so. For years, you visited Sunday Mass and prayed before sleep.

And for years, you had found yourself lying in the arms of a holy man, sinful thoughts clouding your mind... and his.

You thought you had everything in your life and knew everything about him, and you should have, after all; you were raised together. Yet soon you would discover that even the holiest of people had secrets, and the man you loved was not the exception.

The house you lived in was warm and just perfect for you. Being the Inspector’s daughter did come with privileges, like houses in the best areas and rather close to the Church, making certain evening visits far easier.

Candles burn slowly, the only illumination in the rooms, including your bedroom. Aromatic sticks burn without stopping, their sweet fragrance masking the smell of passion and lust in the room.

Your back was pressed against the soft mattress of your bed, body bare of anything but a simple satin nightgown that was pushed up, letting your legs and waist be exposed to needy, steady male hands.

A strained moan escaped your lips, your hand grabbing the back of a man’s neck and the other holding on his shoulder, nails threatening to mark his soft white skin. You tossed your head back, pressing it harder against your pillow and arched your back in response.

Eager lips found your neck, the kisses feathery soft and gentle, teeth always careful not to leave a mark. A groan reached your ears, the sound vibrating through your skin as your lover picked up his pace, unable to resist the way your body bent to his will.

A strong arm grabbed one leg and hooked it, wounding his waist, offering him a new angle that stole your breath away. Then, the same arm returned to hold you steady by the waist, fingers threatening to bruise your soft skin as he chased his release, no longer able to hold back.

For a man of the church, who was the true epitome of patience, he sure did know how to lose it when around you.

Though in your defence, it had taken years to achieve that and a lot of failed seducing attempts.

“My...” you almost called out the name of God as you felt the coiling sensation in your stomach, yet you restrained yourself from committing that sin.

It was bad enough you were sleeping with a man of god, a Camerlengo nonetheless. The last thing you needed was to utter God’s name as you reached your euphoria and surrendered to the familiar bliss that so many chased after.

Though, even if you did dare to sin that way, you could always ask for forgiveness. You preferred, however, not to reach that point, not yet, at least.

Your walls tightened, and you squeezed your hands, mouth open in delight and shock. The Camerlengo above you cursed next to your ear, feeling just how tight you were after your orgasm, threatening to lock him there.

His thrusts became sloppy; A few more was all he needed before he joined you, his face buried on your shoulder as he leaned, emptying his holy seed within you, making sure not to spill anything.

You both remained there for almost a full minute, the room silent except for your laboured breaths and pants. The high you both experienced slowly came down as sweat made your hair stick to your skin, and your bodies ached for a better position and some stretching.

The Camerlengo lowered himself to rest on you, always careful of his weight—a difference between the two of you. He let his head rest on your chest, hearing just how fast your heart was beating and sensing your chest as it moved up and down, filling your lungs with precious air.

You slowly released him and merely opened your legs wider, letting him find comfort in this position while he remained within you, as if wishing to ensure not a single drop was spilt. And you let him.

Your other hand moved from the back of his neck to gently caress his sweaty hair, which was once pristine and well-maintained but is now a moppy mess. Wild strands fell on his forehead in a way that you would never stop loving.

“You almost did it again, love,” a male voice said, your lover holding back a chuckle as his mind started to clear and his body started to relax.

“Did... did what?” you asked, trying to catch your breath.

He smirked, chin resting against your skin. “Call God upon this act.”

Your smile was sweet, and you had no true shame about what you almost did. “Next time, I will try to call you instead,” you said, bringing your face closer, pecking his sweet pink lips. “Camerlengo.”

This time, he did not hold his chuckle as he gently moved one hand to caress your side. “You could call me a sinner, and I would still ask for more.”

His gaze was soft and caring, something not many saw during Mass. To them, he was Camerlengo Patrick McKenna, the orphan boy under the Pope’s guidance. He was the soldier who preached kindness, whose eyes held pain and strength far beyond his years.

But to you, he was just... Patrick, your childhood friend. To you, he was the boy you tutored in Italian and spent your days studying the bible with him. To you, he was the man who broke his vows to be with you.

“Anyone who does not love does not know God because God is love.” He told you when you were younger, when you were worried what you wished to do was wrong.

Even now, many would judge it; thus, you had to remain secretive. It did offer a sense of adrenaline; you were not going to lie. But sometimes, you could imagine the scandalous news titles if things got out.

A Camerlengo and a Gendarmerie.

The Pope’s son and the daughter of the Pope’s bodyguard.

Straight out of the forbidden romance stories you used to read as a teenager before your interests shifted to more serious matters, such as psychology and criminology, to name a few.

Gentle, strong fingers caressed your cheek, snapping you from whatever world your mind had wandered into.

“What is on your mind, mi Angelo?” Patrick asked, looking at you with his beautiful deep blue eyes.

“Just stuff, you know how my mind is,” you explained, dismissing the seriousness of the topic.

“Thought I had knocked them out of you,” he smirked, shifting his body slightly, his soft member still within your caverns. “Perhaps I didn’t do a good job.”

Your chuckle was music to his ears, your beaming smile the sweetest image he could see. He wished this could be what he saw daily, not the grumpy old faces of the Priests. You were a ray of sun, sent by god to break through the dark clouds of his existence.

You were God’s gift, hidden behind the image of a simple low-born woman. Just like Mary Magdalene, you were more than you showed; he was the man you vowed to follow and love.

He offered his signature smile, letting you chuckle and brighten your mood while he admired you, as if you were the most beautiful painting he had ever seen.

His staring was not new; it was something he did when so many things were in his mind, and yet no bodily movement took place. Sometimes, you were out in public, and all he could do was stare at you from afar, hoping for the second your eyes would meet, and you would lower your head to hide your smile.

And sometimes, his staring was rather obvious to the men around him, especially his holy men. They were old men; they did not understand his feelings or his views, choosing to judge him for admiring the beauty of God, just as Adam admired the beauty of Eve after her creation.

“How is he?” you suddenly asked, your smile slowly fading. “Your father?”

The Pope’s health had declined in the past few months, and many feared for the worse. Medication was given in secret, and the world did not truly know, but deep down in their hearts, they feared it.

Pop Pius the XVI was a revolutionary, more open-minded than his predecessors. He did not cower at the face of advancing science but actually supported it, wishing to reduce the gap between religion and science.

He was a kind man, who adopted Patrick after his parents were killed in a bombing attack; and who allowed you to spent time with his new son, helping him learn this new life and language.

Despite being a woman, he even believed that you could make it to the Corp and follow your father’s footsteps.

Patrick sighed and returned to lay upon your chest, his ear pressed against your skin. “He is declining, day by day,” he confessed, his heart heavy. “I am afraid it won’t be long before the Father will take him back.”

Your hand through his hair was comforting, fingers gently massaging his scalp as your steady breathing calmed him down.

“When it happens, know I will be there for you, Patrick.” You whispered, gently kissing his head.

His response was to move his arms in a hug, keeping you closer as he chose to try to quiet his mind. He knew you both had to clean up, but you could do that later.

For now, he only wished to stay where he was, to cherish the feeling he only got when the two were left bare, with no secrets from one another.

Only this time, he held one: a secret he could not tell you. Perhaps one day he would, but for now, the burden had to be his and his alone.

He told himself, " There is no other choice," hoping this would help justify his actions before God's ever-seeing eye.

The day you dreaded happened a week after that sweet night with Patrick. You were with the Swiss Guard, accompanying your father to a meeting about increasing security measurements.

The phone call was sudden and went straight to the Commander’s Richter office. He picked it up, his face never giving away his emotions, even after the call ended. He looked at everyone in the room, his eyes cast down momentarily.

“His holy father is dead. He has passed in his sleep during the night,” he informed, forming a cross in respect.

Everyone followed except you, who were too shocked by the news to react in such a way. Your lips had parted, your eyes wide, and you swore you felt your heart rate spiking. But it was not because of the Pope’s death.

No, it was because of the pain you knew Patrick felt.

Patrick, you thought as you grabbed the silver cross hanging around your neck, his gift to you from years ago.

It took a week before you could even see him, for Vatican procedures were strict. He was inside preparing the funeral, destroying his father’s ring, and accepting the responsibilities that would happen when you arrived on the day of the Conclave.

And you... Well, you were busy yourself.

Cardinals from all over the world would fly for the funeral and then the Conclave, foreign security mixed with yours, while Vatican City would be filled with loyal believers who would come to pay their respects and cheer for the new Pope.

The Swiss Guard and the Gendarmerie would be spread thin, with every man available to help and ensure the outmost security for the holy faces of the Catholic Church. Meetings were held daily, and missions were sent often, and crime spiked now that the crowds were gathering.

But after one week of thinking and longing for the man that held your heart, your chance came.

His visit to your house was unexpected, starting with a sudden knock on your closed door. It was so unexpected that you grabbed your gun, ready to defend yourself if the visitor ended up being a foe, not a friend.

Yet all your trainings went silent upon opening the door and seeing a red-eyed, tired Patrick standing there, soaked clothes sticking to his skin while the rain outside raged with ferocity.

“My god, Patrick!” you exclaimed and placed the gun on a nearby little table before you grabbed his wet sleeve, pulling him into your house.

Your door shut with little more force than necessary, and you put the bolt in place before you turned to face him. His gaze remained downcast, his shivering body suffering beneath his wet clothes and the raindrops that had mixed with his salty tears.

Your next move was rushed. You grabbed a white towel from the cupboard before wrapping it around him. You felt the water seeping through the towel and felt how his body shivered due to the cold.

“Oh, Patrick,” you said gently, moving him to the armchair near the lighted fireplace and helping him sit.

“I am... so-sorry for co-coming this late...” his teeth faintly clutered with one another as his hand held the towel closer, trying to warm himself.

“Do not be ridiculous.” You knelt before him, your hands placed on his knees. “And don’t apologize. Patrick, you might be a man of God, but you are also human; don’t forget that.”

Your moves were soft. You slowly helped him remove his wet shoes and socks before grabbing another towel to start drying them off. You let him stare at you as you slowly started to take care of him, starting from low.

Like Jesus cleaning Judas’ feet, you were doing the same, unbeknown to yourself that you two represented those two more than one would think of.

You had just stood up when he did as well, his arms wrapping around you in a desperate and needy hug—one of a wounded child asking for comfort and safety. You returned the hug without hesitation, rubbing his back above the white towel, and you felt the silent sobs he tried hard to suppress.

“Let us get you something to change, Patrick.” You whispered to his ear, your heart aching for the wounded man in your arms.

He nodded but spoke no words, his body and mind tired after all he had been through, and more would come. Thankfully for him, you would be there like you always had been.

Chapter Text

The days passed, and the news of the Pope's death reached every corner of the world. People posted stories on social media and wrote letters, and the news channels were relentless.

Chapter Text

You chose to visit the small private chapel behind Peter's Church early in the morning of the following day.

From the outside, it was nothing outstanding, and inside, it lacked the beauty and majesty of other chapels and churches.

Yet it was a perfect little place for you to pray, go to confession, or just be with your thoughts. Everyone in the Swiss Guard, you and your team, visited that place when they needed to escape and open up to the Father above.

You were one of those who sometimes felt the need to talk out loud and, deep down, hoped someone was listening, even though they might never reply.

Considering the chaos with the Preferiti and the antimatter, you expected the Chapel to be busy, yet you were met with silence upon entering. Up ahead, barely visible by the dim light of the lights and the stained windows, you noticed someone else present.

Patrick stood near the altar, his back facing the door, and his head bowed deep in prayer.

This was not an unusual sight, for the chapel had often been your risky secret place to meet up, especially when you wanted to confess.

Thus, you walked deeper into the Chapel; barely a noise was caused by your steps, for you did not wish to disturb the fragile peace.

But he felt you, he always did.

"You walk quieter than most ghosts,” Patrick said without turning to face you.

His words brought a gentle smile to your face. "But you always hear me.”

He turned, his expression unreadable, but his eyes caught the flicker of candlelight in yours.

Beautiful blue eyes scanned you from top to bottom, noticing your usual formal outfit, as expected by Italians and their strong sense of fashion.

"So, Langdon.” He tossed the ball in your direction.

“What about him?”

“You said his mind could untangle the divine.” He commented dryly.

You kept looking at him, an eyebrow arched as if you could read his thoughts. You could not, but you sure as hell could predict his intentions and where this discussion was leading.

And so, you chose to amuse yourself. “I said he had an interesting mind. And a decent jaw line.”

Honestly, you had never met Professor Langdon from close, but you had read his books, watched clips from his speeches and conference notes.

Appearance-wise, he was intriguing, but he was a little too old for you. Plus, your heart was already beating for someone else despite the risks involved.

Patrick's lips twitched, but not into a smile. He walked toward you slowly, something deliberate in the measured steps. If he tried to intimidate you or passively assert some dominance, he was not succeeding.

“I’ve heard you talk about his books." He started again, his words carefully chosen. "I’ve seen them—stacked on your desk, underlined, dog-eared. As if his words held some deeper truth.”

You remained where you were, chin up in mild defiance. “They helped me understand the past, the history of the Church. Our history. It's shadows. It's stories.”

“And you never needed mine?” he questioned, his voice much quieter now.

That landed heavier than you expected.

Your mood for jokes and teasing quickly disappeared as your gaze and your voice softened. "Patrick…”

He stopped a breath away, the tension between the two of you stretching like a wire pulled taut. His eyes flicked to your lips, then your eyes again—searching, holding... for something.

Patrick inhaled softly. “Sometimes I forget what I’ve vowed. You make it very easy to forget.”

You did not retreat. Instead, your hand, whether by will or instinct, grazed against the fabric of his cassock, just over his ribs—fleeting, but grounding.

Your next words came as low as a whisper. “And what would you remember, if you didn’t?”

His hand lifted, hesitantly, and his fingers brushed your cheek. It was a featherlight touch that lingered, leaving a ghost trace where the fingers touched.

It would be so easy and quick, just for a moment... a reminder of the sweet apple of Eden that was tempted before his eyes.

He leaned in just enough that your breath caught in your throat and your lips parted in response, ready to welcome him into this forbidden act...

But then the faint click of shoes echoes from the corridor.

You moved apart like guilty flames snuffed by cold air, like teenagers caught in the act. Quickly, both fixed your clothes and pretended not to have almost kissed in the house of god.

A second later, a cardinal passed by. He eyed you two carefully but continued walking, wondering why you were alone in the chapel.

It was not uncommon for them to find Patrick with you, often alone in isolated and quiet places, having just stopped you from acting upon your sinful feelings.

They had talked behind your backs, but they had no proof of acts they thought you engaged in in secret. They often thought that it would pass as Patrick was maturing, but they were wrong, so wrong.

Once the area was clear, you both breathed a sigh of relief.

"I had better get going. Professor Langdon should be arriving soon." You let him know.

"You are the one to pick him up?" He questioned, a faint mistrust visible momentarily in his blue eyes.

You did not notice it. "Yes, I will, and Papa will go fetch Vittoria. The scientist on the antimatter."

He nodded, lips pressed to form a thin line. He was not pleased, but he did not comment.

In the end, Patrick took a step back. "Stay safe," was all he said, confusing you.

You could tell he wished to say more, to express some deeper thoughts that were haunting him... but you didn't.

Yet you did not force him or try to chase ghosts. You let it be, for now. Anything else could be discussed once things had settled and that threat had passed.

"Don't worry, I always am," you offered him a reassuring smile and turned, walking towards the open Chapel door; your heart feeling heavy.

The Vatican Airport was busy, very busy, and crowded. The lines seemed endless, the taxis worked nonstop, and the noise was exhausting.

Thankfully for you, Robert was flying with the private helicopter, allowing you to wait with your father's car in an empty landing spot.

You had borrowed the car, since your father happened to return just as you had to leave. Something you were glad for, because you doubted that Professor Langdon would enjoy a motorcycle ride to the Swiss Guard HQ.

At last, the familiar helicopter landed.

Claudio stepped down first, black bags under his eyes from lack of sleep, something that became more prominent with the frown he wore.

You offered him a small greeting smile, but your charm did not work on his tired self. He merely walked your way, his gaze locked on the back door of the simple black car.

Soon after, the guest of the hour climbed down, and your smile remained.

Professor Robert Langdon, in the flesh, walked slowly towards you.

Pushing your body off the car you leaned on, you headed to meet him halfway; your coat flapping faintly from the wind caused by the still actively spinning helicopter blades.

"Proffesore Langdon," you greeted him, lifting your voice slightly so he could hear you. "I am Lieutenant Olivetti, Gendarmerie. Welcome to Vatican City."

A formal handshake took place between the two of you.

"Thank you," he said, studying you. "I didn't know the Gendarmerie accepted women in their ranks."

Your smile turned into a cheeky smirk. "I am the test subject. My success will open up doors for the future."

Robert nodded, silently surprised by your confession. You could tell he agreed with the idea of having women in positions of safety and national security.

You both started to walk towards the car, steps in sync.

"I must admit, I am surprised I got called to the Vatican nonetheless," he said, forever honest and quick to question what he did not know.

"I was the one who suggested you."

His steps grew slower, and his gaze fell on you once again. "You suggested me?"

"And vouched for you, but yes." Your smirk remained.

"Why?"

"Are you always that mistrustful, Professore?" You questioned as you reached the car.

"It doesn't hurt to be cautious."

You did not comment or answer and merely motioned for him to get in. You entered first, getting comfortable behind the wheel, and waited.

Once he climbed in, he noticed a familiar book on the dashboard. He picked it up, seeing his name as the author. A flicker to the first page and saw his signature on the paper.

"You have read my book," Robert realised as the engine rolled to life.

"And paid to have your signed copy. Do you see now why I suggested you, professore?" Your smirk remained, and you caught sight of Claudio in the mirror.

He was sitting in the back seat, actively rolling his eyes at the two of you, still in a bad mood.

You paid him no mind and merely started to drive, grabbing your phone in the process. You dialled a number without watching, muscles working in memory.

Your father picked up after the third ringing sound. "I got him. We are on our way back. Straight to the Swiss Guard?"

"Yes. Commander wants to be present before he does anything."

"Understood. See you soon,"

With a quick glance at Robert, you could tell he is watching you, perhaps trying to understand what you are saying. But he was not speaking the language, and you tended to speak faster with your father, both of whom were used to that speed.

You parked the car at its reserved spot and stepped outside, your two passengers following suit. Not far down the busy street, a familiar person was waiting for you.

Without another word, you headed towards your father with the two men nearby. While Claudio was quick to follow, Robert slung down and inspected the buildings surrounding you. Up ahead, he could see Saint Peter's Square and the Basilica.

Once you stopped, only then did Robert pay attention to the black-haired man with the thick but well-maintained beard. Like most Italians, especially those of his profession, he dressed properly, putting Robert's more casual American style to shame.

Even his body build seemed so different from Robert's, and the American Symbologist suspected some armed guard or security as a job position.

"Professor Langdon, welcome to Vatican City, " your father said, his English having a deeper accent than yours. "Ernesto Olivetti, Inspector Generale of the Vatican Police Force." They shook hands.

Robert turned to look at you. “Olivetti. Any relation?”

You stepped forward first, crisp and professional. "Inspector Ernesto Olivetti is my father.”

To your surprise, Robert offered a half smile. “Explains the posture.”

Ernesto barely reacted, nodding briskly to Langdon. “Professor Langdon. We’ll speak inside.” He said, as always, serious and professional.

While you were more open and warming up to foreigners, most Italians, including your father, were not that much.

Of course, there were others like Richter who were a bit too prideful and had a strong sense of superiority.

Langdon glanced between the two of you, clearly noting the resemblance now—the same steel in the eyes, the posture, the unspoken edge of protectiveness.

Your father did not wait any longer and gently motioned for your group to continue. "This way, please, we'll meet in the headquarters of the Swiss Guard."

Robert arched an eyebrow. "I assumed you were Swiss Guard."       

Walking by his side, you shook your head."No. The Gendarmerie is responsible for everything inside the Vatican walls, with the exception of the security of His Holiness and the Apostolic Palace. That is Swiss Guard."

"What of those that accompany the Pope during his travels?"

"If it is inside the Italian country, it is usually the Swiss Guard. However, if it is abroad, it is usually a high-ranking member of the Gendarmerie due to their training and knowledge of foreign affairs and security." 

It was generally slightly confusing, so you did not mind explaining. Plus, Professor Langdon was genuinely curious, and hey, if you were going to work together, it would be better for him to know a little bit more about the existing police structure.

"So, it's just the two forces now? Even with the upcoming Conclave?"

Your father glanced at him, silently impressed. Robert might have asked many questions, but he was asking the right ones, proving his intelligence.

"No," he chose to reply to the American guest. "The Commandante Generale of the Roman Carabinieri has joined us as well, in an advisory capacity, and the Guarda Nacionale have sent a representative."

Once again, Robert nodded in understanding. "So jurisdictionally, this is-" he hesitated to continue.

Your father smirked. "A God damn nightmare."

You could not help but chuckle, for your father had used the exact same words you had when you found out just how many parties would be involved in all of this.

Chapter Text

One last turn to a corner, and from afar, one could see a squat stone building labelled. "Offizia della Guarda Suiza."

Two Swiss guardsmen stood outside the entrance to the building as your small group approached.

They're somewhat comically dressed in puffy tunics vertically striped in brilliant blue and gold, with matching pantaloons and spats, topped by a black beret.     

The sight, while usual to you, drew a smile from Robert, who found the imagery rather amusing. Your father and you took notice but did not comment, letting him have his moment.

You did not have to flash any badge or credentials; your faces were familiar enough to the two guards who raised their eight-foot swords, allowing you all to enter the building.

Before one could reach the Swiss Guard offices, though, one had to pass through some corridors. The most famous one, right outside the main building was surrounded by different works of art.

Marble statues reflected the light as they stood entirely white and grand, a rare sight for those raised away from the Vatican City.

As you walked past them, Robert chose to study them; his eyes falling on the fig leaves covering the men's private areas while the rest of the bodies were completely nude.     

"The Great Castration," Robert said out of nowhere as he walked between you and your father. 

His sudden comment drew both of your attentions, but it was your father who chose to voice his reaction.

"I beg your pardon?" He exclaimed, looking at the American professor.

"1857. Pius IX felt that the male form might inspire lust, so he obtained a hammer and chisel and vandalised two hundred statues. These plaster fig leaves were added later." The professor explained.

This amused you. "Well, perhaps he was not wrong. After all, some things are better left covered," you commented, earning his attention.

"Modesty, even in stone."

You chuckled. "We are men of God, professore but we enjoy our establishments." 

Now it was his turn to chuckle, amused by your words. Slowly, he was warming up to you and felt that at least there was someone he could talk to about this and not get criticised. 

Your father oversaw you, arching a single eyebrow at the sudden friendliness and connection between the two of you. He knew that Robert was one of your idols, since you would talk nonstop about his achievements after finishing each of his books.

Yet he did not seem to truly approve of what was happening before his eyes. However, he did not approve of a lot of things that had to do with men around you if he were to be honest.

Even with Patrick, he silently sent his warnings whenever he saw the two of you together. But because of their different positions and the respect they commanded, no accurate verbal exchange ever took place further than the formal one.

At last, you reached a heavy steel door with a security keycard lock beside it. Your father was the first to stop, rather suddenly.

"Are you anti-Catholic, Professor Langdon?" He questioned, quickly going into that investigator mode he was famous for.

This caught Robert's attention. "Me?" He questioned, but quickly realised why the question was so personal. "No, I'm anti-vandalism."

"I urge you to guard your tone in there. The Swiss Guard is a calling, not a profession, and it fosters a certain zeal. Commander Rochter, the head of the Guard, is a deeply spiritual man, and he was close to the late Pope. Understood?"

While the tone was slightly scolding and strict, Robert could sense a warning behind it. Warning that he had to keep in mind, passively preparing him for what he was about to face.

At the same time, it told him a lot about where your father stood in all of this. He was not like the Swiss Guard, and for that, Robert was truly thankful.

"I just hope I can help." He added after a momentary silence.

"I hope so, too."

Upon entering, your father and you walked ahead; familiar with the paths after years of working in them, even when you did not like it. Yet while your father kept his attention ahead, you slowed down your steps and glanced above your shoulder, ensuring that Robert was following you.

The headquarters of the Swiss Guard was located in a lushly adorned Renaissance library, crammed with sophisticated communication and surveillance equipment. It's crowded, with Swiss Guards in suits and uniformed Carabinieri, as well as Vatican Police, crammed around various stations, some working together, others arguing, mainly in Italian.

Eventually, you arrived at what seemed like a small waiting area with different cramped stations all around. Up ahead, one would find the single path to the Commander’s office.

Your father came to a halt and looked at Robert. “Wait here.” He ordered him and then spared you one last glance, silently passing his message.

Make sure he stays here.

You nodded silently

Robert looked at the chaos around you and leaned faintly as you stood side by side. “Your father was not joking when he called it a nightmare,” he dared to comment, amusing you faintly.

“And this is on a calm day,” you replied, shocking him momentarily before he realised you were joking.

Once he did, the faintest smile of amusement formed on his face, and some of the nerves he had started to get were slowly going away.

The American Professor, then, chose to search for your father, only to see him talking to another man. This one was tall, fair-haired, around sixty, weathered like steel -- maybe "tempered" was the better word.

Before he could question you to confirm his suspicions, you beat him to it.

“Yes, that is him,” you answered him, back straight and hands on your side.

You saw Rochter eyeing you from the other end of this vast room, still displeased that you had managed to win that argument and bring Robert into the case.

And while you and Rochter eyed each other like two stubborn goats ready to butt heads over nothing, Robert took notice of a woman sitting on a waiting chair close by.

This woman was none other than Dr. Vetra, whom your father had picked up from the airport not so long ago.

Eventually, Rocher approached you with your father, making the female scientist stand up.

The Commander immediately focused on the Italian woman, extending his hand. “Ms. Vetra? I'm Commander Rocher, Commandante Principale of the Swiss Guard. Thank you for coming.” His accent had a hint of Swiss/French tone when he spoke English.   

Once they shook hands, only then did Rocher choose to acknowledge the other newcomer in the room. He silently looked him up and down, clearly unimpressed by his casual, lax style or his presence in this investigation.

Yet, remained mannered, for now. “Professor Langdon?” he questioned, just in case.

Robert, who had spent years around people, had learnt how to recognise when one did not fully like him. It was usually helped by the fact that those people never attempted even to hide it.

Commander Rocher was no exception.

Yet he answered him. “That's right.”

“Thank God, the symbologist is here,” Rocher replied sarcastically. “Ms. Vetra, this way, please.”

While Vittoria was led across the room to the surveillance monitor, Robert felt puzzled by the cold shoulder. He looked at the father and the daughter of the Gendarmerie, who both seemed displeased by such rude behaviour.

Yet, it was your father who seemed to understand more, and such he turned to acknowledge both you and your idol.

“There's been a development. We received another threat from the kidnapper.” He informed, making you look at him.

“When?” you questioned, though you feared you already knew the answer.

“Less than an hour ago,” was your father’s reply, before he motioned to follow him, heading also for the surveillance monitor room.

The latest threat, apparently, was a new live feed of the stolen canister. This time, the place had changed, and the lights indicating the canister’s battery level had dropped significantly, a thing that worried you.

Hearing Vittoria gasp made you realise you had every right to be worried.

Silent you remained, merely watching the full story on how the famous CERN lost such an important thing, let alone to the hands of an anti-religious fanatic who most likely wished to blow up the whole Vatican City.

“... the canister was stolen from our lab around midnight last night. The intruder killed my research partner, Leonardo Bentivoglio, and mutilated him to bypass security.” She explained, only to receive blank stares from all of you. “We use retinal scanners.”

Once again, there is silence, but only from the men in the room.

Something clicked in your mind, and your eyes grew wide as you realised what she meant. “My god,” you exclaimed, earning their attention. “They cut off his eye.”

Vittoria nodded in confirmation, causing the men to cringe at the thought.

“That canister contains an extremely combustible substance called antimatter. We need to locate it immediately or evacuate Vatican City.”

Now it was Rocher’s turn to join in this discussion. “I'm quite familiar with incendiaries,” he started, making you roll your eyes, only to receive a warning look from your father. “I haven't heard of antimatter.”

“It's new, energy research technology. It uses a reverse polarity vacuum to filter out anti-matter positrons generated in particle accelerators in the Large Hadron Collider at CERN.”

Once again, no one replied, making you sigh. “As much as I understand the complexity of it, Ms. Vetra. Please explain it plainer, or we will lose time looking at one another.”

Your brave words earned a glare from Rocher and an amused smirk from Robert, yet you paid no man's attention. You wished to know what was going on, so you could help and be prepared for what would most likely come.

Thankfully for you, Vittoria understood and took no insult. She pointed at the screen. “ The anti-matter is suspended, there, in an airtight nanocomposite shell with electromagnets at each end. However, if it were to fall out of suspension and come into contact with matter — say, the bottom of the canister — the two opposing forces would annihilate one another. Violently.”

You nodded. “And what might cause it to fall out of suspension?”

“The battery is going dead. Which will… In six hours and eleven minutes.”

The limited amount of time given suddenly made the weight on your shoulder feel heavier and your heart beat faster. You had suspected you had limited time, but not that limited.

Swallowing silently, you looked at your father, who, despite not understanding all the fancy words, understood enough to know that time was literally of the essence.

And none of you liked to work under such pressure, for mistakes could always happen, and they could be lethal.

Vittoria eyed the camera fees carefully. "Where is that camera? Number eighty-six?"

"It’s wireless. It, too, was stolen." Your father informed. "That could be anywhere inside the Vatican walls."

"You've got to find it."

"We're a bit preoccupied with four missing cardinals at the moment," Rocher interfered.

But the scientist persisted. "You don't understand. An annihilation is a cataclysmic event. It would be a blinding explosion, equivalent to about five megatons. The blast radius alone would be…"

Suddenly, Robert spoke up after having been quiet for far too long. "Vatican City will be consumed by light."

This made everyone go quiet and look at him. Your father and Vittoria held a surprise, Rocher's suspicion. 

"Those are the exact words the kidnapper used," the commander informed.

A smirk formed on your lips before you could stop it, for at that precise moment… You were the winner. At that exact moment, you saw Rocher glancing at you with annoyance as he realised that the American professor he disliked was far more valuable and capable than he thought.

Without hesitation but with a silent, bitter retreat, Rocher guided everyone into his office. Gathering around his desk, he played the same video of the kidnapped Cardinals for Vittoria and Robert. 

"...and then bring your church down upon you. Vatican City will be consumed by light."

Rocher paused the video, and everyone turned to look at Robert.

"It's an ancient Illuminati threat. The destruction of Vatican City through light. The four pillars, he probably means the kidnapped cardinals." He explained and then turned to look at you. "You didn't mention they were the Preferiti."

"It wasn't as important to mention at the first meeting," you explained, justifying yourself. "They are still important human lives we have to save."

Robert looked at you, and you looked at him, a few seconds of silence passing by. 

He was processing what you said, and deep down, he felt that you were not lying to defend yourself. No, you truly cared for human lives that were in danger, not the ranking they held in the Catholic Church.

His respect for you increased and became visible in a faint nod of his head.

Then, the American professor turned to Vittoria, who had been silently watching but was clearly unaware of the talk and the unmentioned titles.

Thus, he chose to help. "The favourites to be chosen as the new Pope." He looked at Rocher. "Play it again

"... we will destroy your four pillars... brand your Preferiti and sacrifice them on the altars of science…"

"Stop it there." The video was paused. "Brand them, another Illuminati legend. This one says there is a set of five brands, each one an ambigram. The first four are the fundamental

elements of science -- earth, air, fire, water."

You nodded. "And the fifth?"

"The fifth -- is a mystery… Maybe it's this." He grabbed a folded paper from his pocket, unfolding it to show that it was the same ambigram with the Illuminati word on it.

Rocher finally seemed to believe and hear him. "He said they'd be killed publicly. In churches."

Robert nodded, not surprised to hear it. "Revenge for La Purga."

"La Purga?"

"Don't you guys read your own history?" Robert asked, and upon seeing the clueless faces of the men around him, he glanced at Vittoria and you.

The female scientist did not seem to know the topic, but you… Robert would recognise anywhere that look in your eyes.

His student had the same when they knew something more about a topic, but hesitated to speak up first.

His gaze persisted to the point that everyone else was looking at you now. 

You sighed in defeat. "1668. The church kidnapped four Illuminati scientists and branded their chests with the symbol of the cross. To ‘purge their sins.’ Murdered them and left their bodies in the street as a warning to others to stop questioning church rulings on scientific matters."

You observed the people around you, with only Robert showing pride that there was someone whose head was not buried beneath the sand.

Rocher sent you a passive glare, already offended by such accusations.

Your father looked impressed, though any comments he wished to make on why you knew such information were held for later.

Now it was not the right time.

"You see," Robert took the lead. "It was after La Purga that a darker, more violent Illuminati emerged. This sounds like retribution," he then looked at Rocher. "Is there any more?"

The commander did not answer but merely hit play again.

"... A shining star at the end of the Path of Illumination."

Suddenly, Professor Langdon looked up sharply. "The Path of Illumination?" The video was paused. "I need to get into the Vatican Archives."

Chapter Text

The moment those words left Robert’s mouth, the tension in the room skyrocketed. Thick enough to be cut by a knife, Rocher dared to glare at Olivetti, forcing the Inspector to look down, embarrassed.

Even you could not help but bite your tongue to remain quiet, feeling guilty for the silent scolding your father received.

Inspector Olivetti was the one to break the silence in the room, since the American professor was under his watch. “Professor, this is not the appropriate moment to “

Your father’s kind approach was not approved of or appreciated by Rocher, who interrupted him rather rudely.

“Your petition has been denied seven times, Mr. Langdon.” He told your guest.

To your surprise, Robert was already interrupting. “This has nothing to do with that,” he inhaled once, increasing his speed as he explained his reasoning. “The Path of Illumination is an ancient trail through Rome that leads to the Church of the Illumination, a secret place where Illuminati members could meet in safety.  If I can find the Segno, the sign that marks the start of the Path, I'm willing to bet the four churches along it are where he intends to murder your cardinals. If we can get to one of them before he does, we can stop it. However, to find the start of the path, I need to enter the Archives.

Your smirk came naturally, pride blooming in your chest as you, Robert, gained ground, successfully pushing Rocher back with just your well-structured argument.

But of course, you celebrated too early. The Commander was not a man to throw his weapon down so easily, especially to a foreigner he saw both as a threat to his faith and as an inferior atheist being.

“Even if I wanted to help you,” he started, quickly turning the tables in his favour. “Access is only by written decree of the curator and the Board of Vatican Librarians.”

Unfortunately for him, Robert was too good at his job. “Or by papal mandate.” He reminded Rocher.

 “Yes. But as you've no doubt heard, the Holy Father is-“

You could not help but smirk, standing almost in the middle of the banter, your head wiping left and right to keep up with the two prideful men. Like goats ready to butt heads in a show of dominance or sea lions that pushed out their chests prepared to fight for territory... Those two were at each other’s throats.

You had never seen someone so casually talking back to Commander Rocher, let alone winning that argument.

And then, Robert dropped something that had escaped you in the chaos of the news.                         

“What about Il Camerlengo? Let me talk to him.” The American Professor said, exposing just how well he knew the church that had tried to put him on the blacklist.

Momentarily, Rocher glanced at you. “The Camerlengo?” he focused back on Robert. “He's just a priest here, the former Pope's Chamberlain.”

“Doesn't the power of the Holy See rest with him during tempore sede vacante?”

Sudden silence, Robert owning and ending this banter without even sweating.

Your father looked at you, surprised. Shit, this guy’s good, his gaze was telling you.

You lifted your chin, your smirk more graceful than before. I told you so; you silently conveyed it back to him, your gaze conveying the message.

But then, you noticed the clock and realised just how much time had been spent arguing over such simple matters. Robert seemed to do the same, glancing at his children's Mickey Mouse watch.

“I will make the call,” you spoke up, interrupting the tense silence and earning everyone’s attention.

Your father merely nodded, letting you go outside to call in private, while Rocher glared at your retreating. He truly disliked your connecting with Patrick at the moment... well, more than he usually did.

Only Robert frowned and stared at you as you walked out of the room, cell phone in hand. How a mere Gendarmerie Lieutenant could call the Camerlengo was beyond him at the moment.

But he would find out, eventually.

When Patrick received a call from you, he was surprised. Technically, phones were not allowed during such tense and holy times, but he was the exception.

Yet for you to call him, it seemed strange. A part of him, however, felt joy at seeing your contact flashing across the small screen. Perhaps you wished to meet again, a fleeting, small moment where he could hold you again.

And then, when he picked up the call, his disappointment sank deeper within his heart. You had not called to arrange a secret meeting because you had missed him. No, you had called to ask a favour: to let your precious American professor have access to the Vatican Archives.

He did not give the okay right away; he could not.

He asked you to bring him over, so Patrick could look into the eyes of the man who had gotten your interest. The man whose books you looked after better than the holy bible he had gifted you.

The man who had openly disgraced the house of god with his previous actions, chasing after false rumours based on lies made up by the Priory of Sion.

The Papal Offices were regal, ancient, and sacred to many loyal Christians, especially to the citizens of the Vatican. With a spectacular view of St. Peter's Square, the ancient books, and the history of the different popes who had inhabited that office, it was a rare jewel, a treat for Robert.

He let his eyes roam over the intricate design that had not changed much despite the passage of years, preserving its authenticity and power against the ever-progressing world.

And in the middle of the room, his back turned on them even as they entered, was the man of the hour.

He was dressed in a simple black cassock, and from the faint view of his profile, Robert could tell that he was not as old as many others in the Catholic Church.

“His Holiness once told me that a Pope is a man torn between two worlds...” he started, his back turned to his guests as his gaze remained outside the window, to the gathered followers that had come to rejoice when their latest Pope would be elected. “...the real world and the divine.”

Robert noticed the soft Spanish Accent that lingered when he spoke English, suspecting that he was not a native Italian, like the majority of the people around him. Among the gathered group, your father, Vittoria, Rocher, and he; only he and the Camerlengo were of foreign origin.

“He warned that any church that ignored reality would not survive to enjoy the divine.” He continued, finally turning to acknowledge them properly.

Patrick eyed the foreign man carefully, his blue eyes catching the incoming sunlight; the shadows cast on his profile truly giving the image of a man blessed by the beyond.

In his eyes, Robert seemed simple, boring—an American like all the others. He tried to look to find out what on him had caught your interest. The man did not even appear to be competent or knowledgeable.

The opposite, Patrick would argue.

And yet he did not comment on any of his thoughts, merely let his eyes fall on your standing form, a little longer than a simple Carmelengo could.

Despite the professionalism and the men standing next to you, a small smile graced your pink lips; a silent joy in seeing him again, even if only a few hours had passed since your last meeting.

He saw, and you could tell by the faint glow in his eyes, that he cherished your presence all the same.

However, he had other matters to attend to. “It seems the real world is upon us tonight.  I'm familiar with Illuminati lore and the legend of the brandings. La Purga is a dark stain on the church's history; I'm not surprised this ghost has come back to haunt us.”

Patrick moved to sit behind the massive desk, and if he seemed young before, he now seemed like a child, overcome by the position he was in.  

But when he spoke to Rocher, he was in command. “Commandante, have you begun a search for this explosive device?”

Rocher nodded ever so faintly. “Of course, but it could be anywhere, and the safety of the cardinals is my primary concern at the moment.”

 The Camerlengo did not seem pleased with that answer. “The Sistine Chapel is a fortress, as long as the cardinals are in conclave, your security concerns are at a minimum. Devote as much of your resources as possible to a search for “

Of course, Rocher, being Rocher, did not take kindly to others giving him orders. “Signore, if you're about to suggest we make a naked-eye search of all of Vatican City, I must-“

And in that moment, something dark passed over Patrick’s face. The boy someone might see was suddenly gone; as a man who had seen war too young, emerged.

“Commander.” He interrupted him sharply. “Though I am not His Holiness, when you address me, you are addressing this office. Do you understand?”

Momentary silence before Rocher nodded his head, slowly, pridefully. “Yes, Padre.”

The soft smile you had for him was replaced by a known smirk you tried to hide by turning your head slightly to the side. Teeth found and bit the inside of your cheek to contain any sound, to help mask your amusement and your excitement at Patrick’s strict tone.

Was it wrong that you loved when his voice became more commanding? When he was truly standing up to his role, reminding everyone of the power that had been entrusted to him?

Perhaps at that moment it was, but your shame remained hidden, silent. Only Patrick seemed to notice, feeling the pride within his chest growing like a candle fuelled by the right breeze; its flame shooting up towards the distant starry sky.

And in that pride, he also felt a sense of satisfaction, knowing your thoughts too well by now. Thoughts that no one else would ever know. Thoughts only he made reality behind the closed doors of your apartment.

Patrick cleared his throat.  “Good. Now, you said the image on the screen was illuminated by artificial light. May I suggest methodically cutting the power to various sections of the City.     When the image on your screen goes dark, you'll have a more specific idea of the device's location.”         

Rocher looked at your father, silently admitting that this was a good idea and one that apparently neither of the two men had thought about. They did not look at you, but even if they had, you would share their thoughts and opinions.

For such a plan had not crossed your mind. Not with all the worries and thoughts you currently carry, due to the impending doom of the Vatican by a weapon that would put the Atomic Bomb to shame.        

Without another word, Rocher left to return to HQ, to pass on the new order and start cutting off the lights per district.

You watched him go, your father doing the same. Your eyes met, the same thought passing through your mind.

Perhaps there is still a chance we can make it.

Robert did not speak but caught the relieved, faint gaze between the two of you. He did not have to be a psychic or a medium to suspect what you had in mind, let alone how you felt now that a better plan had come forward.

However, none would matter unless he could decipher the clues and find the true path of Illumination. And to do that, he needed access to the archives, which was the sole reason you were in the Papal Offices.

He focused back on Patrick, ready to open his mouth and remind this young man why they had come in the first place.

The Camerlengo noticed, having silently been observing the faint uneasiness of the American Professor. Yet he did not give him what he needed, what he wished to ask; even though he knew too well, for you had informed him during your call.

Thus. He turned to the only other woman in the room, beside you, successfully ignoring Robert. “Ms. Vetra.    Besides yourself and your research partner, who knew about your antimatter project?”

“Only the director of CERN. But Leonardo kept detailed journals; if he told anyone else about what we were doing, he would have made a note of it.”

He paused for a moment, as if the mention of journals was something he had not thought of before, and in a way, he hadn’t. Yet with the slyness of a fox, he masked any thoughts and worries.

“ Do you have these journals?”

 “I can have them flown here from Geneva in an hour.”

Patrick nodded and turned the phone on his desk to face her. He silently motioned for her to approach, use it to contact her colleagues in Geneva and arrange the arrival of the journals. A glance at your father prompted him to follow Vittoria to ensure she provided the proper address and that someone from the Gendarmerie would directly pick them up and bring them to her.

And when it was all over, when the female scientist nodded her head in confirmation, only then did Patrick turn to face Robert.

“May we speak in private, Mr. Langdon?” he questioned, loud enough for everyone else in the room to hear.

Your father and Vittoria started to leave the office, and you were about to follow when you heard his voice calling your name.

“Wasn’t you, Lieutenant, who suggested Mr. Langdon to help in this research?” Patrick asked, keeping the formalities.

You turned to face him. “Yes, Padre.”

He nodded. “Then you may stay. Please.”

Your father did not question, though he sure arched an eyebrow at the sudden formal approach and name Patrick used. He had never recalled the young man calling you anything but your first name, despite your father’s disapproval.

He looked at you once, seeing the certainty behind your dark eyes. That was enough for him, and he gently escorted Vittoria out of the room, allowing the two guards to close the doors and stand outside the now blocked room.

The grand double doors shut with a quiet finality, sealing the three of you inside the stillness of the Papal Office. It was Robert who broke first, turning to Patrick with calm urgency.

“Mr. Langdon, you're correct that I may grant you access to the Archives,” Patrick began, voice neutral.

Robert stepped forward instinctively, too quick to hope. “Thank you, Padre.”

“I said you're correct that I may, not that I will.” Patrick’s words were sharper this time, and his gaze did not waver. “Christianity’s most sacred codices are housed there. Given your… recent history with the Church, I must ask you a question first.”

You tensed.

The words felt wrong in your ears, as if the man who had kissed you in secret just hours ago had suddenly grown colder, more distant. You had hoped—perhaps foolishly—that Patrick would show Robert some leniency for your sake.

But now, standing behind his desk like a man cloaked in divine authority, he looked every bit the guardian of sacred secrets.

Your lips parted, about to defend Robert—to protect your judgment—but a single glance from Patrick silenced you.

It was not cruel. It was controlled. A glance you knew well: unspoken command, a firm reminder that trust must sometimes mean silence.

He turned back to Robert. “Do you believe in God, Mr. Langdon?”

Robert hesitated, the weight of the question settling like dust on ancient marble.

“Father, I simply believe that religions can often—”

“I didn’t ask if you believe what man says about God,” Patrick cut in. “I asked if you believe in God.”

Robert inhaled. “I’m an academic. My mind tells me I will never understand God.”

“And your heart?”

Robert’s eyes flicked toward you—just for a second—before he answered. “Tells me I’m not meant to.”

A long silence followed.

Patrick said nothing. His face was unreadable. But something flickered behind those blue eyes—disappointment, perhaps. Or resignation.

Then, Robert added, more softly, “I believe that faith is a gift… one I have not been fortunate enough to receive.”

It was a quiet admission, honest in a way you hadn’t expected. Patrick studied him for a moment longer, then stepped forward.

He placed a hand on Robert’s shoulder, firm but not unfriendly. “Be delicate with our treasures.”

His hand fell, and his eyes shifted to you.

“You are to be responsible for him—and for the Archives—Lieutenant Olivetti.”

You nodded, your voice calm but relieved. “Of course, Padre.”

“Mr. Langdon,” Patrick added, “May I have a private word with the Lieutenant?”

Robert glanced at you. He sensed something more was at play, but chose to say nothing. He merely nodded and turned, exiting the room in silence.

The door closed behind him.

The moment you were alone, Patrick turned.

There was no mask now. No Camerlengo. No robe of office. Only the man, the conflicted man who had once held your trembling hands in the dark and prayed with you when your faith faltered.

“You admire him,” he said, voice low and flat.

It wasn’t a question.

Your brow knitted. “I admire his work.”

A humourless smile curved his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Is that what you told yourself about me?”

Your breath hitched.

He stepped closer. Deliberate. Slow. His hands clasped neatly behind his back, like a confessor resisting temptation.

“Patrick,” you whispered, the warning caught somewhere between affection and frustration.

“Do you trust him?” he asked.

“Yes.”

The word came too fast, too instinctively. And it landed hard.

His jaw flexed, and for a moment, something dangerous passed behind his eyes. Not anger—no, this was older, deeper. Possessiveness is rooted in fear. Love corrupted by isolation. Faith tangled with flesh.

He closed the last of the distance.

“I trust you,” he murmured, voice quiet but sharp enough to cut. “That’s what matters.”

His hands moved to your waist, hesitating before they settled, warm and grounding as if he wasn’t holding your body, but anchoring his own.

Your fingers found the front of his cassock, curling into the fabric like instinct. Your palm pressed against the space above his heart. Steady. Alive. Human.

“I meant what I said before,” he whispered, gaze locked on yours. “Go with him. Into the Archives. Make sure he doesn’t destroy anything… or find more than he should.”

You nodded, but searched his face. “What’s going on with you?” you asked gently. “You’re holding something back. Something’s wrong.”

His eyes dropped. “It’s… the Preferiti. And the weight of all this.”

It was a lie. You both knew it.

“Patrick—”

“Don’t,” he said softly, but not cruelly. “Not now.”

One hand lifted, brushing your cheek with the softest reverence. His thumb found your lower lip, tracing its shape and memorising it, as if he feared forgetting.

“I should not want this,” he whispered.

You leaned in, lips just a breath from his. “Then don’t kiss me.”

That hung in the air like incense—sweet, dense, sacred.

And then he did.

The kiss was gentle—restrained—but it burned with all the hunger you’d buried under cassocks and vows and good intentions. His hands drew you close, one splayed at the small of your back, the other tangled softly in your hair. You pressed into him, one fist tightening on his robes, as if willing him to stay in this moment, this impossible sliver of grace between sin and sanctity.

Your knees trembled.

His lips tasted like guilt and longing—like the edge of a prayer not yet finished.

When you broke apart, breathless, your eyes fluttered open and met his. For a moment, there were no lies. No Vatican. No, Robert Langdon. Just the sacred silence of two hearts colliding under God’s disapproving gaze.

“I have to go,” you whispered.

He nodded, but didn’t step back—not right away. His forehead rested against yours for a beat longer, eyes closed.

“Be careful,” he murmured.

You slipped from his arms, walking toward the door.

He watched you leave.

And somewhere—far away from both your awareness and your control—another set of eyes watched too.

Unbeknownst to you and Patrick, you were not entirely hidden nor in complete privacy when you dared to share a kiss in the office. Cameras had been hidden without your knowledge, actively watching the room before the previous Pope passed away and went to meet the Creator.

And through those cameras, nothing escaped from the man who was busy watching them.

Rocher had returned to his office in record time, having already given the order via phone and then followed up closely. However, he had not remained to see the plan come to fruition. Instead, he had moved into his office, asking for solitude.

The lights in his office were dimmed, the kind of dim that wasn’t laziness—it was intentional. A mood. A habit. A statement. He preferred to work in silence, in shadows. It was where truth lived, after all, rarely out in the open.

A secure monitor glowed across his desk. Password encrypted. Key-access only. One of the few remaining feeds was hardwired directly into the private cameras that the previous Pope had insisted be installed—for his protection — and eventually, Rocher learnt to use it for proof.

Proof of what?

Only God knew. And Rocher.

He leaned forward, fingers steeple just under his chin, watching the grainy black-and-white feed playing quietly.

It showed the Papal Office, a live feed. Everyone left, until only you and Patrick remained.

Then came the kiss.

Rocher’s face didn’t move—not at first. His eyes narrowed slightly. His lips stayed in a line too flat to read.

He didn’t rewind. He didn’t pause. He simply let it play.

He watched Patrick step in close, watched the touch on your cheek. The way your fingers curled into the front of his robe. The kind of intimacy that left little room for misinterpretation. The type of touch was not an accident. Not a comfort. A claim.

He zoomed in, slowly.

The angle wasn’t perfect, but it was enough.

Enough to catch the kiss.

Enough to record the betrayal.

Rocher exhaled slowly through his nose. Not shocking. Not outrage.

Resignation.

“Again,” he muttered under his breath.

His hand moved with practised ease to the keyboard, typing a sequence that pulled up archived footage—labelled, time-stamped, and secured.

He opened a folder. Inside: several saved feeds. Quiet exchanges. Glances. One other kiss. A soft embrace by the open doors of the office. A peck on the cheek outside of the office, when no one was looking.

Nothing crude. Nothing that could be used publicly.

But enough for someone like Rocher to see the pattern.

Enough for someone who had served under three Popes to recognise danger when it walked in robes and whispered love in the dark.

The kiss had happened before. It would happen again.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t report it.

He simply pressed a key and saved the newest footage under a familiar title:

Olivetti/Camerlengo – Incident 06

A small folder in a system not connected to Vatican servers. Off-grid. Off-the-books. Hidden, like all things, the Church preferred not to see.

His gaze remained fixed on the screen, even after the room emptied.

Even after Patrick stood alone, staring at the door you had disappeared through.

Even after his expression—briefly—cracked. Just a flicker of something dark. Possessive. Guilty. Devout.

Rocher watched the man’s hand lift to the crucifix around his neck.

He didn’t pray. He gripped it.

Hard.

“Be careful with your treasures, Padre,” Rocher murmured, voice dry.

He leaned back, draped once more in the dark.

And closed the file.

Chapter Text

You left the Holy room, head lighter and heart beating louder. You fought the need to look back, steal one last glance at Patrick.

You won and you headed for the exit, only to find both tour father and Professor Langdon waiting for you by the door.

Your eyebrow was arched. "You didn't have to wait for me." Your steps slowed until you stopped by your father's side.

Yet it was the Professor who spoke.

"We should. You are responsible for me, remember?" He joked, a faint smirk of irony and amusement on his face.

You returned with one of your own. "Indeed. Well then," you clapped your hands once. "Let us go to the archives."

The men nodded, letting you take the lead, though it was not long before they were walking by your side. Your father already knew the way, but he was more than pleased to see you in charge, admiring how far you have changed and grown. 

"So, what did the Camerlengo want with you?" Robert asked, always curious. Always thirsty for answers.

You kept your gaze ahead. "Just to remind me to keep an eye on you. Ensure nothing goes missing."

Robert glanced at you. "Odd, though, don't you think?" This drew your attention. " The Camerlengo himself ask you in private. I would even say you were closed."

Your following answer was delayed. A sharp, small inhale through your nose, almost giving you away. 

Your father glanced at you, ready to interfere if you felt uncomfortable. 

But you did not let him. 

A soft exhale.

"The Camerlengo and I... know each other, that is true. When he was first adopted by the deceased Holy Father, taken from a bombed city as the only survivor… Patrick didn't know anyone nor speak the language," you paused, a soft smile on your lips.

You recalled a young Patrick, little older than you. Skinny, silent, with that distant gaze. His cold hands, the dirt on his hair... and the way he stared at the statues and depictions of saints when he first entered the Basilica.

You almost felt nostalgic about those days.

But you know they could not be brought back.

So you continued. "I was closer to his age and spoke English far more easily thanks to my mother. They assigned me to help him… settle into this new life, learn the language, meet the people."

Robert nodded, having proven an excellent listener as you spoke. He didn't interrupt. Instead, he processed what you said, compared what he saw and nodded when he had to.

Suddenly, a familiar voice was heard, carried by the gentle wind.

"Professor Langdon!" 

You stopped walking, turning towards the source, only to see Vittoria rushing your way.

It did not take long for her to cover the distance, doing impressively so despite the short heels she wore.

You always appreciated women who could do that. Unfortunately for you, your balance sucked when you wore anything that wasn't flat. Something that Patrick often teased you about during his attempts to help you learn.

In the end, he had given up along with you.

"If this path leads to the Church of Illumination, that may be where they've hidden the antimatter, "Vittoria continued, putting you in thought.

"A shining star at the end of the Path," Robert repeated, things clicking into his mind. "My thoughts exactly."

Now that the topic had changed and more information had been given, your father entered the conversation. "If we find this bomb, can you deactivate it?" He asked her.

"No, but I can change its battery, as long as it has more than five minutes of life." She informed everyone to continue strolling. "That would give us another twenty-four hours to get it back to CERN."

Your father and you nodded, pleased enough with the answer. You moved, giving her space to walk side by side. However, she was quick to grab Robert's empty side and hold out her hand.

"Vittoria Vetra. Are you really a Symbologist, or was he mocking you?" 

Robert did not shake hands. "Both. You're a physicist?"

Vittoria nodded. "Bio-entanglement physics, Interconnectivity of life systems."

You let out a low whistle, earning their attention. "What? It sounded imposing."

Your words made her smile. "They are. They better be. I spent my life studying them, and they have not been easy."

"I can imagine. Still impressive."

"Thank you."

The journey to the Archives continued as you navigated them through a series of arched pathways, statues and identical-looking marble corridors.

"What are we looking for in the archives?" Questioned Vittoria.

You were not 100% sure what you were looking for either. Remaining quiet, you tuned in as Robert explained that Galileo wrote the book you were looking for. 

And of course, that Galileo was one of the original Illuminati masters, and he had written clues to help knowledge seekers to find the path. 

The road eventually led you all up, turning up Via Sentinel and starting up the hill toward the Archives. 

"What makes you think he's going to murder the cardinals in the churches?" Your father asked, breaking the momentary silence.

Robert was more than happy to answer. "The Illuminati called those four churches by a special name -- L'Altare dii scienza-"

"The altars of science." You interrupted, translating in your mind. Now things seemed more straightforward even for you. "Sacrifice them on the altars of science… like they said in the video."

Robert nodded but remained silent, halting. His eyes went to the building ahead, staring like a child at the place he had been denied entrance for years…

The Vatican Archives.

Robert took a deep breath to calm himself. Then he dared to take the first step, then the second, then the third…

Only to realise that your father was not following you.

He arched an eyebrow. "We go in alone?" He questioned, turning to face him.

"Vatican Police aren't allowed access to the archives, only the Swiss Guard." He explained, making Robert glance at you.

"I got a permit from the Camerlengo to look after you. He has informed ahead, but I am the only temporary exception," you answered his silent question.

Truthfully, you had a lot of access when the deceased Pope was still alive. One exception after the other, perhaps it was then that Richter started seeing you with an evil eye.

You were unsure when that started.

Your father nodded. "Lt. Chartrand will meet you inside, his jurisdiction," he continued, making you pleased that at least your escort would be a familiar place. "I'll be here when you're done."

You placed your hand on Robert's shoulder, drawing his attention. He looked at you and then at the entrance of the Archives.

He had been wanting this for years. Now it was his chance. And he didn't have a lot of time.

If the outside of the Archives was impressive, the inside put them to shame. While it was not architecturally majestic as it was outside, it was the modern technology and security that both impressed and unsettled.

As you entered the Archives with your two guests, the door behind you shut down with a loud noise; bolts slamming into place and making escape impossible.

You remain where you are, glancing at the nervous Vittoria and the excited Robert. Yet your attention focuses ahead as you hear the sound of the access key grinding into the lock, forcing the heavy chains to rattle before being removed.

And as you stepped out, four Swiss guards were already waiting in position, armed and ready to stop you if things went astray. You nodded at them and let your companions go towards the glass elevator that would take you where you needed to go.

Just as you entered and the doors closed behind you, the elevator started to descend.

Vittoria leaned closer to you, taking the chance that you were no longer being watched. “This… feels a little too much,” she whispered, uneasy already.

“It is necessary,” you replied, used to them after years of studying there. “The treasured books that reside here are irreplaceable.”

“They also hold the biggest secrets of the Catholic Church,” Robert joined. “Secrets that could very easily destroy everything we know about Christianity, Jesus and the Church.”

You nodded. “And that to put it mildly.”

It did not take long to arrive, and once the doors opened with a loud Whoosh, the room was revealed to you.

An outstanding 23rd-century library spread before you. It's a massive underground space, like a darkened aeroplane hangar, with a dozen glass boxes evenly spaced throughout. They're lit up from within, each containing row upon row of bookshelves, neatly filled with books, papers, and arcana.

 A single step outside, and your escort approached you in his usual black suit and earpiece.

“Evening, Lieutenant,” you greeted Chartrand with a small smile.

At least you were with a familiar and relatively tolerable Swiss guard. You had feared, at the beginning, that you were going to end up with someone who would barely let you investigate.

But you knew Chartrand, and he knew you. That was more than enough.        

“Lieutenant,” he greeted back, then turned and motioned for your group to follow him. “The chambers are hermetic vaults, and oxygen is kept at the lowest possible levels. It's a partial vacuum inside. More than ten minutes in the vault is not recommended without a breathing apparatus.” He explained, his Swiss accent coming thick on most words.

He stopped at one particular chamber and gestured to the sign on its door.

"Il Processo Galileano." You read out loud, remembering that you had not entered that area.

Most of your studies there had to do with the previous Poles, the Disciples of Christ and thus the floors you were interested in were further away.

The idea of inspecting it, of learning something new, excited you. Even though it was not your primary area or your most significant interest.       

“I'll be just outside the door,” Chartrand said, stepping to the side, and you nodded.

Robert was the first to try to enter the vault, but before he could step inside, Chartrand stopped him; a single hand on the professor’s chest.

The Swiss Guard gave him a silent warning look, full of mistrust. “Watching you, Mr. Langdon.”

Robert froze mid-step. He didn’t have to guess; he wasn’t popular here.

Before he could reply, you stepped in—switching to Italian.

"He won’t handle parchment," you told Chartrand, tone calm but firm. "I’ll turn the pages. He points, I retrieve. Chain of custody stays with me."

Chartrand studied you for a long second, weighing something unseen, then released Robert and stepped aside without a word.

Robert glanced at you as he entered. “Thank you,” he said quietly—no joke in it this time, just sincerity.

Once inside, the electronic revolving door closed behind you, and the automatic oxygen regulator started to fix the stats in the room. The air was heavy, harder to breathe as the oxygen levels remained low.

You inhaled deeply, the sensation familiar enough. Your body reacted faintly, but you remained standing, though you had to move and stabilise Vittoria, who did not handle the changes very well.

“Easy,” You said, ensuring she was stable on her feet. “Take a moment. If you feel double vision, double over.”

She nodded, though she was quick to bend over, following your advice. “Feels like I'm… scuba diving… with the wrong mixture.”

A chuckle was held back. “It's like that the first time,” you answered.

Robert observed the two of you, realising they needed to take it slower. “Plenty of time,” he said,  aiming to ease any worry. Yet he made the mistake of checking his watch. His pulse spiked.

07:07.

“Uh… actually, I take that back.”

You sent him a look; no words were needed to translate it.

Once Vittoria had grown accustomed, you all spread in search of the volume. Vittoria took the lower shelves, leaving you to take the ones closer to your eye level. Robert, on the other hand, had grabbed a ladder and dug through folio bins higher up.

And while he did so, he let you know more about what and why you were searching amongst Galileo’s findings.

“... confiscated from the Netherlands by the Vatican shortly after Galileo's death. I've been petitioning to see it for almost ten years. Ever since I realised what was in it.” Robert explained.

“And it took only the kidnapping of Prefiriti and a bomb threat to grant you this access,” you commented, half joking and half stating.

Robert glanced at you, amused. He did not comment as the tomes before him bore greater interest.

Vittoria kept searching. “What makes you so sure the Segno is there?”

“The number 503. I kept seeing it over and over in Illuminati letters, scribbled in the margins, or sometimes just signed that way, "503.” Robert answered. “It's a numerical clue, but to what? Five, of course, is the sacred Illuminati number – the pentagram, Pythagoras, a dozen other examples in science -- but why three?”

You glanced up at him. “And you finally figure it out?”

He nodded as he continued searching. “It made no sense, at first. And then I thought -- what if it were a Roman numeral?”

Eyebrows frowned. “D-I-I-I?” you questioned, stopping your research and looking at him.

“Galileo's third text,” Robert confirmed. “ Dialogo… Discorsi….” His eyes lit up as he pulled a slender volume out of a folio bin on one of the top shelves. “Diagramma”.