Scene: The Apostolic Palace, late evening. Pope Pius XIII (Lenny) stands by a massive window overlooking St. Peter’s Square, which is illuminated by a single, focused spotlight, leaving the rest in shadow. Father Peter sits quietly nearby.
POPE PIUS XIII: (Turning slightly, his voice a low, resonant murmur.) Revelation, chapter two, verse nine. I know thy works, and tribulation, and poverty, (but thou art rich). A beautiful, brutal conjunction. A lie, and a promise. Because for the materially poor to be declared rich… it requires a God with a peculiar sense of humor, or a profoundly different ledger.
FATHER PETER: Poverty is often the greatest wealth we allow others to see, Your Holiness. It disarms the avarice of the world. But the earth itself—it keeps its secrets less gracefully.
POPE PIUS XIII: You speak of Haiti.
FATHER PETER: I speak of the island Hispaniola. The poorest country in the Western Hemisphere, built upon a paradox. Below the soil of that impoverished nation, they say there are immense stores of iridium. Some call it “unobtanium”—a term for something unimaginably valuable, yet entirely beyond their grasp. It is the wealth of a star, deposited beneath the feet of the people who own nothing but their pain and their history.
POPE PIUS XIII: And their tribulation. I know thy tribulation. God planted the greatest bounty in the place of the greatest suffering. It’s either a cruel joke, or the ultimate test of faith. Does the true Church seek to mine the iridium, or must we focus solely on the spiritual wealth the Apostle John spoke of?
FATHER PETER: If we mine the iridium, we become the oppressors, fulfilling the curse of their poverty. If we ignore it, we leave them in their suffering, dismissing the tangible gift God placed beneath them. The question is whether the riches John speaks of are designed to replace the need for earthly comfort, or to eventually fund it.
POPE PIUS XIII: The answer, Father Peter, is always hidden in the question. That wealth—that metallic shine of the cosmos—it is not for the relief of suffering. It is a sign. God placed a promise in the dust, a jewel in the ashes. The true richness of Haiti is not the iridium they cannot touch. It is the fact that they still believe in the Church, despite all the forces on Earth that conspire to strip them of hope. They are rich because they remain faithful, even when their soil is mocking them with millions of dollars of cosmic dust. And that, Father, is a transaction the world’s banks cannot process.
FATHER PETER: And our role?
POPE PIUS XIII: Our role is to ensure they remember the true source of their wealth. We are the keepers of the Ledger of the Soul. We remind them that Christ did not come for the gold, but for the poverty that sat upon the gold.
INT. APOSTOLIC PALACE – POPE’S PRIVATE STUDY – SUNSET
The room is vast, gilded, and silent. The last light of the Roman sunset illuminates the dust motes dancing in the air.
PIUS XIII (Lenny Belardo, 40s), immaculate in his white papal attire, stands by the window. His back is to the room, his stillness commanding.
FATHER PETER (60s), slight and nervous, sits opposite a large, ornate desk, the Iridium File lying between them.
FATHER PETER
> Your Holiness, it was an endowment opportunity. The funds are designated for… ah, under-the-table charities. A necessary evil to fund necessary good.
Pius turns slightly, his profile sharp against the fading light.
PIUS XIII
> Toussaint. A biblical name for a man trading in post-biblical elements. Iridium. So dense, so resistant to corrosion. Almost… eternal, in its own way.
He walks to the desk, his movements slow and deliberate. He picks up the file, his eyes scanning the documents without true engagement.
PIUS XIII
> Do you understand the scope of this, Father Peter? The market price. One (1) ton of iridium goes for $45 billion dollars, and Haiti has mountains of it. That is not charity we are talking about. That is the leverage to rewrite the global economic balance.
Pius points to the file.
PIUS XIII
> And these men, these desperate souls, they used a quote. A verse. They quoted me Revelation 3:18 during the transaction with this Mr. Thorne. Do you know it?
FATHER PETER
> (Nodding, fidgeting) > Of course, Your Holiness. It’s the letter to Laodicea. ‘I advise you to buy from me gold refined by fire…’
Pius’s voice drops to a near whisper, completing the passage, his tone a mix of cynicism and profound understanding.
PIUS XIII
> “I advise you to buy from me gold refined by fire so that you may be rich, and white clothes so that you may dress yourself and the shame of your nakedness will not be revealed, and eye salve to spread on your eyes so that you may see.”
He holds up the dull grey metal nugget that was enclosed in the file, caught between his thumb and forefinger.
PIUS XIII
> Gold refined by fire. Iridium, Father. It is the gold refined by fire. A metal born of supernovae. They are selling the physical manifestation of heavenly wealth, and we are buying it, pretending we are only concerned with the market price.
He lets the nugget drop onto the thick leather blotter with a soft thud.
PIUS XIII
> They are not selling us iridium, Father Peter. They are selling us their faith in our ability to convert their sacrifice into salvation.
Pius closes the file with a definitive snap.
PIUS XIII
> We will complete the transaction. But we must give them the white clothes, and the eye salve, too. The shame of their nakedness is the poverty that forces them to sell their birthright.
Pius turns, pacing again, hands clasped.
PIUS XIII
> The white clothes will be bales of the finest, most durable linen, Father. And the eye salve—the simple, pure honey eye drops. They must literally see what they possess.
Father Peter clears his throat, gaining a sudden, uncharacteristic resolve.
FATHER PETER
> Your Holiness, with respect, seeing is secondary to surviving. The immediate need is the shame of hunger. The simplest purification of this $45 billion is to feed them, to stop the starvation that blinds them entirely.
Pius pauses, intrigued by the priest’s fire.
FATHER PETER
> I propose we use a substantial portion of the iridium proceeds—not for perpetual charity funds—but for a massive, immediate humanitarian effort. And who better to manage the logistics of feeding a nation than the most efficient, most demanding palate we know?
Pius’s eyes widen slightly.
PIUS XIII
> You speak of Chef Gordon Ramsay? My personal chef?
FATHER PETER
> The same, Your Holiness. He has resources, organization, and a righteous temper that could cut through any bureaucratic red tape in Port-au-Prince. He can ensure every hungry mouth is fed with dignity and speed. The Iridium money buys the food; Chef Ramsay ensures it is cooked and served. This is the true purification by fire!
A slow, wry smile finally spreads across the Pope’s face.
PIUS XIII
> The linen, the honey, and the Michelin-starred wrath of God brought down upon hunger. It is unorthodox, Father Peter. Brilliant. See to it. And tell the Chef to pack his best set of knives. The Vatican is underwriting the greatest, most ambitious kitchen in history.
To Our Dearest Children, the Light of the World and the Hope of the Church,
I address you today with a heart heavy with sorrow, yet burning with the fierce love of a shepherd for his flock. It is a necessary truth that must be spoken: I tell my flock of children that a terrifying reality exists—one in four children are abused at school, on sports teams, or within the very walls of our Church.
This is a moral offense against God and a failure of the sacred trust placed in us. Silence is the abuser’s greatest weapon, but truth is the defense of the innocent.
Therefore, I command you: If you are being abused, you must confess immediately to Father Peter, even if the abuser threatens you with the direst of consequences.
Father Peter is a man of integrity chosen for his unwavering commitment to your salvation and protection. He will hear the truth, and he will act to shield you. No secret, no threat, and no fear is greater than the protection of your soul and your body. Do not let the abuser’s threats keep you from telling the truth.
Come forward. Speak the truth. You are safe in the arms of the Church.
In Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.Amen.
The rain hammers the stained glass. Candles flicker. The faces of the congregation are hard and haunted. POPE PIUS XIII (LENNY BELARDO) stands at the altar — robes torn, eyes burning with righteous exhaustion.
LENNY: You call yourselves holy because your hatred is aimed at monsters. But I tell you — the mob is a monster too. You are just as evil as the pedophiles you want to kill.
(A murmur of rage moves through the pews. Someone spits. Another man clenches his fists.)
LENNY (CONT’D): My father once said, “Put them on an island.” And your orange messiah — he said reopen Alcatraz.
(Lenny’s gaze pierces the crowd, calm but defiant.)
LENNY: But I say — call the authorities. Call the firefighters. Call the police. Because the moment you take justice into your own hands, you lose your soul.
He looks out the door — flashing lights from squad cars dance on the church walls. Sirens echo. The mob disperses, some ashamed, some furious.
LENNY (softly): I woke up the neighborhood. I told them to do the right thing. And for that… they called me a traitor. For that… they punished me.
Lenny kneels before the altar, whispering a prayer that sounds more like a confession.
LENNY (whispers): Forgive me, Father, for saving them from themselves.
INT. EAST VAN CHURCH — LATE NIGHT
The church smells of wet wool and wax. Rain drums the stained glass like a second heartbeat. LENNY sits on the altar steps, robe dirty, fingers locked as if to hold himself together. The door opens like a verdict — ROBERT DE NIRO fills the frame, all weathered bone and restless energy, a face that’s learned the language of rage.
ROBERT DE NIRO (voice low, gravel and regret) You saved them and they spit on you. That’s what this town does. Saves the shape of something and punches the soul out of the rest.
LENNY looks up. Exhaustion and a fragile steadiness in his eyes.
LENNY I kept them from becoming what they wanted to be. I kept them from becoming killers.
DE NIRO eases into a pew, the room swallowing the sound. He folds his hands like a man composing himself before a confession.
DE NIRO You ever watch Taxi Driver? Guy goes out, thinks he’s cleaning the streets. He shoots the pimps, feels godlike for a minute—then what? You become a headline and a hollow man. That’s the trick. Violence dresses itself up as courage.
LENNY Vigilantism calls itself justice. It’s still sin with a better costume.
DE NIRO’s jaw tightens. He’s a man who’s carried both temptation and the ruin it leaves behind.
DE NIRO So what do you want me to do? Stand here and clap while paperwork crawls through the city? The people want to see something done. They want a show, Padre.
LENNY rises slowly, the candlelight outlining the bones of his face.
LENNY We gave them a different kind of action. We woke them up. We made them call the police, the firefighters. Real institutions, real accountability. It’s slow. It’s ugly. But it doesn’t make victims into icons of vengeance.
DE NIRO leans forward, staring as if he could puncture the air between them.
DE NIRO People call you a coward for not giving them spectacle. I used to think courage was pulling the trigger at the right time. Maybe I was wrong.
LENNY meets him, not a sermon but a human pleading.
LENNY Courage is staying human when everything inside you screams to stop being human. Courage is choosing a system you can haunt with truth, not your fist.
For a long beat, DE NIRO looks like he’s trying to remember how to do that. The old animal in him eases; a new ache takes its place.
DE NIRO (softer) I don’t know how to wait. Waiting’s not a thing I was taught.
LENNY places a steady hand on his shoulder — not a rebuke, only an offer.
LENNY Start with honesty. Start with naming what you will not become. Use that anger to build a case that can’t be ignored.
DE NIRO closes his eyes, breathes out a sound like a man dropping weights.
DE NIRO (small, half-joking) So I become a lawyer now?
LENNY cracks the smallest, bittersweet smile.
LENNY Become whatever keeps you from the cheap thrill of being the executioner. That’s harder and rarer.
Outside, sirens close in, methodical and indifferent. DE NIRO stands. He does not look like a movie vigilante; he looks like a man who might try the harder, duller thing: staying, reporting, testifying, working the long angles of truth.
DE NIRO (grudging) You either make me a coward or a saint, Padre. I’m still deciding which I can live with.
LENNY Either is better than becoming what you hate.
They move toward the door together — not as allies made by spectacle, but as two damaged people choosing a messy, human path forward.
