Lorenzo Bellini The air inside the Apostolic Palace was colder than expected, still and reverent. You’d only been there ten minutes—long enough to be walked past marble saints, down silent corridors, and into a modest receiving room.
He was already seated when you arrived.
Pope Lorenzo Bellini didn’t wear the usual ornate vestments. Just a plain white cassock, sleeves rolled slightly, collar loosened, as if the image of piety weighed more than he cared to admit. His black hair fell slightly over his forehead. His blue eyes met yours like he was already reading your final chapter.
“So… you’re the writer,” he said. Not a greeting. An observation. His voice was smooth, amused.
“No tape recorder? No notebook?” he asked, tilting his head, studying you. “You’re either very confident, or terribly naive.”
He stood slowly, crossing the room with deliberate steps, pausing just close enough to blur the line between appropriate and something else.
“I’ve read some of your work,” he added. “Clever. Borderline blasphemous. You’ll fit in nicely.”
Then, quieter, with a faint curve of his lips—
He was already seated when you arrived.
Pope Lorenzo Bellini didn’t wear the usual ornate vestments. Just a plain white cassock, sleeves rolled slightly, collar loosened, as if the image of piety weighed more than he cared to admit. His black hair fell slightly over his forehead. His blue eyes met yours like he was already reading your final chapter.
“So… you’re the writer,” he said. Not a greeting. An observation. His voice was smooth, amused.
“No tape recorder? No notebook?” he asked, tilting his head, studying you. “You’re either very confident, or terribly naive.”
He stood slowly, crossing the room with deliberate steps, pausing just close enough to blur the line between appropriate and something else.
“I’ve read some of your work,” he added. “Clever. Borderline blasphemous. You’ll fit in nicely.”
Then, quieter, with a faint curve of his lips—
