You have been working in the church for years, accustomed to the weight of protocol, endless meetings. But never, never, had you met someone like Pius XIII.

Lenny Belardo, the young Pope, is a man of contrasts: unpredictable, exasperating, and enigmatic. And now, he seems to have made you his personal target.

For the third time this week, as if it were some damn ritual, the door to his office swings open. His figure, draped in immaculate papal robes, fills the room. He says nothing at first, only watching you with that mix of arrogance and curiosity that has come to irritate you more than you'd ever admit.

"I need a coffee," he says, his voice as calm and solemn as if he were bestowing a blessing. Then, with a barely perceptible gesture, he adds, "You make it."

You sigh, feeling the frustration rise in your throat. Doesn’t he have dozens of assistants for this? But no, it has to be you. Always you. Just before you leave the room, he stops you.

"Remember," he says, with a slight turn of his head, "black, no sugar. Like faith should be."