Synarchy Book 2: The Ascension (9 page)

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 and 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."

Marilyn chatted amicably with the
locals, asking after family members and loved ones and the
well-being of dogs and goats and the occasional chicken. The man
from whom she had been buying fresh eggs for the last twelve years
had just finished updating her on the condition of his favorite
spotted hen when Marcello spoke. Mari paused, glancing up at her
husband, and tucked her carton of newly purchased eggs beneath her
arm. "How did that go?"

"It was... fun." It had only been
recently that Marcello had stopped being so much of a ghost in
Kayla's life and had attempted to get to know her; or at, least the
face, she showed them. Marcello found it difficult to stop the
faint smile that touched his mouth. "She has your stubborn
look."

Neither could Mari stop the small,
pleased smile that settled along her mouth. Kayla's existence—and
now presence—had been trying, to say the very least, but Kayla was
Marilyn’s daughter. She was Marilyn’s flesh and blood. Marilyn knew
her in ways that no one else did, and she was connected to Kayla in
ways that no one else would ever be. It pleased Marilyn that she
had passed some of herself into the child that had been a stranger
to her for so long. "It's funny how you bring that look out in both
of us, don't you think?" she teased.

"I just have that effect on the women
in my life." Marcello winked, his smile deepening.

SVT Construction was in the process of
building a parking garage across the street. The lot was half
finished. It was from the second level, absent of the construction
workers that had called an early day that the assassin set his eye
in the scope.

"You love every minute of it, too."
Mari stepped into Marcello, lifting onto the tips of her toes to
kiss his cheek, and slipped her arm through his. The dry, cloying
scent of fresh herbs and heavy, fragrant spices drew her further
down the aisle, and she stopped a stall laden with sacks of seeds,
leaves, and finely ground powders. Mari peered at the selection.
"What did the two of you talk about?"

"Where she wanted to go to college, and
whether or not she wanted to join the company afterwards." His
mouth twitched. "The conversations that our son tried to
avoid."

The assassin curled his finger around
the trigger, slowly turning the weapon. The scope made a bull’s-eye
over his target’s chest. He held his breath.

Mari sifted her fingers through a mound
of fennel seeds and smiled over her shoulder. "What did she say? Is
she going to follow your footsteps to Harvard?" If a mother's love
could turn a killer's heart, then maybe, just maybe, a father's
could be softened; allowed to love another girl as completely and
as fiercely as he had loved the daughter that he had
lost.

"She's considering it." The whole
conversation had amused Marcello. Since coming into his father’s
world, one of empires and crime, the time of his life spent in
typical academia often felt like it had happened to someone else.
"I told her I'd come when the two of you fly out to Boston to take
a firsthand look."

"I'll make the arrangements, then. And
after the official tour of the campus, you can give us the real
tour."

The assassin, Matthew DeMarco could
wait no longer. He squeezed the trigger, just once. He didn't
bother to stick around to see if he'd hit his mark; he knew he had.
Marilyn Pearl-Terenzio would die. Abandoning the gun, Matthew
turned around and jogged away.

Passing on the spices for now, she
smiled at the young woman behind the stall, thanking her for her
time through that simple gesture, and turned toward Marcello--but
halfway through that turn, she jerked back. Behind her, a fine red
mist that she couldn't see burst into the air. Marilyn's mouth
opened, but no sound came out. Her brows furrowed, confusion and
shock seeping into her features. She glanced down and saw blood
welling in a round, perfectly formed hole in the front of her
shirt. "Marcello...?" Her legs gave out, and she sagged against
him.

There had been moments in
his life when he felt like the world was giving way beneath his
feet. But nothing, nothing was quite as horrifically surreal as the
moment he realized his wife had been shot. Shock spread across his
face, his eyes dropping towards her chest that was rapidly staining
red.
No
. "Mari?"
He stepped into her, catching her weight in his arms. No.
No. No
. "Mari? Baby?"
That smooth, calm voice was suddenly frantic. He sank to his knees
and pulled her back from him so he could see her wound. The world
didn't give; it shattered. He snapped his eyes up to the woman
behind the stall. "Call an ambulance! Now! Tell them Isis is down.
Do it!" For security purposes, Isis had been his wife’s code name.
After a shocked pause the woman ran off to find the MP Officer that
was stationed somewhere in the crowd.

There was no burst of pain. There was
no heat, lancing through her chest. She didn't feel anything but a
distant tingling in her toes and a cold weight that spread through
her ribs and pushed down on them. The world moved a little more
slowly than it should have, and the sounds of the bazaar seemed
distant; muffled. She could hear Marcello, though. His voice and
the panic that edged it were perfectly clear. Mari dug her fingers
into his shirt, holding herself up as she drew a deep breath. It
made a wet, bubbling sound and hitched in her chest. She coughed,
and realized what was happening when she took her hand from her
mouth and saw that it was spotted with dark red blood. She was
dying. "Marcello..."

"Mari, stay with me." He pulled her
closer and touched her cheek, his eyes desperate and pleading.
"Hang on, Mari, just hang on. Please. Please. They're
coming."

There was no fear. There was no panic;
not in her voice, at least. She sank into him, breathing in
shallow, bubbling gasps as she wrapped her blood-flecked fingers
around the hand on her cheek. "It's okay," she said softly,
pressing her forehead to his. "You'll be okay."

No, it wasn't. No, he
wouldn't. Marcello clutched at her hand, willing her to stay with
him. "Mari, don't." His voice cracked. He could feel the tears, wet
and cool, rolling down his cheeks. "Don't leave me.
You can't leave me
. I
can't do this without you."

His arms were warm; so very warm, and
wonderful. Her one regret was that she couldn't wrap her own arms
around him, now, because the tingling was spreading and numbness
was following in its slow, cold wake. It was all that she could do
to keep hold of his hand; and to smile through the tears that
rolled unchecked down her cheeks. "Yes, you can. I love you." Her
voice trembled with emotion. So, too, did the corners of her smile.
"I love you."

"Baby, no. Mari, please." Marcello
stared down into her eyes and felt like his heart was being ripped
out of his chest. "I love you, too. Mari, I love you so much. Don't
go."

Marilyn’s breath came in shorter,
desperate gasps. Her pulse tripped erratically in her throat. She
felt the seconds stretch longer and longer between heartbeats, and
the world went a little darker each beat. Marcello's face—that
beautiful mouth and those eyes; how she loved the color of his
eyes, like the soft, luminescent gray of the sky after rain—swam in
and out of focus, and in a moment of desperate clarity, she
clutched his face, wanting to see him clearly one more time. "It's
okay," she whispered, nuzzling his face. She brushed his tears away
with her thumb. It left a bright red streak down his cheek. She
kissed him then, tasting the coppery tang of blood on the warmth of
his lips, and gave him one more smile. "I love you, Marcello... I
love..." The light went out of her eyes, and her hand slipped off
of his cheek. She was gone.