The Holy Smuggle
How the Vatican Might Be Starting World War III in Heels
PREVIOUSLY…
Dispatched from Rome’s least holy rooftop.
Darling disciples of disaster,
You haven’t truly experienced moral ambiguity until you’ve sipped rosé at a Vatican cocktail party while spying on a suspected arms dealer in couture lace.
This week, I found myself in Rome—allegedly for a symposium on “cultural diplomacy,” but really for what turned out to be the Holy See’s most exclusive and least sanctified soirée. Picture it: a candlelit loggia overlooking the Apostolic Palace, trays of prosciutto passed like state secrets, and one priest definitely wearing Loro Piana.
Officially: I was here for an exhibit on sacred reliquaries. Unofficially: I was following a rumor—whispered between diplomats at Basel and art handlers in Monaco—that a Vatican-linked shipment had turned up in Doha. Not on a museum floor. At a military research facility.
Let’s back up.
Somewhere between the Count’s grievances about Iberian sea salt and a promising invitation from the Danish ambassador’s ex-wife, I flew the coup and spotted a betrayal. When I returned to my suite at Hotel de Paris, the invitation arrived. A little too much of a coincidence, wouldn’t you say?
🕊️ INVITATION
Pontificia Commissione per la Cultura e la Conservazione Artistica
(Pontifical Commission for Culture and Artistic Preservation)
Rome, Vatican City
Marchesa Victoria Fenwicke-Smythe
You are cordially invited to a private gathering in honor of interfaith cultural diplomacy, to be held within the Apostolic Gardens at the Vatican.
This discreet event will include:
– A preview of recent restoration works
– A dialogue on sacred heritage in the 21st century
– Aperitivi with selected cultural patrons and ecclesiastical dignitaries
Date: Thursday
Time: Sunset, followed by informal procession
Dress Code: Respectful elegance. Veils encouraged.
Please present this invitation at the Bronze Door.
“To preserve beauty is to preserve peace.”
— Monsignor A.L.C.
Of course, I already had access. The Archivist slipped me a key “meant only for Jesuits and certain Swiss Guards with clearance above Cardinal level.” It came in a velvet pouch marked Archivio Ultra-Riservato and smelled faintly of incense and sabotage.
I asked what it opened. She said: “Rooms the Pope doesn’t know about. Popes no one knows about.”
I carry it on a chain next to the mysterious encrypted USB, a Saint Laurent lipstick, and a vial of powdered pigment labeled Carthage Red. Don’t ask.
🇻🇦 VATICAN VELVET
The Vatican Gardens are lovely this time of year. Especially the unmarked ones. Somewhere between the topiary rosary and the peacock aviary, I passed a fountain shaped like an ouroboros and a nun reading The Economist in Latin. Normal.
The cocktail party was “strictly off-calendar”—which is code for definitely criminal but exceptionally well-catered. Somewhere between the foie gras on communion wafers and the grappa disguised as holy water, I spotted her: Contessa Gigi de Rossi, veiled in black Alaïa and sipping a sacrilegiously pink drink.
I wasn’t going to confront her—yet.
I was there to snoop.
She was speaking, sotto voce, with a man wearing a gold lapel pin in the shape of a falcon. Qatari. Powerful. And not the type who flies commercial. I couldn’t hear much—just a few words:
“activation timeline”
“mirrored crate”
and, chillingly:
“they’ll think it was the Americans.”
What Happened Next (Of Course I Wasn’t Supposed To Be There)
The Swedish ambassador began monologuing about Marian symbolism in 14th-century tapestries, and everyone was perfectly distracted, including the Swiss guards in couture. While sipping something rosé and Roman, I slipped away from the terrace and wandered off to the ladies’ room (code: snooping). I ducked into a restricted corridor marked “PRIVATE DEVOTIONS ONLY.” Naturally, I took this as a personal invitation and used The Archivist’s key to enter.
It was a vast hallway of magnificent frescoes. The lights flickered and my heels echoed as I made my way down a dark spiraling staircase. Past a row of antique reliquaries, I found a velvet-curtained study. Inside? A small antechamber filled with wooden crates, all marked: “Property of Kronos Capital.”
And there, staring at me in the corner: a painting I knew on sight:
Girl with a Lemur and Emerald Pocket Watch.
But, unlike the one The Archivist showed me in Venice, this one looked older. Tarnished. Real.
I stepped closer. And there—below the frame, nearly swallowed by shadow—was a brass plate:
“Donated by Contessa Elisabetta di Rossi di Caserta, 1946. Collezione Segreta – Vatican Archive 13B.”
Yes, that De Rossi. Gigi’s grandmother!
But what made my breath catch wasn’t the plaque. It was what was beneath it.
The velvet backing had frayed just slightly—enough to reveal a gold-leaf embossing in the wood panel.
Three peacocks. Intertwined.
The De Rossi crest.
Reader, I didn’t faint. I photographed. The flash went off. A cardinal sneezed two rooms away.
🐍 What Gigi’s Grandmother is Hiding in the Catacombs
Click. I took more photos. Opened another crate.
KRONOS CAPITAL – GENEVA
Property of Vatican – Ecclesiastical Shipment 1982 (Reissued)
Destination: Doha, Qatar
Inside: layers of silk, a metal schematic blueprint, and a rolled canvas in bubble wrap.
Label partially visible:
Delacroix?
Coded pigment: see Archivio 7
Click. I snapped another photo. Then opened another crate labeled: Kronos Capital – Geneva → Doha.
Inside: More blueprints. Wires. A Modigliani (forged?). A list of offshore buyers.
Click. Click. Click.
Then I see it: a vault drawer with the De Rossi peacock crest, embossed into brass. Before I could crack it open, I heard footsteps coming down the hall. I quickly picked up the fabric of my floor-length gown and hid behind a tapestry, holding my breath.
👀 Almost Caught
A murmured conversation:
Gigi de Rossi’s voice. Calm, deadly.
Max Bouvier’s voice. Nervous.
“We move it to Villa Pavone before the 20th. If they find the mirror, we’re finished.”
Then, in hushed Italian: “The Americans will think it was a gift.”
A third voice, male: “We just need it to land in the right hands.”
Gigi: “The Vatican signed off—it's already been blessed.”
“Then history blames Qatar.”
The voice sounded Middle Eastern. Qatari? Can’t be.
Gigi: “We moved the original through Monaco. This is the presentation copy—it reads clean if scanned.”
The man replies: “And the frame?”
Gigi: “Was never about the frame. It was the gloss.”
They leave.
When the coast is clear, I slip out a side passage with a stolen Vatican stamp, a rosary that might be listening to me, and photographs that could start a war.
I came to Rome for a cocktail party. I left with evidence of a weapons cartel, three heresies, and a blister on my left heel.
If the Pope is reading this: I wasn’t here. And your taste in tapestries is criminal.
🪶 Lady F’s Current Working Theory™
Gigi isn’t just an heiress. She’s a Vatican fixer in heels. Her family were postwar art brokers. Restoration guardians. Discreet facilitators of sacred swaps. And now? Gigi’s inherited the playbook— and rewrote it in red ink.
The Stolen Mirror?
The Habsburg portrait?
The crates in Monaco, Venice, and Sardinia?
Not accidents. Rituals. And every one of them marked with her family’s crest.
The crest proves it:
The Habsburg portrait, the lemur painting, and the Vatican smuggling route all trace back to the De Rossi family.
This isn't just about art. It’s about weapons disguised as restitution.
And it’s working—because no one questions a crate marked ”Blessed Objects: 1947.”
🔍 WHAT NEXT?
I have a growing sense that this all leads to Beaulieu-sur-Mer.
Archie’s peacock taxidermy.
The final move.
It is time to confront Major Phipps about his involvement with Interpol.
If I disappear next week, please send rosé and a crowbar.
Yours in Smoke, Scandal, & Sacrilege,
Lady Victoria Fenwick-Smythe of the Fenwick-Smythe Manor
Patroness of the Arts & All Things Chic
📝 FINAL THOUGHTS BEFORE I HIDE IN A MONASTERY
“The Vatican is working with the Italian mafia to start World War III between the U.S. and the Middle East.”
“The lemur painting has always been part of the Vatican’s off-the-books collection.”
“The peacock crest predates the Vatican bank.”
“It’s not just about the paintings. It’s about what’s inside them.”
“Max knew. Sergei knew. Georgina and Dario died for knowing too much.”
“Gigi? Still pretending she’s just here for the rosé.”
“Her grandmother? Allegedly once held a Papal passport and hosted dinner parties for bishops and black-market dealers.”
📦 THE SMOKING ARTIFACT
That same night, a crate—marked Collezione Segreta—was quietly loaded onto a diplomatic van headed for Fiumicino. Inside? Not a reliquary. A painting. A newly discovered “Delacroix” that had conveniently never been catalogued before.
And who authenticated it?
And who brokered its export?
A Vatican charity known for “interfaith cultural restoration.”
Its board? Three cardinals.
And a De Rossi.
Follow the Scandalous World of Lady Victoria Fenwick-Smythe, 14¾th Marchioness of the Fenwick-Smythe Manor
Society columnist, former debutante, and unhinged socialite art collector with a taste for scandal and sapphires. Click here to meet the cast of Lady F’s social misfits, beautifully dressed disasters, and barely-disguised frenemies.