Synarchy Book 2: The Ascension Read online

  “Do you know how they got there?” Simone looked over at him.

  Lucien slowly shook his head. “I wish I did.”

  The Past

  "You grit your teeth, and you bear it.

  Because you are a Terenzio first."

  -Liliana Terenzio

  Chapter 4

  “There’s little difference in my world between business and personal;

  just levels of disclosure.”

  -Stefano Vasco Terenzio

  August 23, 1927 - 10:10 AM

  Boston, MA

  Coffee House

  I hear police are going to be doubled at the execution.”

  Stefano Vasco Terenzio, Crime Boss of the Terenzio Family, lifted cold gray eyes to Ciro Anatoli, his closest friend and former bodyguard. Ciro primarily guarded Stefano’s wife, because Stefano had lost him to her in a bet. For this particular assignment, Ciro was on loan. “It doesn’t change what needs to be done. They are better off working for me than dead. And I want to catch the eye of the Galleanists.” Nicola Sacco and Bartolomeo Vanzetti were Italian immigrants falsely convicted on charges of robbery and murder. They were also members of the Galleanists, a militant Italian-American anarchist group. They were set to be executed tomorrow.

  Ciro nodded, crushing out his cigarette in the small round ashtray on the wrought iron table. “Just letting you know. Hey, where’s Nina?” Nina was the new bodyguard that Stefano frequently went without.

  Stefano leaned back in his chair, bringing the small coffee cup with him. “She’ll be arriving later this afternoon with Lil and Zhane.”

  “Who’s Zhane?”

  “New guy. Primarily Air Force, but I needed the extra hands and want to see what he can handle.” Stefano raised the rim of the coffee mug to his mouth, swallowing down the caffeine boost.

  “How’s Lil doing?” Ciro asked as he slung his arm over the back of his chair. He turned slightly to watch all the legs that walked by the outdoor café.

  “She’ll be fine. She usually is, even when she doesn’t think so.”

  Ciro chuckled. “You shoulda been a philosopher or some shit, Stef.”

  The flicker of amusement softened Stefano’s face. He opened his mouth to respond, but something struck him mute. Through the thin crowd of people that moved down the street, he caught sight of a young man; a young man with a head full of black hair, his mother’s strong aristocratic features, and as he came closer Stefano saw, piercing gray eyes.

  “Stef?” Ciro looked at his friend curiously.

  “Stay here,” Stefano said as he nearly dropped his coffee mug on the table. Standing quickly, he hopped over the small railing that separated the café from the sidewalk and pursued the young target. A block later, the opportunity Stefano was looking for came. He bumped into the young man and kept his head lowered. His deft, thieving fingers pulled the young man’s wallet from the inside of his coat. Stefano’s target never noticed; he simply continued on his way.

  Stefano did not pursue him any father. He walked back the way he’d come, and flipped open the wallet, looking down at the photo identification inside. It was the name that made his steps suddenly halt.

  Marcello Adams.

  The address below confirmed what he already knew and thrust Stefano back into a piece of his past that he rarely thought about anymore. It was the now, and more importantly the future, that most concerned him. The past was full of memories of his abusive father, of doing what he could to protect Lil from the bastard, of teaching himself the ways of the world; and how to manipulate it.

  But there had been moments, though few, which reminded him of his humanity.

  “If we ever have a son, let’s name him Marcello.” She propped her head in her hand to look up at him, tracing idle patterns over his chest.

  He couldn’t help but be amused at her gentle naïveté. She wouldn’t last a day in his world. “Let’s try to get through the week, first.”

  “We will,” she said. “They won’t find me here. And I hope they never do.”

  He knew better. They would find her, eventually, and even if her grandparents didn’t track her down, he would never let her stay. There were different levels—depths—to innocence. He had already taken one from her. He wouldn’t take any more. He framed her face in his hands, guiding her up to his waiting mouth. “For once, Miss Adams, I don’t want to think about the future.”

  “You suddenly had the desire to steal someone’s wallet?” Ciro asked in a highly amused tone when Stefano came back.

  His friend’s voice snapped Stefano back to the present. He removed the photo ID, and dropped the wallet and a few a few silver dollars on the table. “Let’s go.”

  §

  August 30, 1927 - 12:21 AM

  St. Martin Parish, Louisiana

  Blackwood Swamps

  Stefano walked into the dimly lit cottage, nestled among the swamp. She was sitting by the window, talking to herself, which was nothing unusual for Gypsy. Seth, his cousin and her husband, was not home, yet. Stefano tossed the photo identification onto the table in front of her.

  “Tell me, Gypsy.”

  She looked down at the picture, then back up at Stefano and giggled. “You know.”

  He did know, but confirmation forced the heavy breath from his lungs. His son. “Can he be my heir?”

  She canted her head at him, almost curiously. “Can he?”

  It required a great deal of patience to pull information from Gypsy’s brilliant, but utterly crazy, mind; the price she paid for knowing what she did he supposed. Not that he cared, so long as he got the information. “If I continue on this path, will he accept my invitation?”

  She focused on him in a moment of great clarity and said, very seriously: “Only if you are not on that path, Stefano.” Just as quickly as the moment came it was gone, lost by the noise of another boat approaching. Gypsy smiled. “Seth Frost is home!” She jumped out of her chair and scrambled to the door, launching herself at it just as it opened. Thankfully, his reflexes were quick. It also helped that he had learned to expect it. Seth (last name not Frost but the reason she called him that was another story entirely) wrapped his arms tightly around her.

  Stefano remained standing, lost in his own thoughts. Only if he wasn’t on that path. This meant he could finish with the foundation. Line up the pieces where he wanted them. Then, let his family, his son, take the next step.

  Without him.

  Stefano lifted his hands, the fingers of one twisting the wedding band on the other. His only regret would be leaving her.

  §

  November 17, 1935 - 11:11 AM

  New Orleans, LA

  SVT Securities Office

  “I need a favor, Alexandro.” Stefano stood in front of the glass windows overlooking the Central Business District of New Orleans.

  “I’m listening.” Louisiana Governor Alexandro DeMarco sat at the conference table. Older, sharp blue eyes watched Stefano as the scented smoke from Alex’s cigar slithered into the air. The DeMarcos were longtime friends of the Terenzios. For Stefano and his wife, intimately so. Alexandro looked like a southern politician with short, salt and pepper hair combed neatly back, wearing his favorite dark blue, three piece, pinstriped suit. The watch his wife, Mona, had given him for his fiftieth birthday sat on a gold chain in his vest pocket underneath the suit jacket. Despite the fact that certain areas of law enforcement and business were manipulated to make it easier for his brother Antonio, the current Don of the DeMarco crime family, to do business, Alexandro was a well-liked governor. He’d beaten Huey P. Long for the spot without tampering with the votes.

  “I love my family, like you love yours. It’s time I stepped back from things. I’m being hunted, and I don’t want the cross hairs to fall on the wrong people.”

  For a few silent moments, Alexandro studied Stefano’s back. “This conversation is over, Stefano, until you’re ready to cease with the bullshit.”

  Amusement flickered across Stefano’s
face as he turned away from the window, looking at Alexandro. “You know, I’ve always said if there was a better man, and meant it, it would be you.”

  Alexandro was not phased by the compliment. “Both in and out of your bedroom. Let’s have it.”

  A smirk settled over Stefano’s lips as he walked around the table and settled into one of the leather chairs. “You know about the sensitive nature of the weapon I acquired?”

  “Si.”

  “I need you to hold onto it until after the transition. You’ll know when it’s time to return it to my family.”

  Alexandro studied him in silence, and then finally asked: “Why, Stefano?” He was not referring to the weapons.

  “Because it’s time.”

  “You are more of a bastard than I gave you credit for. You know the state you will leave her in with this move.”

  Stefano’s eyes narrowed. “She will go there whether I am around or not. We both know that.”

  Alexandro cocked his head. “You’ll give up everything, purely for ego?”

  Stefano shot up out of his chair, stabbing his index finger towards the table. “I will die to see my will done. And it will be done.” He took a step closer to the man he considered a friend. “And do not presume I take anything lightly, or that I don’t love her more than this game. This is bigger than me, bigger than us. If it doesn’t play out to our advantage, neither of our families will be left standing.”

  Alexandro stared at him in thoughtful silence. He nodded, almost imperceptibly. “We will safeguard the weapon for you. Until it’s time.”

  Stefano nodded once. “Thank you, Alexandro.”

  §

  For two days, Stefano remained locked away in the SVT Building. As the sun began to set over the Big Easy, it was finished. He could do no more. He drew a tired hand over his unshaven jaw and closed the leather bound journal. The letter was tucked into the envelope and placed inside. His journal, along with two other letters, would be delivered at a later date. Now, he was going home to his wife to face that beautiful wrath he was sure to get for being unavailable for the last forty-eight hours.

  Stefano collected his suit jacket and fedora off the back of the door. He set the hat on his head and flicked off lights as he left. He slid on the suit jacket as he got into the elevator, stabbed the button for the ground floor, and pulled out his Marlboros. He shook one out and set it between his lips, the sterling Dunhill lighter he’d stolen from his wife cradled in his palm as he waited for the ding.

  When he stepped into the lobby that was surrounded by glass doors Stefano paused. For several moments, he simply stood there, watching the light crowd pass by. Eventually, he brought the flame to life and lit the cigarette. A long, satisfying pull was drawn in as he tucked the lighter back into his pocket. He straightened the sleeves of his suit jacket. Then, he walked outside.

  A nondescript, average man came through the crowd of harmless people walking down the street and stumbled right into Terenzio. The assassin’s hand came out of his pocket, a .22 held expertly in his palm. The muzzle came up with unerring speed, pressed at Terenzio’s chest. The next sound was that of a gunshot.

  Stefano could have prevented it. He could have not walked outside. He could have let Seth take him out weeks ago when he had been spotted.

  Only if you are not on that path, Stefano.

  He didn’t fight it. The sharp, echoing boom that startled the unknowing sheep on the street brought forth a sudden heat, and then searing, debilitating pain. Stefano’s hands shot up, fingers clutching the front of the assassin’s shirt as he met the eyes of his murderer and whispered: “I know.”

  Two strong arms caught the staggering Terenzio, the gun gone as quickly as it had appeared. The assassin even managed to paint an expression of concern on his face, though when his eyes caught and locked with Stefano's, they were laughing. How hard the mighty fall. It didn’t matter if Terenzio knew; he was still going to die. The assassin stepped backwards as Stefano toppled to the pavement. As the crowd began to gather around the dying man, he melted into it, thinking how pleased Mrs. Adams would be.

  Stefano couldn’t get his breath. No, no. It was too soon. He had promised himself that he wouldn’t leave, not until he saw her. His vision became fuzzy, darkness rapidly crawling from the edges. The shouts of the crowd around him faded until there was nothing but silence. His arms shook, the strength to hold his weight failing.

  It was one fight Stefano would not win.

  His chest hit the pavement, staining it crimson. The falling sunlight caught on the gold of his wedding band; the last thing he saw. For him, it had been enough.

  §

  June 21, 1974 - 4:44 PM

  Alcyone Island

  Bazaar

  *Marcello Terenzio, head of the Terenzio family, leaned against the concrete pillar with his arms folded over his suited chest. He moved through the Dion Corp Empire like a ghost. To the underworld that his family also controlled, he didn’t exist. The deception had allowed him to manipulate situations from afar for decades. That never made him less busy, or sought-after by key people. No one bothered him right now, though, and he was glad; because after telling his wife that morning that he would be too busy to wander around the Bazaar with her that afternoon, there he was; waiting.

  Seconds later, the doors opened, and Marilyn stepped through them, with her purse hanging from the crook of her arm and her eyes fixed on the sheaf of papers in her hand. The warm light of the afternoon caught in the waves of her blonde hair, filling the age-lightened strands with youthful color. It was a different light, however, that came into her face and brightened her eyes when she glanced up and saw her husband. Marilyn smiled, deepening the lines around her mouth and the faint webbing of wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. "I thought your afternoon was booked?" For a man who didn't exist, he tended to be very, very busy.

  Thirty some odd years later, Marcello still felt a little like a boy with an insane crush when his wife smiled at him. Uncoiling from his stance, he stepped into her. "It is. But I knew your husband wouldn't be around." He brushed her cheek with his thumb and kissed her. "I haven't ditched a meeting in a while. I was due."

  The light danced in the blue-green of Mari’s eyes, like the reflection of light on water. "He won't be. Not for another..." She checked the watch on her wrist. "Three hours, at least." Her smile widened into a faint grin. "You should kiss me again, while there's time."

  "Is that right?" Marcello matched her grin. Lowering his hands to her waist, he pulled her closer so he could kiss her again.

  Some thirty-odd years later, Marilyn still couldn't get enough of her husband. Grin deepening in the heartbeat before his mouth met hers, she closed her eyes and caught his face between her hands, wrinkling the documents she had been studying just seconds before.

  Marcello lingered in the warm, familiar taste of her mouth, earning lowered smiles from a few of the never-ending stream of employees that flowed in and out of the building. Easing back, he kissed the tip of her nose. "What are you putting on the American Express card today?"

  Marilyn’s nose wrinkled affectionately. "I haven't decided, yet. I thought I would wander up and down the aisles and see what jumps out at me." She glanced away long enough to stow the papers in her purse.

  "Now, that sounds exciting." There was teasing in Marcello’s feigned excitement. He took her hand in his own. "You know, there are better things we can do with a quiet afternoon."

  "There are," Mari agreed, threading her fingers through his. Her grin resurfaced. "But if you're ditchin' all of your meetings, then you and I have the rest of the day to do those better things. The bazaar closes at seven."

  "Fine. I'll just drag you down a deserted alley like we were in our twenties again." Marcello just might have been serious. Giving Mari’s hand a gentle squeeze, he tucked his other in his pants pocket and began walking toward the Bazaar.

  Marilyn didn't doubt Marcello’s sincerity. Time might have given them a few wrinkles a
nd gray hairs, but it hadn't smothered the flame that burned between them. If anything, it had made that flame burn hotter and brighter. She could think of no better way to spend an afternoon than basking in its glow. "Let's try not to get caught this time."

  Marcello laughed, shaking his head in sheer amusement at the memory of the last time a healthy dose of lust had over taken them in public. "The expression on that man's face was priceless."

  Mari laughed with him and rubbed a hand over her cheek. "I think it took a day or two for the red to come out of my cheeks."

  "That near permanent blush suited you." Clear affection lit Marcello’s eyes.

  "Suited you, maybe." Mari dug him good-naturedly in the ribs. "As if it wasn't bad enough that I couldn't get rid of it, but whenever someone asked me about it, it burned up into my ears and went a darker shade of red."

  That did nothing to prevent another round of laughter. "I still say that wasn't the worst. The near catch in the elevator; now that could have been a disaster."

  Mari laughed again—she could, in hindsight—and wrapped her hand around Marcello’s arm, giving it an affectionate squeeze. "Oh, I wouldn't have been able to look those people in the eye for a month."

  Humor made the corners of Marcello’s eyes crinkle. "It would have been my fault. You did warn me. But then again, I never seem to be able to help myself." He pressed a kiss into her hair.

  "You're about as good at not bein' able to help yourself as I am at denying you." She smiled up at him, her eyes glittering, and glanced out over the bazaar with its bustling, open stalls and charming blend of island authenticity and Alcyone tourism. It was one of Marilyn's favorite places. Tightening her fingers around Marcello’s as she made her decision, she led them into the closely-packed aisles of the food vendors. A slow smile curved Marcello’s mouth as he watched his wife. Like most men, shopping wasn't high on his priority list. Marcello simply enjoyed spending time with her. And annoying her at intervals. "I had lunch with Kayla today."