The File That Wasn’t Closed

The door shut behind Jessica with a soft click, sealing her in. She exhaled, letting her eyes adjust to the dim light. The Vatican Archives smelled like dust, ink, and secrets. Rows of towering shelves stretched out in either direction, filled with centuries of history that was never meant to be read.

Jessica moved carefully, her footsteps muffled by the stone floor. She had been here before, but this time, she wasn’t looking for herself. This time, she was looking for Giovanni Ricci. A Name That Wasn’t Supposed to Exist

She reached the main corridor, where old filing cabinets stood like forgotten sentinels. Most Vatican records were digitized now, but not these. These were the ones that still mattered.

Jessica ran a finger along the metal labels, scanning for anything that might lead her to Ricci. She found a section marked “Intelligence & Special Investigations.”

Her pulse quickened. This was it. She pulled open the first drawer, scanning the files inside. Each name was a piece of something bigger—a forgotten scandal, a missing relic, an erased chapter of history.

Then her fingers stopped. Giovanni Ricci. Jessica exhaled. She had him. She pulled the file free, flipping it open.

The first page was an official memorandum, dated five years ago.

“Subject: Archival Monitoring & Restricted Materials Investigation”

“Assigned: G. Ricci (Vatican Intelligence Division)”

“Status: Unresolved”

Jessica frowned. Unresolved. Meaning someone had stopped it before he could finish.

She scanned further. Ricci had been investigating historical records and documents that had been restricted by the Vatican for centuries. Most were related to political assassinations, Cold War intelligence, and… Jessica’s breath caught. Pasolini.

His name appeared in a list of “Subjects of Interest.”

Jessica turned the page, her heart hammering. Ricci had compiled a detailed analysis of Pasolini’s last days including his movements, his meetings, and the people he had been speaking to.

He had found inconsistencies in the official report of Pasolini’s murder.

He had written:

Preliminary analysis indicates Pasolini’s death was not incidental but strategically engineered. Witness testimony has been redacted, removed, or classified beyond access. Certain Vatican records from 1975 were sealed indefinitely. An unidentified individual was present the night he died. Someone erased all official accounts.

Jessica swallowed. The words blurred for a moment, not because she didn’t believe them, but because she did. Ricci had been investigating the same thing Bellanti had been chasing. If both of them were dead, then she was next.

This wasn't a theory anymore. It was an execution. This pattern began long before her and was coming for her now, methodically, like a lit fuse.

Jessica's grip on the file turned to iron. A whispering sound of movement cut through the silence. It was not a careless stumble and was too intentional and precise to be a janitor. She froze, every muscle coiled when she heard it again. The steps were closer, calculated, almost predatory.

She wasn’t alone. She exhaled slowly, closing the file, slipping it into her jacket. The air shifted behind her. Jessica moved fast.

She spun, grabbed a brass paperweight, and hurled it without aiming. It hit the shadowed figure in the aisle hard, sending them stumbling back. Jessica lunged, grabbing their collar, shoving them against the shelves.

The dim light caught the sharp features of an Italian man in his mid-forties. Jessica pressed her forearm against his throat.

“Who sent you?” she murmured.

The man’s jaw clenched. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Jessica smirked. “I hear that a lot.”

His hands moved fast. Jessica felt the shift and twisted away just as a knife flashed. She caught his wrist, twisted hard, forcing him back. The knife clattered to the floor.

Jessica didn’t hesitate. She drove her elbow into his ribs, sending him to his knees. He gasped, gripping his side, but he wasn’t unconscious.

Jessica exhaled. “Let’s try this again.”

She crouched, grabbing the front of his jacket.

“Who sent you?” she repeated.

The man spat blood onto the floor.

“You don’t understand,” he rasped. “You think you’re chasing history.”

Jessica’s grip tightened.

“I’m chasing the truth.”

The man laughed, bitter. “Then you’re already dead.”

Jessica studied his face. There was a flicker of movement. She barely had time to register it before the man slammed his own head against the shelf behind him.

Jessica’s breath caught as he collapsed. Unconscious. She exhaled sharply. He had knocked himself out rather than answer her. That told her everything she needed to know.

She straightened, her heart still pounding. She needed to get out, fast. She turned, moving swiftly toward the exit.

Ricci had been investigating Pasolini’s murder, restricted Vatican records, and an erased witness. Now, Jessica had his file, and someone didn’t want her to read it.

She pushed open the door and disappeared into the night.