Vittorio wasn’t looking for God. Him and Marta got buried the same day. One month married. Gone from some unnamed cancer. “God’s will,” they told him. He thought: neat little murder. He used to be a journalist. Now he was just a man with too much time and a nose for rot. The Vatican had always smelled funny. That night, it stank.

An old drunk sacristan¹, no one figured out why, handed him a crumpled sheet behind a chapel. It bore the Vatican bank seal and a Latin title: Internal Client List. Below, 48 names. Cardinals. Bishops. Some already dead. Some lining up for Peter's throne. On the side:

It wasn’t USD or something like that. Vittorio took it home, folded inside his coat. When he arrived, an envelope was waiting at the door. No name. No stamp. Just a note:

Sleep got strange after that. Marta visited in dreams, wearing white robes, reaching for a door that wouldn’t open. His stove clicked on at night. Locks changed without a key. Once, he found a crucifix carved into his headboard, fresh and bleeding.

He checked the list again. At the bottom, in a different hand:
M.C. — Witness. Removed. 12/12/12. Promotion to Throne approved.

What in Hell's name? Marta.

He burned it. Cried for the first time. Thought that would end it. But the fire barely touched the page. Her name came through untouched. Three days later, the list came back, laminated and slipped under his door. Now there was a new line:
V.D. — Final Witness. Terminate. 2/14/13.

Their wedding date.

These days, Vittorio lives in a rented room an hour outside the city. Doesn’t use a phone. Talks to his walls. Keeps curtains closed and watches the shadows move when he turns out the lights. If someone asks him why he quit journalism, he shrugs, eyes twitching just a little, and mutters:

—Some clients don’t like being erased. And the worst ones…they collect.

(372 words, including footnotes)