Fans of Dan Brown and Simon Toyne will love Tom Fox's debut e-novella, GENESIS. A deathly conspiracy is unraveling in the heart of Rome . . . and only one man can stop all hell breaking loose. In the center of Rome, a man of God fires a gunshot that echoes throughout the Santa Maria in Trastevere church. The shot misses its intended target, police officer Gabriella Fierro, by a whisper. But it's clear her investigation is on the brink of exposing a truth that some will go to untold lengths to keep hidden. Now journalist and partner Alexander Trecchio must work quickly to uncover the conspiracy, and to save Gabriella, before all hell breaks loose. Available exclusively in ebook ahead of Tom Fox's electrifying debut novel, DOMINUS.
Release date:
April 4, 2017
Publisher:
Quercus
Print pages:
115
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The foundations of the ancient church seemed to rattle. A single gunshot tearing through such a vast sacred space would not normally create such an effect, but in the sheer surprise of the moment it was as if even the world beneath it shook. High above, thin windows paned in colored glass let in a serene light, so discordant with the misplaced shock of the gun’s report. The illumination highlighted flecks of dust that danced through the enormous expanse of air, lurching into new swirls as the bullet exploded out of the old Beretta M1951 and raced toward its target.
Lining the ceiling, the stoic faces of centuries-old saints shimmered from the mosaicked apse. Their features, glorious and transfigured, were unmoved by the murderous scene playing out beneath their feet.
When the bullet found—or rather, missed—its mark, the basilica’s serenity became chaos. The nine-millimeter slug slammed into a carved pew, shattering the polished surface and sending shards of hand-crafted artistry, well worn from centuries of bottom-buffing, flying into the air. The great crunch of fragmenting wood joined the report of the handgun. The recent silence was transformed into a cacophony of noise.
The woman standing at the edge of the pew stiffened in instantaneous terror, but she did not move. Shock kept her feet glued to the marble floor.
This was the last thing she had expected. She wasn’t prepared, and her senses were unable to interpret the reality unfolding before her.
The next shot smashed into the marble at her feet, so close that her toes felt the buckling of the stone and she had to reach out to the damaged pew’s edge for balance. Already weakened by the first gunshot, the pew gave way. Gabriella Fierro bolted her legs into a broader stance to keep herself upright.
This is wrong. Everything she was seeing, it was—inexplicable. The gun was aimed at her. And the sight of the man who held it was more than inexplicable: it was impossible.
He was dressed in black, at his neck a thin band of white. A priest. Trying to kill her.
In a temple of God.
The recoil of the second shot threw the man off balance. He was no junior priest, that much was obvious on sight. From the grandfatherly wrinkles on his face and the silver-white hair combed straight back around the crown of a mostly bald head, the cleric looked well into his sixties. The gun wobbled in his grip, a sign that wielding it was not a familiar experience. But something had transformed this elderly priest into a creature driven to kill.
Yet what was exemplified on the wavering man’s features was not anger. It wasn’t retribution. The overwhelming emotion, identifiable like a signed portrait, was fear.
More than fear; it was terror.
He fired again, his loose grip causing the third round to fly wide of the mark. Gabriella Fierro heard a small candle stand behind her rattle at the impact, then topple to the floor.
“Stop!” she shouted out at last, her voice fighting to be heard over the echoing reports. “What the hell are you doing?”
She had come here to be helped by this priest, and hopefully to help him in turn. He was the connection she’d been waiting for—a man willing to fill in the blanks on all she’d been struggling to learn over the past days. Someone who could open doors no one had yet been able to peer through. In return, she knew she could provide him with assistance. Protection, if things ever went to trial. And he’d been so willing when they’d spoken on the phone. He’d enthusiastically, almost energetically, promised his cooperation.
Something had obviously changed.
“Why are you doing this?” she cried out again. “I’m Gabriella Fierro. I’m here at your request!”
The words did nothing to stem the panic in the old priest’s eyes. Sweat dripped off his nose in an almost constant stream. He held the weapon with both hands now, though it still wobbled in his grip.
“Miss Fierro,” he finally said, the words forced out of chattering teeth. “I’m so sorry. So sorry!”
Gabriella held up a hand, but even as she did, another bullet blasted out of the priest’s gun. This one came so close she could feel the air bend around her fingertips, the round soaring within a centimeter of her little finger. An instant later it exploded into the wall far behind her.
“Forgive me!” the old priest cried, his voice this time a shattering roar. “God forgive me for what must be done!”
Gabriella, panicked and confused, shouted back, “You’re in control here. You don’t have to do this!” She took a deep, gulping breath. “I’m not your enemy.”
This seemed to give the priest a moment’s pause. The gun sagged slightly. His look turned pitying. “Enemy or friend, it makes no difference. There’s nothing anyone can do.”
Gabriella realized she knew next to nothing about this man. Nothing of his motives, nor the drive that had led him to this moment. That was a mistake. She shouldn’t have come here like this. Not alone.
She opened her mouth, but the priest removed a hand from the gun’s grip and held it up, palm open and outward. The gesture silenced her before a word could escape.
“Don’t say anything else, Miss Fierro. There’s no point.” He gazed anxiously around. Far above, the glistening mosaic of the Virgin enthroned seemed to sparkle with a heavenly light. A different pain contorted his features.
“Just tell me this,” he said. “Are you a believing woman?”
The question brought immediate dread. Something about the words, otherwise so predictable coming from the mouth of a priest in the midst of a glorious church, terrified Gabriella.
“I … I am.” Despite her panic, she could see no reason to conceal the truth. Perhaps a point of common ground would calm the cleric.
A brief glint of compassion crossed his features. Then, just as fast, his former fear and hardness returned.
“Then I suggest, Miss Fierro, that you make your peace with God. I will give you thirty seconds.”
To change history, one need not rewrite the whole of it. One need only understand its cycles, its beginnings and ends. Then, when an end is on the horizon, it is sufficient to craft a new beginning to follow it. A beginning in one’s own image. Where a man himself can stand at the edge of a new dawn, in the beginning, and speak into creation existence as he desires it to be.
Such was the philosophy that had inspired the man in the black shirt for decades. It inspired the man who led him. It inspired those who followed, as it had for many years.
But most of all, it inspired him now. He was at that threshold—they all were. At an end, visible on the horizon, inviting him to step in and give history a new beginning.
Some might say they lived in paradise. That they had everything men could desire or want. Power. Funds. A. . .
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