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“Father, would you like a drink?” 

Benítez looked witheringly at the amber-coloured drink in Giacomo’s glass, and he felt his stomach lurch, burning acid rising in the back of his throat as the scent of smoke and vapes clogged his lungs, and he forced it down with a forced smile on his lips. 

He knew that wasn’t actually whiskey—it was homemade iced tea, but it looked way too similar.

“N-no thank you, Giacomo.” He said, trying to sound calm as he turned away from the other man, reaching for his glass of water. “I—I don’t need a drink.”

You will have some, Paternò’s voice echoed in his head, and he shuddered, feeling the burn of not just bile, but of white-hot bitterness, like a phantom rush of lava, sear his throat all the way to his stomach. Benítez lurched at the thought, and gripped the table, white-knuckled as he tried not to throw up. 

Giacomo gasped, setting his glass down to support the priest as Benítez shuddered, gagging as he doubled over. 

“My God, what did they do to you, truly?” The man asked gently, pulling Benítez into his arms, holding him close as the younger man bit out a sob, clinging to him as he began to shiver uncontrollably. “Please, Father. Tell me. I swear that there will be no judgement, only empathy. I will never blame you for anything.”

“N-no, I—Giacomo, I—”

“You know that whatever happens to you under the thumb of the Paternòs is not more my fault than it is yours.” Giacomo gently pulled away from Benítez to cup his face in his hands. “You’re paler than usual. You’re nauseous, so frightened and nervous. I can’t—I can’t help but worry. I need you to tell me what they did to you.”

I can’t, Benítez thought. I simply can’t.

“I—I genuinely don’t know.” He said weakly. “It’s—it’s been weeks, Giacomo. This might not—this might not even b-be—because of th-the Mafia.” 

Giacomo frowned at him in thought. 

By some miracle, Giacomo and Sister Olivia never found out about Benítez’s kidnapping two nights ago. For all they knew, Benítez had only one interaction with Don Paternò, and whatever it was they agreed on—whatever it was they talked about—was somehow enough to spare the parish from their violence, however tenuously. 

“Truly?” He asked, and Benítez nodded despite the hands gently cupping his face. “Oh, Father… I hope that you’ve only eaten something that didn’t agree with you.”

“Perhaps it’s that.” Benítez laughed weakly, gingerly pulling away from Giacomo’s loose, gentle grip. “I’m sorry. I’ve sometimes had bouts of nausea and migraines from time to time. They stopped while I was in the Middle East, but now, I suppose they’re back.”

“That hardly makes any sense, Father, but alright.” Giacomo sighed. “I’ll make you some chamomile tea, at least. To calm you down.”

“That would be much appreciated, thank you.” Benítez smiled at him gingerly, and Giacomo gently patted his shoulder, walking past him and out of his office to head to the parish house’s kitchen. Benítez sighed deeply, dropping himself onto his seat at his desk, and he buried his face into his hands with a soft little sob. 

The admission about nausea and migraines had come too easily, since Benítez had grown comfortable and more trusting of Giacomo in the time they had been together, but he knew he shouldn’t have said that. He shouldn’t let anyone know anything about his health, he couldn’t risk it. 

Now knowing more about his body, Benítez finally understood why for the longest time, he had problems with nausea and migraines. 

The womb in his abdomen—that was why. His organs may have been incompletely developed (at least, that was what the doctor told him), but they could function, to some extent. Benítez knew a lot about reproductive health—had his own not too immodest medical training after working with the victims of genocidal sexual violence in the Congo. He understood how ovaries and uteri worked, knew that every month, hormone changes would cause a myriad of symptoms, from mood swings, to cramps and muscle pain… to nausea and migraines. 

There’d been jokes, back then, about how the priest with the gentle voice was in full solidarity with the women and girls he protected, even in monthly cycles of suffering. Benítez had giggled along with young women he’d comforted from their horrific experiences, playing along with the joke to bring much-needed levity to a traumatised heart, but years later, in a ramshackle medical tent following emergency surgery on Benítez’s body, the joke wasn’t funny anymore. 

It felt more like a twisted turn of fate. 

Now, his most recent rape—because it is rape, no matter what Paternò said or did, no matter how Benítez felt about it nor how his body reacted—weighed heavily on his mind. It made physical symptoms manifest, stress burning through him faster than a candle burned at both ends, and, most horrifically, whenever he looked into the mirror, he could see the women and girls of the Congo looking back at him. 

He could see their sunken eyes, the terror in their expressions reflected in his own eyes, left with dark circles under them from the last few sleepless nights, kept awake out of irrational fear that Paternò would find him and rape him again. He could feel their fear and nausea, the sickness that came with the crawling spiders under the skin, the disgust that weighed down his gut, the guilt—

The guilt that he let it happen, the guilt that his rape was his fault, the guilt that it didn’t feel bad, the guilt that Benítez had actually managed to cum—

Benítez took a deep, shuddering breath, feeling bile crawling up his throat as the ghost of Paternò’s seed poured like molten lava down to his stomach. The sensation impossibly clawed through flesh and sinew, burned and melted muscles and clotted blood until it got to the atrophied seat of life in his abdomen. He clutched his lower gut, shivering and taking rapid, terrified breaths as he held on with a white-knuckled grip, pain exploding white-hot like the explosion that woke him from the floaty dreamscape he’d been dragged into by the tender caress of his rapist in his hair. 

He could feel it. He could feel the way their stomachs swelled against their will, he could feel the way they were being forced to choose to carry such a horrific burden to term, he could feel the terror of motherhood creeping through his veins, freezing them solid—

“Father Benítez!” 

Benítez jolted, looking up to see Giacomo hurrying to him, pulling him into his arms, and he let out a soft little sob, clinging to him again as the older man rubbed his back gently, slowly counting down from ten. Benítez realised that the man was calming him down from a panic attack.

He hadn’t realised he’d slipped into one—but then again, who ever did? 

Slowly, Benítez came down from his rapid breaths and tremors, and finally, Benítez’s mind caught up with the thought that the bloat in his gut was just in his mind. 

“You’re here. You’re safe.” Giacomo whispered to him, “Slowly, Vincent. Slowly.”

Benítez took deep, shaky breaths, and nodded. 

“You’re in your office. You’re safe.” 

It was probably nothing short of a godsent miracle that Giacomo was a trained social worker with a background in psychology. They needed people like Giacomo the most in a place like their parish, Benítez knew, what with all the attacks the Mafia have done to terrorise the poor farmers in this town, but he never thought that he himself would ever need the man’s aid. 

“That’s it. Breathe with me.” 

Together, they synchronised their breaths, until finally, Benítez calmed down completely. Giacomo pulled away from him with a look of concern on his face. 

“I apologise if I’ve offended you, Father Benítez, I—it slipped out, your name.”

“I already call you Giacomo, don’t I?” Benítez smiled, gently squeezing the man’s hand. “Thank you, truly. Please, call me Vincent.” 

“If only in private.” Giacomo smiled. “I’m sorry, it must be my fault for triggering you so badly that you went into a panic attack. I apologise for prying while your wounds are still raw.”

“Thank you.” Benítez sighed softly. “I think… frankly, I think my trauma from the Middle East is finally catching up to me.” Partially, anyway. This was a mix of the old and new. “Now that I’m not stressed out of my mind, it’s coming back.”

“Perhaps.” Giacomo sighed. “Get some rest, Vincent. We need you for Sunday Mass tomorrow.” 

“I will, thank you.” Benítez nodded, getting up with a little grunt. 

“Have some tea before you go.” Giacomo said, gesturing for Benítez to follow him. “I left it in the kitchen before I came running over.”

“I see.” Benítez replied, tiredly following Giacomo to the kitchen, where a chipped mug of chamomile tea was on the dining table. He smiled at the calming scent, and he sat down at the table with a little huff. 

“I… I need to go now, Vincent. Will you be alright?” Giacomo asked, and Benítez nodded. 

“I will be, thanks to you.” He said, and Giacomo gave him one last worried look, before heading out of the cleric house. Sighing deeply, Benítez picked up the mug and took a sip, melting at the warming calm it offered him as he slumped down on the table with a soft groan. 

Now that he wasn’t stressed out of his mind, his trauma was coming back, he’d said. That was part of it, for sure. 

His monthly cycle thanks to his womb and ovaries stopped when Benítez was relocated to the Middle East, where every day he lived like it would be his last. Food and rest were rare and difficult to partake in without overwhelming guilt for those much needier than he was, so Benítez never really ate nor rested properly. That meant non-essential bodily functions, like, indeed, reproduction, needed to stop. Benítez had seen the effects of starvation in women’s reproductive health, after all, in victims of genocide and war-torn famine. When he found out the truth about himself, everything seemed to click into place. 

When he’d been in the Congo, he at least had food and a modicum of rest. He was in a nurturing position to help victims after violence and not during it. 

His time in the Middle East, though, meant he was in an active warzone. He was always in danger of death, he wasn’t eating, he wasn’t sleeping. His body was starved and stressed, it deemed reproduction the least of its worries—so the cycles stopped. He’d seen it in the nun he’d been working with the most in Afghanistan, too, Sister Yasmin, a young woman he’d come to love like a daughter, and one he’d lost quickly to war, too. 

She knew his secret—she was part of the surgical team when they saw it. All of them were killed by a car bomb, keeping his secret to their graves. 

All of them, gone, so only Benítez would ever know now. 

Well, him, the Holy Father, and God, he supposed. 

“Right,” He said with a strained voice. “I need to finish this and get some actual rest.”

As he finished the chamomile tea, Benítez’s mind raced. There was still the feast on Sunday—tomorrow. 

God, tomorrow. He still had to prepare a homily that would raise his parishioners’ spirits, to encourage them to participate in the feast. After news about Paolo spread among them, they were more nervous about it, and Benítez knew that all it took was one wrong move for everything to fall apart, with or without Paternò’s interference. 

He went through his evening ablutions, and by the time he was sitting on his bed, settling in for a prayer before sleeping, his thoughts drifted to Paolo, who was, by now, back home. 

God, poor Paolo. Benítez felt utterly wretched watching Paolo’s mother, a kindly old woman he recognised as one of his parishioners—the one who always stayed behind after Mass to pray quietly by herself on her old, creaking knees—burst into tears when they saw each other at the hospital where they brought Paolo. She’d been distraught at the knowledge that Paolo had finally ended up where she feared the most, but God smiled down on His most faithful, because somehow, mercy was on their side. 

Miraculously, Paolo was released from the hospital after just two nights. It seemed like the damage wasn’t too severe—bruises and cuts, of course, enough inflammation and swelling to choke his airways, but nothing was permanently nor seriously damaged. The worst he experienced were fractures in his ribs and a broken arm, but other than that, Paolo escaped having lost very little but his consciousness and several few cubic centimetres of blood. 

Sister Olivia had provided the blood he needed, thankfully, much to Paolo’s mother’s tearful relief, and the young nun took it upon herself to stay by Paolo and his mother’s side to support them through this. Benítez had no doubt that she had more than a few reasons to do this—first and foremost, he supposed, was because she thought that Benítez had been too spooked about the blood that he would end up getting triggered at the sight of Paolo in the hospital.

While that couldn’t be farther from the truth, Benítez still indulged her, because he knew the other reason—

That Sister Olivia was gently reconsidering her own commitment to her nunhood. 

He’d known for a long time that she was struggling with the vows nuns needed to take upon entering the convent: poverty, chastity, and obedience. She was still quite young, in her early twenties, with extensive medical training on par with professional nurses. If she hadn’t entered the convent, Giacomo had said, Sister Olivia might have become a licensed nurse. She was very modern and very ambitious, strong-willed, and had a backbone that Benítez was endlessly proud of, but also meant that she wouldn’t be able to commit to her vow of obedience, not in the face of anything that goes against her principles. 

He was expecting she might approach him with news soon, what with this new boy in her life who needed her, and he’d heard that they had been having conversations ever since Paolo woke up a few hours after being admitted to the hospital. Benítez had grown fond of Sister Olivia—and he knew he would respect her decision, whatever it might be, but he knew he would miss her if she left. 

Smiling fondly to himself, Benítez got onto his knees next to his bed, and began to pray.

“Father, look!” 

The Sunday Mass had gone well. Benítez spotted Paolo’s mother in attendance, and she looked much better than before. She was likely very relieved about her son’s quick recovery—where no doubt his youth played a large part—and she was all smiles when he greeted her pleasantly after Sunday Mass. 

Now, in the twilight hours of the day and a few moments before the feast, Benítez looked up from where he was keeping an eye on the risotto he’d been cooking to see Sister Olivia hurrying up to him with a huge grin on her face.

“Oh, what’s the matter?” He asked, grinning slightly as her smile seemed to positively glow. 

“Paolo’s here!” 

Benítez’s heart jumped. He would have teased Sister Olivia for mentioning only her crush (erm, latest patient, he will politely call him), but the shock of hearing that Paolo was here made him turn to see the young man and his mother approaching them. His mother was grinning from ear to ear, eyes wet with joy, while Paolo was hobbling along next to her, his arm in a sling and still walking slowly not to jostle any of his healing injuries. 

“Oh, my dear Paolo.” Benítez breathed, looking at Sister Olivia, who nodded at him encouragingly. “Oh, I—my child, could you—”

“Yes, of course.” Sister Olivia said, taking the ladle he gently handed her, and Benítez hurried to meet mother and son halfway, out of breath from the overwhelming rush of emotions in him as he looked at them with wide eyes. 

“Paolo.” Benítez breathed as the young man gave him a smile—or, rather, a simple, tiny quirk of his lips, still slightly swollen like most of his face and throat. His skin was still red, too, though it was beginning to blossom into the healing darkness of black. “I… you came.”

“Si, Padre.” Paolo was talking much more easily, too, though there was still a wheezing quality to his voice. “You invited us. Mia mamma wants to go, and me too. We brought mamma’s eggplant parmigiana.”

“Oh.” Benítez sighed, and he hesitated for a moment, before gingerly asking: “May I hug the both of you?”

“Gently.” Paolo laughed, but nodded.

“Of course.” Benítez nodded, and he pulled mother and son into his arms, taking a deep, relieved breath as he held them close. Paolo and his mother hugged him back, too, the young man burying his face into the crook of Benítez’s neck, and he held him as gently and tenderly as he could. 

“Padre, I think you saved me.” Paolo muttered, and they pulled away from each other. Benítez looked at him in surprise as Paolo nodded. “Not just when I was dumped in front of the church, I mean.”

Benítez’s eyes widened in realisation. “Oh, you mean…”

“The Don hasn’t called for me. You… you did something about that, si, Padre?” Paolo asked, “No more, um, debt? No more trouble?”

Your mouth bought him his freedom, by the way. Tell him he doesn’t have to come back.

That was what Paternò’s letter said. It seemed like the man was keeping his word. Benítez felt hope surge in his heart as he nodded, and Paolo’s eyes widened, filling with tears as he weakly squeezed Benítez’s hand. 

“Really? Is real?” He asked quietly, with a hint of fear that was so childlike, it broke Benítez’s heart. 

“Si.” Benítez had been learning Italian in earnest, but there were some things that came easily. Paolo let out a little sob, and Benítez pulled him into a hug again, rubbing his back tenderly as he, too, held the young man close, feeling his own eyes sting with emotion. They pulled apart, and Benítez turned to Paolo’s mother, who cried out in happy relief as he bent down to hug her, too, holding her much more tightly. “Paolo is safe now, I promise. You’re free.” 

“Ah, grazie, Padre,” Paolo’s mother sobbed as she pressed a kiss to Benítez’s temple. “Grazie.”

He knew they were causing a scene, but at this point, Benítez didn’t really care. His parishioners knew this was the young man who ended up hurt by the Mafia, but now he was here, in spite of the pain he endured, in clear defiance, in sweet freedom to be there. 

Paolo would be the inspiration to his flock, the way Benítez couldn’t be, and he was content with that. 

Benítez could work with this. He could make things better, a slice of hell for himself at a time. 

Things were going to get better.

Then, things got worse.

Benítez stared at the TV as Giacomo translated the headline—

The Holy Father is in critical condition after contracting pneumonia.

Shell-shocked silence enveloped Benítez as he continued to gape at the TV, at the local news anchor reporting in rapid-fire Italian while Giacomo sat next to him with a deep sigh, squeezing his shoulder. 

“Call him. Or—or someone in the Vatican.” Giacomo said. “I know how much the Holy Father cares about you—about us. If you need to go to Rome, do it.”

“But I…” Benítez looked at Giacomo, who smiled back at him supportively. 

“Just call, at least. Surely, they can understand if they know who you are. After all, the Holy Father contacts you—us—frequently. The Holy See surely knows that, what with all the physical letters.” 

“You’re… you’re right.” Benítez smiled gingerly. “I’ll call.” 

“I’ll tell Sister Olivia to give you some privacy in the computer room,” Giacomo said, and laughed fondly. “If she isn’t spending too much time with the Carideo family, anyway.” 

“Let her,” Benítez chuckled, “We should indulge her feelings. After all… I think you understand what is happening, yes?” 

“Yes.” Giacomo sighed, but he was smiling, too. “Not everyone finds their calling in the service of the Lord. Sister Olivia may come to us with news soon, and we’ll have to contact her Mother Superior eventually.” 

“All I hope is that she’ll wait until after leaving her order before doing anything foolish.” Benítez huffed. “Thank you for understanding, Giacomo. I’ll… I’ll go to the computer room.”

“I things will be alright, Vincent.” Giacomo said, and strode off. Benítez got off the couch with a sigh, and made his way to the computer room, smiling fondly at the mildly modern-looking desktop computer sitting on the table. He remembered setting it up when he arrived in their little town—Bellini had him bring the desktop set (and accompanying WiFi) with him from Rome, a little upgrade from the Vatican to make sure that they could remain connected, aside from Benítez’s smartphone from the Holy Father. 

He turned the desktop on, settling down in front of it as he turned the WiFi router on, and soon, he was starting up a call on the usual channel he used with the Holy Father when they found the time to call each other, unsure if anyone would actually answer.

Eventually, though, someone did. 

Benítez blinked in surprise when he met the exhausted, watery-eyed gaze of one Aldo Cardinal Bellini, looking at him with a weariness that told him of every single waking moment of agony the man was enduring. 

“Cardinal Bellini.” Benítez breathed, and Bellini pulled a smile onto his lips—the same upside-down smile that reminded him of a frown, but he knew the man was smiling. 

“Hello, Father Benítez.” Bellini’s voice was hoarse and tired, too, and Benítez couldn’t help but feel for him. “You’ve got impeccable timing.”

“Do I?” Benítez asked, his voice small, and Bellini sighed, nodding as he pinched the bridge of his nose, as if fighting off a migraine. 

“I’m sure you’ve heard the news.” Bellini said, and Benítez nodded gingerly. “Yes. Right now, the Holy Father is in the ICU, isolated for health reasons. I only just finished closing up his room in the Casa Santa Marta until further notice when you called.”

“Oh.” Benítez said. “Then… the device we use to call…”

“Well, I would have brought it to him, but not tonight.” Bellini sighed. “I’m actually still in his room. When his iPad began to ring, I had to answer when I realised it was coming from you.”

“Oh.” He was saying that a lot. Hearing what Bellini was doing prior to the call made a pang of guilt turn his gut—Bellini was under far more pressure and stress than him. What was getting harassed and assaulted by a Mafia Don compared to sharing the weight of over a billion souls with the Holy Father, after all? 

“I’m sorry, should I have…”

“No, please don’t feel guilty.” Bellini laughed tiredly, and Benítez saw him lean back in his seat—in a beat-up, overstuffed armchair, he realised, and finally he noticed that Bellini had a few of his cassock’s red buttons undone, too. “I’m actually glad you called. It’s a break I appreciate.”

“I’m glad.” Benítez smiled sheepishly as Bellini huffed fondly, shaking his head. 

“I’m glad you thought to call, really.” He admitted, “The Holy Father’s been very concerned lately, especially about you, and he’s been telling me that he wanted to call you before he collapsed.” Bellini wrung his hands, and Benítez’s heart ached for him. “I don’t know what he knows about what’s going on there, but now I can’t help but worry about you, too.”

“Thank you, Eminence, but I’m—” 

Benítez swallowed down the way his throat tightened. 

“I’m fine. Nothing’s happened to me.”

Lying through his teeth didn’t feel good, not to the Holy Father, and not even to his Secretary of State. Bellini didn’t look convinced, either, but the man was tactful enough not to say anything. 

“But… do you know if he had any reason to be more worried about me now?” He asked. 

“Well,” Bellini looked off to the side with a sigh. “If… if I may speak from the heart for a moment?”

Benítez frowned in concern. “Of course.”

“I…” Bellini hesitated for a moment, and then said: “I think the Holy Father is about to die.”

Benítez’s blood went cold as Bellini wrung his hands together again, looking increasingly stressed, but at the same time, somehow more relieved than before. Benítez couldn’t help but think that perhaps Bellini had no one else to tell this to, and he wondered how lonely it must be to be so close to the highest seat of power in the Vatican. 

“I’m sorry.” He whispered, and Bellini laughed sadly, shaking his head. 

“It’s fatalistic thinking, but I just—” He made a vague gesture, a frustrated little grunt escaping his lips as he tried to find the words to say. “The Holy Father has been sick for a long time. You know he’s been bedridden, and it’ll only get worse, the doctors tell me. He’s old, and he’s only growing older, and lately, he’s…” 

Bellini trailed off with a sad sigh. Benítez patiently waited for him to continue. 

“He’s been… more sentimental, if that’s even something I could say.” Bellini mumbled eventually. “He—he’s been affectionate, he’s been letting me win our chess games.” He hesitated at the admission, looking at Benítez with wide, terrified eyes, and the younger man gave him a reassuring smile. 

“The Holy Father loves you dearly, Eminence.” 

“I…” Bellini deflated, looking like he was on the verge of tears. “He’s been more candid with me, that’s how I know how much he’s worried about you, too, and I just—I can’t help but wonder if that’s his way of tying up loose ends before he joins God in heaven.”

Benítez’s heart ached for him. Bellini was going through a lot, from the sound of things—Rome was on the verge of teetering over the edge, of diving into the loss of a Pope and into the reign of a new one, and Bellini was caught up in the middle of it all, trying to hold the Church together despite everything. 

“I don’t think anyone truly knows when they will die.” Benítez said after a long moment of silence, and Bellini looked at him pleadingly. “But… there are signs. I’d like to think that if we can see the signs that the time to rest is near, it’s a blessing.”

“A blessing?” Bellini murmured.

“I’ve been in places where people have died without a moment’s notice, Eminence.” Benítez said gently, and Bellini’s eyes widened. “I… I don’t know how much you know, but I used to serve my ministry in the Congo, in Baghdad, in Kabul. I’ve seen lines of the dead and wounded, and mourned the souls lost in meaningless violence and war.” 

Benítez didn’t know what rolled down Bellini’s cheek, and he politely ignored it. 

“None of them ever saw it coming. And I mourn that every single day.” Benítez murmured. “None of these souls ever got their final rites, nor did they have a chance to say goodbye, nor did they have the long, blessed life they should’ve had if not for forces beyond their control.” 

“Father Benítez…”

“So… if he is saying his goodbyes, Eminence, it is a blessing he is able to.” Benítez said. “Care for him gently for me, please.”

Bellini stared at him for a long moment, before laughing bitterly. 

“I see why he loved you so much.” He said, and Benítez blinked at him in surprise. “He left it up to you to decide if you would remain as an Archbishop, right? Did you know that if you hadn’t pushed through with your resignation, he would have elevated you to Cardinal?”

Benítez’s eyes widened, and Bellini nodded. 

“He was considerate of your feelings, of course, so he ultimately left it up to you.” He continued. “All things considered, perhaps it would be better not to have been elevated, after all.”

“W-why?”

“You stand an excellent chance at becoming Pope, you know.” Bellini huffed. “You have what it takes—the experience in your difficult ministry, your charisma… but you’d be cursed to this gilded cage, and I don’t want that for you.”

Benítez’s eyes widened as Bellini shook his head.

“I—I genuinely don’t know why it’s so easy to admit things to you.” Bellini said, “I try to rationalise that it’s because you’re so far away from Rome that it wouldn’t matter, but…” He bit his lip, and though the Internet connection was a little spotty, Benítez could tell that Bellini’s eyes were welling with tears. “I can’t even tell any of this to my closest friend in the Curia.”

“Oh, Eminence…” Benítez breathed, and Bellini shook his head, roughly wiping his eyes with the cuff of his cassock’s long sleeve. 

“I’m sorry.” Bellini smiled bitterly. “I’m very unstable. Been so for a long time now, I think. My interpersonal relationships are falling apart around me ever since the Holy Father got sick, and I just…” 

“I understand.” Benítez said sympathetically, and Bellini huffed sadly. “Thank you for telling me, anyway. I feel like I understand you better now.”

“Oddly enough, even though I’ve been doing a lot of the talking, I understand you better, too.” Bellini sighed. “Please call whenever you like. I’ll keep the Holy Father’s iPad with me as much as I can, so take note that it’ll likely be me answering your call, but I’ll give the iPad to His Holiness whenever I can. He needs to hear from you, too.” 

“Of course.” Benítez smiled, and Bellini finally seemed to calm down, smiling at him with that funny little upside-down smile again. “Please take care of yourself, too.”

“Right back at you.” Bellini nodded. “Please tell me immediately if something is going on down there, alright? We’ll do whatever we can to support and protect you and your parish.”

“I…” Benítez subconsciously held his abdomen. “I appreciate it, Eminence Bellini.”

“Until next time.”

“Until next time.”

Benítez hung up, and he sighed deeply, leaning back in his seat. 

The Holy Father was dying. When the time came, that would be one less person who knew his secret, and Benítez would once again be left alone to carry this burden now only between him and God in heaven. 

Heavy as it was, Benítez hoped that it would truly stay that way.

“What’s this?” 

“Father Benítez’s resignation letter to the Holy Father.”

“Have you read it?” 

“No. This is for your eyes only.” 

“Where did you get this?” 

“The Holy Father’s office. No one saw me.” 

“Are you sure?” 

A beat of silence, and that was all he needed. 

“Someone did see you.”

“No one suspected, Don Paternò—everything was—”

“It’s bad to do things poorly, Sister Bice.” A smirk curled around a cigar, and a hand dismissed her. “I don’t like leaving loose ends.” 

“I—”

Men suddenly came and dragged the nun away, screaming in terror, as Frank Paternò turned away from the scene with a dismissive grunt, looking down at the letter. 

“You.” He said, pointing at a man nearby without looking, and the man hurried up to him with a nod. “Investigate who saw her leave the room. Security will know who was at the Pope’s office then.”

“Yes, Don Paternò.”

Paternò ignored him running away in favour of thumbing open the letter, reading it with a hum as he took a drag of his cigar. Slowly, as his eyes raked over the beautifully handwritten letter, going lower and lower, he raised an eyebrow as a grin crossed his lips. 

“Oh, how very interesting.” He purred, folding the letter shut. “How very, very interesting.”

Aldo Maria Bellini was not having a good day. 

Well, the statement closer to the truth was that he hasn’t had a good day since about a year or so ago, when the Pope’s health began to deteriorate. The man had both endeared himself to Bellini even more, but he also seemed to push Bellini away from him with all of his demands for the man’s attention or time. It was exhausting, being so overworked to the bone that his interpersonal relationships were beginning to suffer, and now, he had to deal with another stressful revelation, about a week or so since the Holy Father was discharged from the ICU—upon his request—to likely die peacefully in his room in the Casa Santa Marta. 

“You tried to resign?”

“I will resign. After the Holy Father’s death.”

Thomas Cardinal Lawrence was a stalwart kind of man, steadfast and righteous, blameless in all aspects, and the perfect picture of a man of the cloth. Bellini had long admired him since he arrived in Rome to serve God among the Curia, and they were fast friends. Decades later into their relationship, Bellini trusted no one more than Lawrence, but with the recent strain on all of Bellini’s interpersonal relationships came the crumbling of his long-standing friendship with Lawrence. 

“Wh—but—I—why?”

“I’ve been encountering… problems.” Lawrence said primly, looking uncomfortable and nervous, and it ate at Bellini to see him like this. 

“With your faith? Thomas, you know the Holy Father, he—”

“With prayer, Aldo.” Lawrence gently cut him off. Bellini pursed his lips as the other man gently squeezed his shoulder. “I’ve grown tired of this. Of the Curia, of managing. I asked the Holy Father to allow me to resign a long time ago, but he only allowed me to leave after I performed one last duty.”

“Which is to what?”

“To steer the conclave after him.” 

Bellini’s gut sank as Lawrence looked at him with determination. 

“I will perform my duties as Dean until the bitter end of His Holiness’s life, but I will ensure that my name remains withdrawn from the voting pool. After the new Pope is elected, I will leave Rome.” 

Bellini didn’t know what to do anymore. He simply stood there, staring in shock at Lawrence, who at least had looked apologetic when Bellini could only simply stare. 

“I’m sorry.” Lawrence said. “It’s for the best that I leave, Aldo. I’ll… I’ll give you some privacy to think about it for now.”

And with that, Lawrence left Bellini alone in his office. 

Bellini dropped himself into his seat behind his desk and buried his face in his hands. Decay followed him everywhere now, it seemed—first, the twilight days of the Holy Father, and now, the deterioration of his relationship with Thomas Lawrence. 

This wasn’t the first time Bellini had to watch someone he loved as a parent waste away and die like this. Bellini himself was alone in the world, now—his own mother and father have left to rejoin the Father in heaven, and it looked just like this—

Dark rings under his eyes from overnight vigils by an invalid bedside. Prayers and bead-shaped welts in his thumb from gripping a rosary too hard. Numbing, painful exhaustion and stress that cut deep to his bones. 

His only saving grace this past week were his regular calls with Vincent Benítez, who made it their nightly ritual to call ever since their first contact a while ago. The soft-spoken man helped Bellini grapple with his grief for what has happened, for what was coming, and sometimes he wondered to himself if he would be as fond of Benítez now if the younger man had ended up ascended to Cardinal Archbishop of Kabul, summoned to Rome when the Holy Father inevitably joins God in heaven.

It was easy to grow fond of him, he was kind and understanding, sympathetic to Bellini’s plights. He was the closest thing Bellini had to a friend, now, and he couldn’t even leave Calabria. Not just out of financial difficulties—hell, Bellini himself could pay for Benítez’s trip to Rome out of pocket—but because he couldn’t leave his parish alone to the mercy of the Paternò Mafia. 

The only thing that could make this worse, he supposed, was—

His phone buzzed on the table, and he looked at it witheringly. Picking it up, he saw first the time—oh, how long had he been despairing in his office to be here this late?—and then, the name of the Pope’s secretary, and he sighed.

“Yes, Archbishop Wozniak?” He sighed as he answered the call.

“Eminence,” The man sounded like he was on the verge of tears, “The Pope is dead.”

It was a marvel of modern technology, the way information spreads so quickly throughout the world. News in Italy could reach a country across the earth in the blink of an eye and reach even the most remote regions of the world through the power of the Internet. 

And modern broadcasting technology, too, but the Internet was faster. 

So as it happens, there was one person in Benítez’s cleric house who was chronically online enough to break the news immediately.

“Father Benítez!”

It was in the early hours of the morning, so Benítez was already awake, freshly done with his morning prayers and engaged in calm, quiet yoga to start the day, when Sister Olivia rushed into his room. Benítez jolted, dropping out of the position he was holding, but he immediately felt dread when the young nun was too panicked to apologise for distracting him. 

“Wh-what’s the matter, my child?”

Sister Olivia clumsily struggled to get her phone out of her pocket, but she eventually managed to show Benítez her screen. Benítez’s eyes widened at the news.

The Pope was dead.

“Oh, God.” Benítez breathed, shakily reaching out to hold her phone, and the nun nodded sympathetically. “That’s… the Holy Father, he…”

“Yes, Father.” Sister Olivia said gravely, “He’s… he’s gone.”

Benítez sank back bonelessly, dropping down to sit on his bed. Sister Olivia sat down next to him, holding his hand gently. 

“You need to go to Rome.” She said. 

“But I…” Benítez shook his head. “I can’t, Sister Olivia. We don’t have the funds for the trip.”

“Then ask Cardinal Bellini.” She frowned. “He’s your contact in the Vatican, right? The Secretary of State! I’m sure he can figure something out!”

“I don’t want to bother him at such a time like this.” Benítez sighed exasperatedly. “Cardinal Bellini and the other members of the Holy See are going to be very busy preparing for the Holy Father’s funeral and the succeeding Conclave. He’ll be far too preoccupied to accommodate me, and I’m sure he’s grieving, too. More than I am, even. They were very close, you know.”

“Yeah, but…” Sister Olivia deflated, and Benítez sighed, squeezing their joined hands. “You were close to the Holy Father, too.”

“Yes, but as things are, I can’t leave.” Benítez murmured. “Not just for monetary issues, but…”

He hesitated, and Sister Olivia looked at him pleadingly. 

“If I go, I can’t guarantee Don Paternò will keep his hands off all of you.” He whispered, and the young nun’s expression fell. “I’m sorry, I just… it’s happened before.”

“Before? In a place like Rome, Father?”

“No,” Benítez sighed. “I… I’ll tell you something important, Sister Olivia: my ministry has taken me to some of the hardest places in the world. The Congo. Iraq. Afghanistan—my last archdiocese was in Kabul. I have been on the frontlines of war, not too long ago, and I have lost many faithful to violence far too many times.”

Sister Olivia’s eyes widened, a tear rolling down her cheek as Benítez gently cupped her cheek, thumbing away the tear track. 

“I took my eyes off a church and the next thing I knew, it was a pile of rubble and burnt bodies. Imperialism has decimated my flock down from millions to hundreds of thousands, perhaps even more, and I have seen it all with my own eyes.” He murmured. “I know we are but one parish now, but I will not lose any more of the Lord’s faithful sheep under my care.”

“Father…” Sister Olivia said shakily. “You… you were an Archbishop?”

“A long time ago. I am just a simple parish priest now.” Benítez smiled at her sadly. “But my feelings remain the same—your lives are far more precious than my grief. I will not leave for Rome unless I can ensure, with absolute certainty, that this parish will be safe, and as it stands, that’s impossible to determine.”

“I… I see.” Sister Olivia said quietly as Benítez let her go, and she sighed deeply, leaning on his side. “I didn’t know. You’re… you’re so strong, Father. But… why were you so scared? When Paolo was hurt, I thought…”

“Because I recognised Paolo.” Benítez said, “He was my guard when Paternò took me.”

“Oh.” Sister Olivia winced. “And is he…”

“He’s free now. The Mafia practically kicked him out with that beating.”

Sister Olivia relaxed again, and they stayed quiet for a long time. 

“I’m gonna miss the Holy Father.” She mumbled, and Benítez nodded sadly. “He was so very kind to us. I can only hope that the next Pope will remember us here in Calabria.”

“Me too.” Benítez murmured. “I hope so, too.”

He hadn’t expected the sudden car horn catching his attention on the way to the farmer’s market for a quick ingredient run for dinner. Benítez frowned as he turned to see a car with darkly tinted windows roll to a stop next to him, and he stopped, too, crossing his arms as the window rolled down to reveal Paternò inside, leaning on the door to look up at him. 

“Hello, Innocent.”

“Don Paternò.”

Paternò smirked at the standoffish greeting, and gestured for Benítez to come inside the car. 

“I’m afraid I’ll have to refuse,” Benítez said, even as the door swung open, making him take a step back. “I’ll make it difficult for you every step of the way.”

“You realise that I like that, don’t you?” Paternò drawled, snatching Benítez’s wrist to drag him into the car anyway. Benítez rolled his eyes as he stumbled into the car, sitting down properly as Paternò reached over him to pull the door shut. The car drove off before Benítez could wrench the door open again, so the priest huffed in frustration, wrestling his wrist out of Paternò’s grip to cross his arms. 

“Yes, I’m quite aware you like forcing yourself on me.” He snapped. “What do you want?”

“To talk. Really just talk, this time.” Paternò said when Benítez looked at him with wry disbelief. “I immediately came to find you when I heard the news. My condolences, first and foremost.”

“You're a few days late.” Benítez grumbled, and Paternò shrugged. 

“I was in Canada. I flew over on the next available flight. You’ll forgive my tardiness, my dear Vincent, I do not have the world at my fingertips.” Paternò continued surprisingly calmly. “The Pope has died. His funeral is, if I recall correctly, in two days, right?”

“Yes.” Benítez replied reluctantly. “I… I’ll be watching it on TV.”

“But you were so close.” Paternò raised an eyebrow at him. “The frequent calls were indicative of that. So were the letters.”

“Yes, well,” Benítez considered if he should tell Paternò he was staying because of him, specifically, but decided not to. The man might get a bigger ego for it. “We don’t have the money to take even just me to Rome, and to go back. Nevermind finding somewhere to stay in Rome while people wait for the Conclave.”

“Well,” Paternò made a vague gesture, “Ask the Vatican to get you there.”

“They wouldn’t care about some parish priest like me.”

“Not even the Secretary of State?”

“I don’t want to bother Eminence Bellini. Not at a time like this.”

Paternò hummed, leaning back in his seat as he made a show of thinking, and nodded. 

“I can take you to Rome.”

Benítez stopped, blinking at him incredulously for a moment, before his confusion warped into anger. 

“I know how you people operate. I will not take a loan from you.” He snarled. 

“No, not like that.” Paternò laughed. “I won’t lend you any money, Vincent. I will take you to Rome. Me, personally. I will escort you to Rome myself so you can attend the funeral and say goodbye.”

Benítez looked at him warily. 

“There’s a catch.”

“Of course, it comes at a price, but I think you’ll want to listen to what it is.”

“If you’re going to rape me again, Don Paternò, I—”

“One kiss.”

Benítez stopped at the quiet response, and he stared at Paternò owlishly as the Don looked back at him intently. 

“One…”

“One kiss.” Paternò said. “You’ll notice that I’ve never once kissed you. No matter how much I want to, of course. But you can change that. Kiss me, just once, and I will take you to Rome. Another kiss, and I will bring you back to Calabria.”

“I…” Benítez’s stomach turned with nerves. “It can’t be that simple.”

“You’ll find that it is.” Paternò replied easily. “Two kisses for a round trip to and from Rome. It’s quite a deal, don’t you think?”

“I just—I just don’t believe it. I don’t believe you’d expend all those resources just for—just for that.”

“I’ve had to bury my own son, Vincent.” 

Dead silence fell over them as Benítez stared disbelievingly at Paternò, who laughed wryly, shaking his head. 

“I understand your hesitation to believe me. You can ask Paolo if you like. He was still with us when it happened.” He shrugged. “But… I know what it’s like to bury your heart. To grieve. I want you to be able to get closure in a way I know you weren’t able to in the Middle East.”

Benítez deflated, looking off to the side, and Paternò gently patted his knee. 

“I’ll leave this decision up to you. If you want to take me up on my offer, I’ll see you at our usual pick-up spot tomorrow at 8AM. You can pay me for the first leg of our journey on the way to Rome.” He said, “Unless… there’s another reason you can’t leave?”

Benítez sighed deeply. The man knew him uncomfortably well, and he hated the fact that he couldn’t say he knew Paternò well. The priest looked at the Don witheringly as he grinned at him cheekily. 

“You seem to already know.”

“I’ll guarantee the safety and quiet of your parishioners while you’re gone.” Paternò said, “Of course, for another fee. As you already know.” 

Benítez deflated against the backrest of the car. It was selfish to want to go to Rome—he knew he should just say no and deny himself, as taught in Scripture, to deny oneself was to be divine… but. 

But this was saying goodbye. To the Holy Father. He only had one chance to do it, to pay his respects to the man he owed so much to. 

“I’ll think about it.” Benítez muttered, and Paternò nodded as the car came to a stop. 

“Excellent. I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t forget to pack what you need, but I can always buy you something nice—for free. I want to spoil you, after all.” 

Benítez rolled his eyes as the car door opened, revealing that they had, in fact, stopped a block or so away from the farmer’s market. Benítez blinked in surprise at the location, and he looked at Paternò incredulously. 

“You often go there to shop for ingredients, yes?” Paternò said, “You were on your way here. I thought we’d help you get along faster.”

“You’re being…” Benítez began, and the man cocked his head cheekily at him. He shook his head with a scoff, and got out of the car. “Never mind.”

“No, please, do tell me.” Paternò called, but Benítez shut the door behind himself with a little slam. He stalked away from the car immediately, balling his hands into fists as he made his way to the farmer’s market, his mind in disarray. 

He knew that look in Paternò’s eyes when he talked about burying someone—that was genuine sadness. There was a certain weariness in the way his eyes seemed to go distant that told Benítez all he needed to know. 

Paternò had lost someone before. Someone dear to him—a son. Benítez didn’t know anything about the man, but he could tell at least that. Paternò was telling the truth. 

I know what it’s like to bury your heart. 

Benítez bit his lip. He knew he had already made up his mind when he saw Paternò’s grief. There was no need to ask Paolo, he knew, but he was already dreading the trip ahead.

If anything, Paternò was at least punctual. 

Benítez hadn’t been waiting a single minute after 8 in the morning when he saw a black, heavily tinted SUV driving towards his usual pick-up spot in front of the abandoned house. He only had a small leather bag next to him, packed with a single set of extra clothes, his cassock, and his rosary. Right now, he was dressed down in a simple black button-up shirt and jeans, his clerical collar at his throat. 

The SUV rolled to a stop next to him, and the door swung open to reveal a smiling Paternò inside the car. 

“Buongiorno, Padre.” He grinned, gesturing for Benítez to get in, and the younger man sighed, nodding as—for once—he got into the car by himself. He closed the car door behind himself and gently set his leather bag down by their feet, but Paternò tutted, taking the bag from him to lightly toss it behind them in the back of the SUV to give them more room. 

“Please take care of my things a little better.” Benítez said dryly as Paternò grinned at him cheekily. “That has been with me since I left home.”

“I know. The bag has a beautiful patina; it can take a little beating.” 

Benítez hated that the man was right, shrugging in defeat as he sat back, the car gently picking up speed to head onto the national highway. He realised that the SUV was modified to have a barrier between the backseats and the driver’s seat, giving Benítez and Paternò full privacy from the driver, and he swallowed nervously. 

“You look anxious.” Paternò said, and Benítez didn’t look at him when he shook his head stiffly. “Everything alright?” 

“Yes.” Benítez replied. “I… thank you for this trip to Rome.”

“Of course. Grief is difficult to bear. It’s best to have closure or things could get worse in here.” Paternò lightly tapped Benítez’s temple, and the priest scoffed lightly. His reaction made Paternò laugh softly, and he gently took Benítez’s chin to turn his face towards him. “We’ll be on the road for a little over five hours. We can take breaks as needed, of course.” 

“Just driving?” Benítez blinked, and Paternò nodded. 

“I assume Cardinal Bellini sent you here to Calabria on the train?” He asked, and Benítez nodded. “Ah, cheapskate.” 

“No, I asked him to.” Benítez frowned, and Paternò looked at him with a gut-wrenching fondness, it made an uncomfortable feeling grow in Benítez’s chest. “I—I didn’t want Vatican cars driving me all the way to Calabria, it’s too public.”

“Ah, you’re right.” Paternò huffed. “It would’ve broadcast you to the world. Much harder to keep you to myself that way.” 

Benítez felt his skin crawl as the man shrugged easily. 

“Feel free to take a nap while we drive, I don’t mind. I’ve got a bit of work to do, myself, on my digital devices, so try not to think I’m a poor host by ignoring you in favour of my smartphone.” Paternò said, pulling his phone out of his pocket to wave it at Benítez. “I’ll wake you up if we’re stopping for food and things like that.” 

“R-right.” Benítez mumbled, and he thought of the payment. “Um, what about… the, um…”

“Payment?” Paternò grinned. “Eager, are we?”

“Not at all.” Benítez deadpanned. “I just want it over and done with.”

“Oh, so you want it now?” 

“Don’t twist my words.” 

Paternò laughed, shaking his head. “We can take our time. I have more urgent things to take care of right now, anyway. We have five hours on the road together—we can figure something out.” 

“Right…” Benítez mumbled, and with that final word, Paternò turned his attention to his phone. Sighing deeply, Benítez looked out of the windows to realise that despite the heavy tinting, he had a good view of the countryside hurtling by, and he smiled slightly at the sight of nature beyond them.

It had been a long time since he got to travel. He might as well enjoy it, he supposed.

Miraculously, Benítez made it to Rome unmolested, and it was half past two in the afternoon when the SUV drove past the Vatican, catching Benítez’s breath in his throat in awe at the sight of the gorgeous architecture, seen only once and in the cover of night the last time he was in Rome. He didn’t notice Paternò’s fond smile at him as they drove by, but Benítez did jump in surprise when Paternò pressed a button on their side of the SUV and said something in Italian to the driver. 

Much to Benítez’s surprise, the car came to a stop not too far away from the front gates of the Vatican. 

“Wh—what—” Benítez began, turning to look at Paternò, and he jumped when his lips accidentally pressed against his in a shockingly chaste kiss. His eyes widened as Paternò deepened the kiss just slightly, just a gentle press closer between them to taste their lips on each other’s skin, and they pulled apart just as quickly. 

The movement pulled the breath out of Benítez’s lungs as they moved apart, and Paternò grinned at him. 

“First payment done.” He said, and Benítez felt his cheeks burn at the shockingly handsome expression the man was making. “I know you want to say hello to Cardinal Bellini as soon as you can. Go.”

“Wh—but I—I—”

“We’ll come back for you at around 9PM at the gates. Don’t forget that you’re staying with me on this trip, alright? Don’t make me cause an incident—either here in Rome or back at home in Calabria.”

The tenderness and surprisingly chaste kiss immediately dissipated from Benítez’s mind at the gentle threat of violence, and he frowned deeply at Paternò as the man cocked his head at him questioningly. 

“Am I understood, Innocent?” 

“Yes.” Benítez bit out bitterly, and Paternò smiled. 

“Alright, I’ll see you later.” He said, gesturing at the door. “Step out of the car, I’ll hold on to your bag for now.” 

Benítez sighed deeply, getting out of the car. Paternò gave him one last smile before he shut the door, and the SUV drove off. Benítez deflated, shaking his head before turning to look at the Vatican apprehensively. 

Truthfully, he didn’t know if they would let him in—at least, not past the regular tourist areas. He knew there was a long, long line for people who wanted to pay their last respects to the Holy Father, and he didn’t know if he could wait that long—if Paternò was willing to wait for that long. 

He needed to find Bellini, first.

He walked through the gates along with the crowd, and he smiled at a few of the faithful who turned and greeted him pleasantly, recognising he was a priest from the clerical collar at his throat. He made his way through St. Peter’s Square and turned towards the Apostolic Palace, where, as he expected, some Swiss Guards were stationed by the entrance to the office building. 

“Um, excuse me,” Benítez said as he approached them, and they looked at him suspiciously. “My name is Vincent Benítez. I’d like to speak with Eminence Bellini.” 

“Bellini?” The two guards looked at each other confusedly, and quietly had a quick conversation in French. Benítez stood back awkwardly, shuffling uncomfortably on his feet, and eventually, they looked back at him.

“Cardinal Bellini is busy.” One of the guards said, “Preparing for the funeral. He will be taking no appointments from anyone.”

“I—I understand that, but I—this is important.” Benítez said, but the other guard shook his head.

“Nothing more important than the Pope’s funeral, Father.” He said, “We apologise, but we cannot let you in.”

“I…” Benítez deflated. So much for trying to contact Bellini. 

“No, please, do let him in.” 

Benítez jumped, and he spotted a man in a black cassock with red buttons and a red fascia standing just a little beyond the doorway. He could see a red zucchetto on the man’s head atop thin blond hair, too, and Benítez realised that this man was likely a Cardinal, just like Bellini. 

“But Eminence Lawrence…”

“It’s fine. Eminence Bellini is not so callous as to ignore anyone who needs his help.” The man—Cardinal Lawrence, apparently—said gently, finally walking out from beyond the doorway to let Benítez see him. He smiled at Benítez tiredly, and gestured for Benítez to step into the building. “Come, I can take you to him. Father…?”

“Benítez, Eminence. Vincent Benítez.” Benítez replied, and Lawrence nodded generously, gently taking Benítez by his elbow when he got close enough. They walked through the Apostolic Palace and into the offices in companionable silence, until they finally reached the Office of the Secretary of State.

“I, um,” Benítez began, and Lawrence cocked his head at him. “Thank you. I didn’t… I wouldn’t have known what to do if you hadn’t spoken on my behalf. Why did you do that?”

“Curious to see someone asking their benefactor why.” Lawrence smiled, and Benítez felt his cheeks burn in embarrassment. “If you must ask, Father, it’s because hardly anyone would be looking for the Secretary of State at a time like this. The Camerlengo—Cardinal Tremblay—would be in higher demand than Cardinal Bellini.”

“Oh.” Benítez blinked. 

Lawrence, whomever he was, was very perceptive. 

“Therefore, your appeal must be truly important.” Lawrence said, “That, and I am aware of a priest that Cardinal Bellini and the late Holy Father were worried about. Am I correct to assume that that is you?” 

“Oh.” Here he went again with the intelligent commentary, but Benítez couldn’t help but stare at Lawrence in shocked surprise. “I—I… I’m not sure. But I’ve been in frequent contact with Cardinal Bellini this past week, so…”

“I see.” Lawrence hummed with a nod. “Very well, then. Cardinal Bellini is inside. I’m sure he’ll appreciate your company more than the hundreds of letters of condolence from world leaders everywhere.”

“Thank you.” Benítez smiled, and Lawrence strode off. He looked at the door nervously, and knocked. 

“Who is it?” Bellini’s voice—even more hoarse and exhausted than before, Benítez realised—came through the door, and Benítez’s heart ached for him. 

“It’s me.” He said, “Father Vincent Benítez.”

Stunned silence answered him, and much to Benítez’s surprise, the door flew open to reveal a wide-eyed Bellini. 

“Father Benítez.” He said faintly. “You—you’re here.”

“Yes.” Benítez nodded, allowing Bellini to usher him into his office, shutting the door behind himself politely as Bellini dropped himself onto his seat again with a tired sigh. “I… I needed to come. It’s—it’s my last chance to say goodbye.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Bellini asked, “I could’ve—I could’ve sent for you. How did you—how’d you get here?”

Benítez bit his lip. “Don’t you mind that, Eminence, what matters is that I’m here.”

“I can’t just ignore the fact you’re here, Father Benítez,” Bellini spluttered, “I know you don’t have enough funds to get here, let alone go back, and I know you wouldn’t leave your parishioners alone with the Maf—” He stopped, his eyes widening as he jaw went slack, and Benítez looked at him ashamedly. “Oh, dear God. Don’t tell me…”

“My parishioners are safe, Eminence. I swear it.”

“You made a deal with Paternò?” Bellini hissed, “Oh, Father Benítez, you—oh, this is—this is reckless, I can’t believe—” He made aborted gestures with his hands, and he looked at Benítez pleadingly. “God, what has he done to you? Please tell me you’re alright, I—”

“It’s fine,” Benítez said quietly. “I will deal with the consequences of my actions, for they are my fault, and mine alone. Yes, I made a deal with Paternò, and I’ve ensured that my parishioners back in Calabria will be safe while I am here in Rome.”

“I don’t want to learn that you’ve ended up in a morgue, Father Benítez.” Bellini said shakily, but Benítez shook his head.

“I swear I won’t.” Benítez said. 

After all, he doesn’t want me dead, but something worse. I’ve made peace with that.

“Then what does he want?” Bellini asked, “Men like that, they don’t—they don’t just help without an ulterior motive. What is it he’s asking of you? Money? I can send it over, out of pocket and discreet, just so you don’t have to—”

“Eminence Bellini.” Benítez gently cut him off. “I appreciate your concern and offer to help. I will deal with Don Paternò.” 

Bellini bit his lip as Benítez smiled at him sadly. 

“I will bear this cross I’ve made for myself.” He said, “All I ask is that you pray for me.”

Something broke and became whole in Bellini’s eyes, and Benítez’s heart ached for him. 

“Always.” He said brokenly. “I… I always will.”

Benítez nodded, and he strode forward to hold Bellini’s hands gently. 

“I don’t know if it’s possible for me to say my goodbyes to the Holy Father in a timely manner. The line of mourners is long, and I know my presence here and any expedition of my goodbyes will be scrutinised by the media.” Benítez said. “What can we do?”

Bellini looked down at their joined hands, his lips pressing into a thin line as he thought, and eventually, he nodded.

“The Sistine Chapel will close tomorrow, the night before the funeral.” He said. “While the chapel is closed and the Holy Father’s body is alone for a while, I can take you to him.” 

Benítez’s eyes widened, and Bellini nodded. 

“Won’t that get you into trouble?” 

“I’m the Secretary of State.” Bellini grinned wryly. “I can do whatever I want.”

Benítez couldn’t help but laugh a little, and nodded. 

“Thank you.” He said brokenly. “I… thank you so much.”

“For now, you’ll have to wait until tomorrow evening. Meet me again here at around 6PM, give or take. The Casa Santa Marta is still being prepared for the Conclave, so I don’t know where you can stay—”

“I have somewhere I can stay.” Benítez said, and Bellini frowned. “I’ll be alright, I promise.”

“Very well.” Bellini said stiffly. “I’ll tell the Swiss Guard that you’re my guest and you’re welcome in restricted areas. Ah, actually…” He looked at his phone and sent a text to someone. “Someone will come by and provide you with a Bishop's cassock. For the time being, I ask that you return to being Vincent Benítez, Archbishop of Kabul.” 

Benítez’s eyes widened as Bellini smiled at him witheringly. 

“It’s the only way to justify your presence.” He said, and a knock on the door caught their attention. “The fastest man on earth, this one.” He huffed, and then called: “Come in.”

A man in a bishop’s cassock and zucchetto peered into the office, and he blinked in surprise at Benítez through his glasses. 

“Eminence, you called?” He asked, his voice a soft lilt with an Irish accent. 

“Monsignor, hello, thank you for coming. I understand Thomas is keeping you busy.” Bellini said, “This is Archbishop Vincent Benítez, visiting from Kabul. Father Benítez, this is Monsignor Raymond O’Malley.”

“It’s a pleasure.” O’Malley smiled at Benítez, who nodded back at him with a little smile.

“Monsignor, could you give Father Benítez a Bishop’s cassock, zucchetto, and fascia, please?” Bellini asked. 

“At once, Eminence.” O’Malley nodded, and looked at Benítez expectantly. “Follow me, Your Excellency.”

“R-right. Of course.”

Benítez looked at Bellini one last time, and Bellini nodded at him. Benítez took a shaky breath, and followed O’Malley out of the door.

“Good afternoon, Your Excellency.”

“Good afternoon…”

The people in the Vatican were friendly and greeted him as they crossed paths, but it felt strange to be a Bishop again. There wasn’t really any substantial difference, not one Benítez could tangibly describe, but it felt… wrong, somehow, to return to his old identity. 

To return to before Paternò. 

Benítez found himself wandering aimlessly through the Vatican’s grounds, exploring the place he never got to look at before. He wondered if things would have been different—if he, indeed, became Cardinal Archbishop of Kabul, and was here under completely different circumstances.

His wandering brought him to a gorgeous pond decorated with slightly eroded marble statues and an intricate mosaic floor. He nearly walked by it without much thought, when he suddenly heard a splash. 

“What…”

Benítez made his way to the water, and he lit up when he saw turtles serenely swimming about. One of them was on its back right next to the pool, so, chuckling fondly, Benítez squatted down to pick it up and flip it over. 

“Oh!” He lit up when the turtle moved away from his touch, and flipped itself over without his help. Benítez smiled at the sight of a light green spot right on its back. 

It reminded Benítez of an olive, perched right above its heart, and he thought of his parishioners back in Calabria. 

“I hope they’re all doing alright…” He murmured, gently returning the olive-backed turtle into the water. 

“The Holy Father’s turtles. He was very fond of them.” A familiar voice said, and Benítez jumped, getting up onto his feet and turning around to see Lawrence approaching him, smiling at him kindly. “A gift from Angola.”

“I thought I was imagining them.” Benítez smiled as Lawrence stood next to him. “I love them. They’re so clever.”

“Well, here they keep escaping and being run over.” Lawrence chuckled, making Benítez laugh softly, too. “Forgive me for making such an obvious statement, but I had no idea you were actually a Bishop, Your Excellency.”

“Oh, I…” Benítez winced. “No, I’m not a Bishop. Well, not anymore. I resigned not too long ago, but Cardinal Bellini asked me to appear as a Bishop again while I’m here in Rome, just so I won’t be bothered by the Swiss Guard.”

“I see.” Lawrence hummed. “And you’re here to say your goodbyes to the Holy Father?”

“Yes. I owe a lot to him.” Benítez sighed, looking back at the turtles wistfully. “He… was kind to me. In my darkest hour he pulled me back to the light of God, and considered my feelings when he allowed me to resign.”

“He must love you dearly.” 

“We were in regular contact before he was confined to the ICU.” Benítez sighed. “After that, I was frequently in contact with Cardinal Bellini.”

“I know.” Lawrence smiled, and Benítez blinked at him. “Sometimes he would excuse himself to answer your calls. I’d always wondered who it was he was always calling without fail, so it is very interesting to finally have a chance to talk to you.”

“Oh, I see…” Benítez laughed nervously. “Well, I’m just… I’m just a parish priest in a little farming town in Calabria, Eminence.”

“Calabria.” Lawrence hummed. “A dangerous place to live, what with the influence of the Mafia so apparent.”

Benítez stared at him in surprise. Lawrence knew a lot, and yet so little, it seemed. 

“I hope you are not alone in your parish, my dear Vincent—may I call you Vincent?”

Benítez felt his heart flutter a little. He didn’t know why such a polite, innocuous question could cause such a reaction in him. 

You’ll allow me to call you Vincent, of course.

How desperate was he to be so taken by mere politeness just because Paternò had been so callous with him?

“Of course.” Benítez said gingerly, and Lawrence smiled at him warmly. “And… well, I have a deacon and a nun to assist me. Our parish is not big, so I’ve been able to manage my parishioners with relative ease.”

“But with the danger, you ought to have another priest with you, at least.” Lawrence hummed in thought. “I’ll have a word with Aldo about it when this is all over.”

“No, it’s really fine,” Benítez said, “I’m—I’ll be alright.”

Lawrence looked at him dubiously as Benítez forced a nervous laugh. 

“Thank you for your concern, Eminence. Besides, you and Cardinal Bellini will be busy in the coming weeks, right? The Conclave will soon follow to elect a new Pope.”

“Ah, yes.” Lawrence seemed to grimace at the mention of the Conclave, and Benítez wondered why. “The Conclave… that won’t be for a while yet. Will Aldo keep you in Rome as a Bishop until then?”

It’s not up to Cardinal Bellini, Benítez thought. “No. After the funeral, I will return to Calabria and wait for the election of a new Pope with my parishioners.”

“I see.” Lawrence nodded. “It seems a shame to see you leave so soon.”

Benítez blinked at him in surprise. “I—I beg your pardon?”

“Aldo is very fond of you.” Lawrence clarified with a little smile. “I could tell that he treasures your calls together, so I wondered if you could stay a little longer, if not for anyone’s sake, then his. Personally, I’m curious about you, too.”

“I, well, there’s nothing much to say about me…” Benítez laughed sheepishly, and Lawrence shrugged. 

“Aldo is most discerning of people. I think you are quite special to have wormed your way into his heart.” 

Benítez clamped his lips shut, feeling his cheeks burn as Lawrence’s kind gaze bore into him. His ice blue eyes were distractingly easy to stare into, and something about the way his tired, but kind voice seemed to burrow straight into Benítez’s heart seemed to make his very soul relax at the man’s presence. 

“Oh, where are my manners?” Lawrence jumped, shaking his head exasperatedly. “I realise I’ve yet to introduce myself. I am Thomas Lawrence, Dean of the College of Cardinals.”

Benítez’s jaw dropped. 

The Dean of the College of Cardinals? Someone so highly ranked, the very man responsible for overseeing the upcoming Conclave, was here, interested in him? He couldn’t even participate in the coming Conclave. 

(But in another life, Benítez supposed, he could have taken part in the Conclave. He wondered what Lawrence would think of him then.)

“Please, don’t be so shocked, Vincent.” Lawrence looked sheepish, embarrassed, almost, at Benítez’s reaction. “My position means nothing between us. Let us be friends, if only for a while.”

“I…” Benítez sighed, laughing softly. “I suppose.”

“Do you have a place to stay here in Rome?” Lawrence asked. “I’ve no doubt Aldo has offered to help, but if you’re having trouble, I’ve extra bedspace in my apartment in the Apostolic Palace.”

“I—no thank you, I have somewhere to stay. I’ll be back tomorrow, though.”

“I see.” Lawrence nodded, “Well, in the meantime, have you any plans here in Rome, or elsewhere?”

“Well, not really…” Benítez muttered, shrugging. “I just had a short meeting with Cardinal Bellini, but I don’t really have anything else to do until my meeting with him again tomorrow.” 

“Well.” Lawrence smiled, “If you don’t mind, would you allow me to show you around Rome?” 

“Really?” Benítez blinked, and Lawrence shrugged. 

“My duties only truly matter after the late Holy Father’s funeral. Until then, I’m about as free as anyone else is.” Lawrence chuckled. “Frankly, I could use a distraction from my own grief, like you.” 

“My…”

“The Holy Father must have mattered so much to you, for you to travel here all the way from Calabria despite already resigning.” Lawrence smiled, “Forgive me for making assumptions, Vincent, but I presume his loss must be heartbreaking for you. You’ll need some levity for your own grief.” 

“I suppose so.” Benítez smiled softly. “Thank you for your consideration, Dean.”

“Thomas, please.” Lawrence said, gently gesturing for Benítez to follow him. “Come, I know a café just beyond the Vatican that serves wonderful coffee.”

The day flew by like a dream or a romantic, classic movie. Benítez spent most of it with a kind, patient Lawrence as he showed Benítez around Rome, ending the day with dinner with Bellini at the Casa Santa Marta cafeteria, recounting the day they had to a warm, happy Bellini, who seemed relieved to see both Benítez and Lawrence happy to be with him that night. 

Benítez’s day went by so well, he almost forgot he had to leave the Vatican by 9PM, but an off-handed comment by Bellini looking at his phone sent the hazy dream of his beautiful, movie-like day crashing down around him. 

“Who sends emails at almost 9PM?” He grumbled, and Lawrence chuckled fondly into the rim of his coffee cup as Benítez was jolted back to reality.

9PM. He needed to be at the Vatican gate by 9PM. 

Benítez looked at his watch—the beat-up old digital watch he’d had since before he left for Iraq, and his heart sank at the time.

8:53 PM

He needed to leave. 

“I…” He spoke up, and the two cardinals looked at him curiously. “I need to go.”

“Oh?” Lawrence asked as Bellini’s expression darkened. Benítez just knew Bellini had already put two and two together, and that the man was not happy about it. “What’s wrong?”

“Sorry, my, um, homestay…” Benítez said, “It has a curfew.”

“You’re a fully grown man, a priest, even.” Bellini grumbled, and Benítez looked at him pleadingly. “They can excuse you missing a night. You can stay here with Thomas and I.”

“Please, Aldo, I really need to go…”

A glance at his watch. 

8:54 PM

He was running out of time.

“If it’s the booking you’ve paid for that you’re worried about, I can shoulder the cost.” Bellini continued firmly, his message clear in his eyes:

Don’t go to Paternò tonight.

Benítez didn’t know what to do—he wanted to stay, he wanted to be with Lawrence and Bellini, to be safe, for once, and to be comfortable and happy during a time of mourning, but—

He needed to protect his parishioners. 

“Aldo, don’t be pushy.” Lawrence finally said, and Bellini looked at Lawrence as he smiled kindly at Benítez. “Vincent is a man of principles—we can’t impose on what he’s arranged for himself, and he doesn’t want to take advantage of us. It’s truly admirable.” 

Benítez’s heart ached—he knew that Lawrence meant well, and in any other circumstance, he would have probably been happy that Lawrence stood up for him like this, but…

Not like this. 

Bellini looked at him witheringly, but Benítez knew he couldn’t tell Lawrence the truth. If too many people knew about Benítez’s true situation, there would be more people caught in the web of pain that Paternò could extend. 

Another glance at his watch. 

8:56 PM

He needed to move, now. 

“Thank you so much, Dean.” Benítez smiled weakly, and Lawrence looked up at him in confusion as he got up from his seat. “I—I’m heading out now. Thank you for everything—I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Vincent—” Lawrence began, but Benítez was already hurrying out of the Casa Santa Marta. 

God, it was a long way from the Casa Santa Marta to the main gate of the Vatican. The thick crowd there that was waiting their turn to say goodbye to the late Holy Father didn’t help, but Benítez tried his best, sprinting as fast as he could to the gate and skidding to a halt just as an SUV rolled up a few metres away from the main gate. Benítez hurried up to the car as the door opened for him to reveal Paternò, who was grinning slightly. 

“Why the rush?” He asked cheekily, but moved aside to let Benítez get into the car. 

“I—I’m sorry. I lost track of time.” He said gingerly, and looked at his watch as he shut the door.

9:02 PM

“Well, we just arrived, so it was good timing on your part.” Paternò hummed, slinging his arm over Benítez’s shoulders as the car began to drive off. “Did you have a good day, Vincent?”

“I… well, yes.” Benítez muttered. 

“I’m sure you did, hanging all over that cardinal.” Paternò’s voice suddenly turned icy, and Benítez’s blood went cold in his veins as Paternò’s hand clenched tightly on his shoulder, pulling him close to himself, close enough to smell whiskey and cigar smoke on his suit. “I didn’t think you’d be such a little whore, my dear Innocent, immediately clinging to another man the moment I let you out of my sight.”

“Wh-what do you mean?” Benítez gasped, “I—I wasn’t—”

“Silence.” Paternò grabbed his chin roughly, making Benítez wince as he forced him to look into his eyes. “You should know I’m a very jealous man. I don’t like it when some other man lays a hand on what’s mine.”

“I’m not yours—”

“Oh, my dear Vincent,” Paternò laughed darkly. “You’ll find that you have no choice but to be mine.”

Benítez felt his heart sink in terror as Paternò let him go roughly, turning away from him suddenly to look at his phone. He sat there, panting, on the backseat next to him, and Benítez knew he was shaking. 

What did he mean? 

His mind was racing. Panic was settling in. 

What does he know?

Paternò took Benítez to a five-star hotel in the city centre, not too far away from the Vatican. They drove in through the back entrance, too, and they were swiftly moved through the hotel through discreet corridors, and a private lift leading up to the penthouse. Benítez could feel his heart pounding in his ears as they walked, watching Paternò fearfully as the man didn’t glance at him, not even once, even as they entered the gorgeous penthouse suite, fitted with fine furniture and marble flooring. 

Left alone by Paternò’s security at the sound of the door clicking shut, Benítez could only watch Paternò calmly walk through the suite, pouring himself three fingers of whiskey. Indulgently, the man took a few slow, deliberate sips, before finally looking at Benítez. 

“You’ve made me very angry today, Vincent.” He said calmly, and Benítez swallowed thickly. 

“And you want me to apologise for that?” He asked coldly. “That’s a little impossible, considering your jealousy is not my responsibility.”

“In the face of unspeakable pain, you still decide to mouth off at me.” Paternò smirked. “You realise that only endears you more to me, right?”

“If you think that by telling me my acts of defiance only make you like me more will make me more subservient, Don Paternò, I think you’re the naïve one.” Benítez shot back, making Paternò laugh wryly, shaking his head. 

“It’s all about the game, dear Innocent. I’m a man who plays with his food before he eats it.”

“It’s good manners to say grace before you eat.” 

Paternò’s grin widened at that, and he nodded. “True. Have you had dinner?” 

“Have you?”

“I have, thank you for asking.” Paternò said, “How about a digestivo, Padre?” 

“I’ve already told you I don’t drink.” 

“Not even as a little treat?” Paternò cocked his head, but he still poured Benítez two fingers of whiskey—into his own glass of whiskey. Benítez could already guess where this was going.

“I thought you were angry.” Benítez said instead, and Paternò made a dismissive little noise, shrugging easily as he picked up his glass again to take a sip. 

“I am.” He said, “But… I know how to blow off steam. Tell me, what do you do?” 

Benítez considered him for a moment. 

“Housework.” 

“Really.” Paternò smirked, nodding as he strode forward closer to Benítez. The priest resolutely held still, unwilling to back down as the man came to a stop right in front of him, still with that knowing look in his eye that made Benítez’s stomach turn with worry. “I think it suits you, darling Vincent.” 

“Really.” Benítez echoed. “Explain why.”

“After all…” Paternò purred, leaning even closer, and Benítez’s heart completely stopped when he pressed the side of his whiskey glass against his lower abdomen, right above his—

No.

“I think it’s a reflection of your true self, isn’t it?”

Oh, God.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Benítez said faintly, his head beginning to spin as his breaths grew lighter with fear—shallower and faster, dragging up the burning sensation of bile up his throat hot like lava as Paternò laughed darkly. His eyes were going out of focus, darting left and right in desperate confusion as he tried to look somewhere, anywhere, but the imposing man in front of him.

The imposing man who, inexplicably, knew.

He knew.

“Oh, I think you know exactly what I mean.” Paternò said, using his whiskey glass to lift Benítez’s chin, forcing the priest to meet his gaze. “I didn’t think I was going to get the best of both worlds with you. You never cease to amaze me.” 

“I—”

“You know, I’d always wondered why you gave up such a comfortable life in Rome. I wondered what you could have done to warrant your demotion… but now, I think I see the full picture.” He slowly traced the rim of the whiskey glass from Benítez’s chin to his lips, smearing dark amber liquid against Benítez’s parted, shaking lips before he pressed the edge—right where he’d been drinking—to his mouth, pouring the drink into Benítez’s mouth. “Well, I say it like I figured it all out, but not really—no, you told me yourself.”

Benítez stared at him in horror, and Paternò smirked. 

“I may not have the world at my fingertips, but have you already forgotten? I have friends in Rome that keep me well-informed. It’s not a far stretch to perhaps… dip into a sick old man’s office… and search through his documents…”

He found his resignation letter.

Benítez’s gut dropped in horror, and Paternò’s smirk widened. 

“Yes, the pieces fall into place again, but let me spell it out for you, Vincent.” 

He leaned closer to Benítez, manic glee carefully contained in his eyes. 

“I know your deepest, darkest secret.” Paternò growled. “The darling little organ within you—the seat of life, discovered after emergency surgery in Afghanistan, which drove you to Rome to resign from your position as Archbishop and renounce your ministry.” 

Benítez knew all that, but hearing it spoken out loud by Paternò… it broke him. Something snapped within him, and he spat the whiskey in his mouth directly in the man’s face. Paternò roared in anger as Benítez backed away, shaking with adrenaline and fear. He was tightly strung, coiled and ready to run at a moment’s notice the moment Paternò did something as the man wiped his face angrily, glaring at Benítez when he recovered. 

“You little bitch,” The man inexplicably grinned, and Benítez only felt adrenaline pumping harder through his veins. “Oh, I will enjoy breaking you.”

He had to run. He had to go, now—

Benítez turned and ran, and Paternò, shockingly still so nimble despite his age, darted after him, chasing him through the suite. He only barely made it to the door before he was suddenly grabbed by the edge of his cassock, and Benítez gasped, tumbling back at the surprisingly hard tug Paternò made as he was dragged backwards into the man’s crushing grip. Paternò roughly clamped his hand over Benítez’s mouth to keep him from shouting as he bodily manhandled Benítez back deeper into the suite, struggling all the while until he managed to get Benítez to the bedroom, throwing him on the bed. 

Benítez quickly tried to get away as soon as Paternò let him go, but the man caught him by his violet fascia, dragging him back into bed, forcing his hands up towards the headboard, and Benítez gasped when he heard the click of handcuffs. 

He looked up at his wrist to realise that Paternò had managed to cuff his right wrist to the headboard, and he looked up at the man with wide eyes, panting heavily as he leaned over Benítez, panting as heavily as Benítez was. 

“The more you struggle, the more fun it is, you know.” Paternò said, smirking past his heavy breaths as Benítez glared at him. “Don’t think I’ve grown soft just because I’m at the top of my Family. I am here because I deserve it.”

“And you deserve to rape me?” 

“I do believe you owe me, Vincent.” Paternò said, undoing his necktie as he unbuttoned his suit jacket, and Benítez tensed up, his breaths growing shallower as he moved back up the bed when Paternò climbed into bed with him. “Now, now. Didn’t I say? There’s a price for this trip.”

“You said a kiss—”

“For a trip to and from Rome. Accommodations are a different story.” 

Benítez’s eyes widened. 

God, he’d walked into that one. 

“But I am a man who knows how to savour nice things. I won’t eat you all up immediately.” Paternò smirked, taking Benítez’s ankles to spread his legs, making the younger man gasp. “If anything, there is only one thing that wants to be satiated right now, and it is my curiosity.”

“Your…”

“After all, your womb may define you as a woman,” Paternò grinned, “But you’re also… as I see you.”

Benítez blinked at him in shock, and then gasped when Paternò wedged himself between Benítez’s thighs to keep them spread as he quickly undid Benítez’s trousers’ fly with a hum. Benítez squeezed his eyes shut, trembling helplessly as Paternò pulled his slacks down, underwear and all, and his skin crawled at the low whistle the Don made as he threw the clothes behind himself. 

Benítez, on reflex, tried to squeeze his legs shut, but the man clicked his tongue angrily, roughly pulling Benítez’s thighs open. 

“Keep your legs open, or it won’t just be Calabria who finds out about this little miracle.” He snarled, so Benítez reluctantly held them open as Paternò moved back to look at Benítez’s crotch properly. “How interesting…”

Benítez took a sharp breath when he felt Paternò touch his cock—it was small and half-tucked under the clitoral hood. With a few devilishly clever strokes of his fingers, though, Benítez could feel his cock swell in arousal, and he shuddered, biting back a moan as his erection grew enough to let Paternò wrap his fist around it, completely swallowing it in his large hand. The older man smirked, gently jerking him off with a light caress, and Benítez jolted at the sudden stimulation, unable to bite back a gasp as much to his horror, he could feel wetness growing between his lower folds. 

Beneath his cock was his pussy—with folds that were smaller than most and pressed so thin that it could easily be mistaken as part of his perineum. It was easier to spot, though, now that it was wet, as clear wetness trickled out between his folds, catching Paternò’s attention. The man reached down with his free hand to trace the line his pussy’s folds made, and Benítez jolted again, throwing his head back as he bit his lip hard to keep himself from making any more noise. 

Paternò scoffed in bemusement, but let him be as he slipped the tip of two fingers between his folds, relishing the way Benítez’s thighs jolted on either side of him, and parted his lips to look at his hole. 

“Incredible.” Paternò murmured, lightly rubbing Benítez’s wet folds with one hand while his other jerked him off. “What a marvel, my dear Vincent.”

Benítez felt his eyes burn with tears. 

My dear Vincent—may I call you Vincent? 

Lawrence’s voice echoed in his head as Paternò continued to stroke him, and Benítez struggled against his handcuff with a quiet little sob.

No, not now. Please, not Thomas.

“Oh, how have you gotten wetter?” Paternò chuckled darkly, “What are you thinking about?”

“N-nothing.” Benítez mumbled, turning his head to bury his face in the pillows, his tears falling into thousand-count sheets as his zucchetto dropped into the space between the pillows and the headboard. 

“Mm, doesn’t sound like nothing.” Paternò hummed, slipping his middle finger into Benítez, and he grinned when Benítez jolted, his eyes shooting open as he shuddered, his hole tightening around Paternò’s finger. More wetness spread over Paternò’s fingers, and the man smirked as he looked up at Benítez, who sank back against the bed, panting weakly as he shook uncontrollably beneath him. “Feel good?”

“N-no.” 

God, it felt so good. There was a rush of pleasure that tore from the tips of Benítez’s toes up to his head in an incredible surge, and he hated that it felt good.

“Alright, I’ll try again. It’s been a while for me, too.” Paternò chuckled, and Benítez let out a shuddering breath when Paternò let his cock go, and slid his fingers out of his pussy. The priest deflated against the bed witheringly as he looked at Paternò, and the other man grinned at him. “Now, what was it you said? It’s good manners to say grace before you eat. It’s been a while since I did that, too, so withhold the laughter if I get it wrong, won’t you?”

“What do you…”

Much to Benítez’s shock, Paternò crossed himself. 

“Nel nome del Padre, del Figlio e dello Spirito Santo.” He said, “What was it… benedici, Signore, noi e questi tuoi doni… um, che stiamo per ricevere dalla tua generosità.”

He was… saying grace. Benítez’s gut sank in realisation as Paternò continued. 

“Per Cristo nostro Signore.” He grinned at Benítez. “And we respond with?”

“A-Amen.” Benítez said quietly, and Paternò nodded. 

“Good boy.” He said, and leaned down to press a kiss to Benítez’s wet folds. 

He couldn’t take it—he couldn’t hold back the gasp that he escaped his lips as Paternò slowly licked a line up the line of his pussy, moving up to press a kiss to his twitching cock. The scratchy sensation of his beard made his skin tingle, and Benítez whined as the man took his cock into his mouth, sucking with a force that made Benítez’s head spin, and he couldn’t help it—his thighs clamped down around Paternò’s head, but he could feel the man’s smirk against his skin. 

He liked it. It felt good. 

Benítez’s body shook in a full-body shudder as Paternò’s fingers came back to his pussy again, slipping a finger inside to slowly pump the thick, rough digit in and out of his hole. Benítez struggled against the handcuff on his wrist, shuddering with helpless pleasure as Paternò sucked him off, tonguing his cockhead like a clit. 

Panic mixed with pleasure, horror with desire as Benítez realised he was hurtling closer and closer to an orgasm again. That was when he remembered he had another hand—it was currently balled into a tight, white-knuckled fist in the sheets next to his head. Blindly, Benítez reached down to do something, anything—

His hand balled into a fist in Paternò’s hair, and much to his horror, pulled him closer. 

Paternò hummed in agreement, moving down from his cock to begin licking away Benítez’s leaking slick from his pussy, and Benítez moaned—truly moaned this time—as his tongue slipped between his folds alongside his finger. 

It felt… new. It felt so disgusting and different and oh so good—

Benítez let out a sobbing moan as his orgasm slammed into him again, squirting wetness against Paternò’s face. He squirmed as his legs clamped down tight against the man’s head, his orgasm tearing through him in wave after wave of unstoppable pleasure, until it finally abated, whimpering in overstimulation as Paternò finally pulled his tongue and fingers out of him. 

Benítez melted bonelessly into the bed with a tired sigh as Paternò sat up, grinning impishly at him. 

“Beautiful.” He said, and Benítez didn’t have the energy to be disgusted when the man undid his fly, jerking himself off with a perfunctory grace, spilling white hot cum over his legs with a shaky breath. He sat down on the bed with a little sigh, laughing softly at Benítez as the priest looked up at him tiredly. “Better?” 

Benítez bit his lip, and looked away from him. Paternò laughed, and got up onto his feet with a huff. 

“Well, I’m a gentleman. The least I could do is clean you up.” 

Benítez feared the worst, but much to his surprise, Paternò undid his handcuff, undressing him with slow, gentle movements, and picked him up easily into his arms. Benítez looked away from him, unwilling to talk, but it seemed like the Don didn’t care as he brought Benítez into the ensuite, where he quickly began drawing a hot bath. As the tub began to fill, he brought Benítez to an open shower enclosure to gently, slowly wash off the cum all over his skin with the elephant shower head, uncaring if his suit got wet. 

“Wait here.” Paternò said gently, and Benítez gingerly nodded, letting Paternò put him on the floor to walk over to the bath to get some soap into it. The bathroom filled with the scent of roses and lilies, and Benítez’s stomach turned at the elegant scent as bubbles began to form, and soon, Paternò was back at Benítez’s side to pick him up.

Wordlessly, Paternò gently lowered Benítez into the water, and Benítez hated the way his body automatically melted in relief at the soothing warmth. 

“I’ll be with you in a moment.” 

In a moment?

Benítez didn’t bother to watch the man undress, but soon Paternò joined him in the bath, gently spooning his body with his own, and he bitterly watched the way the Don laced their fingers together tenderly. 

“You’re beautiful, my Vincent, so, so beautiful.” Paternò murmured against Benítez’s nape, and the priest simply looked away, still silent. Still, Paternò didn’t mind, and they simply sat there, cuddling together in the warm bath. 

It felt… nice. Gentle, in a tender, intimate way without becoming sexual, both having tired out their libido for the night. In a way, it could almost be romantic.

But Benítez knew better—this man was his rapist, and this was just an illusion. 

The both of them jumped when a buzzing noise came from the bathroom sink by the bathtub. Paternò rolled his eyes as he picked his phone up, manoeuvring Benítez on his lap with his free hand so that Benítez was nestled against his free arm, his head rested on Paternò’s shoulder. Lazily, Benítez looked up at Paternò as the man answered the call with an annoyed greeting, and listened to the person on the other side before speaking, himself.

Benítez shut his eyes, sighing deeply. 

He needed to endure this. He had to keep going, to make sure that—

“Si, mio cugino, Eminenza Tedesco.” 

Benítez paused, though he didn’t show it. He was careful not to show any reaction, not to move and to simply lie there, but he definitely heard that. 

Mio cugino. He’d been learning Italian with Giacomo, Olivia, and Paolo. He knew that word. 

My cousin. 

The next question was… who was this Eminenza—Eminence—Tedesco? 

Eminence. The title of Cardinals.

Paternò had a cousin who was a Cardinal. 

With the Pope dead, the Conclave was about to begin, and it could be likely that whomever this Tedesco was, he could pull the right strings and become Pope. 

His resolve growing, Benítez knew what he had to do. 

He needed to tell Bellini.