"Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside us while we live"
-Norman Cousins

As a brisk autumn breeze blew through the streets of Milan, and the sun, in its last throes of a silent struggle painted the sky orange, Alexander Knight sat in the balcony of his suite at the Dolce Tramonto hotel gazing out at the beautiful skyline of the Italian metropolis. With his legs crossed, he held a cup of delectably strong black coffee in his hands, warming them between the occasional sip as he admired the architecture bathed under the dusky glow of the autumn evening.

A sense of calm cloaked him as he contemplated the contrast in his emotions in the last few days. While at the Luciano-Byrne wedding in Paris a week ago he had been melancholic, dragged down by the solitude of his oblivion, now on his way to Venice, he was elated about the opportunities he was to receive. The Venetian Opera, that once hosted Emperors and Popes alike had invited him to perform and the surrealness of the situation had dissipated all depressing thoughts from his conscience. Unwilling to even return to Philadelphia, to make proper arrangements, he had simply informed his lawyer and friend Richard Erikson to handle his funds and press statements in due course of time.

The man had not been pleased by the decision, but nevertheless, he made suitable arrangements. The press release had been set to coincide with his arrival in Venice to optimize their public outreach while a small sum of funds had been transferred to him for his immediate needs. Alexander couldn't help but wonder just how miffed his friends in Race Street would be once they read about his performance in the paper. Thankfully they were an ocean away and he could rest easy.

Setting the cup down on the stool beside him, he reclined in his chair and rested his feet up on the railing in front of him as he brushed his hair to a side before reaching behind his ear for the cigarette tucked therein. Pulling out the Camel he paused briefly to smell the sweet scent of finely ground tobacco, before placing it delicately between his coffee-stained lips. Having forgotten his trusty silver lighter back at Troubadour's Records, he scrunched up his forehead in annoyance as he rummaged in the pocket of the coat that hung off the back of his chair for the matchbook he had managed to expropriate from the hotel bar downstairs.

Flicking the stick alight he shielded the flame against the breeze and leaned forward momentarily to light the tip of his cigarette while inhaling sharply. Feeling the familiar burn at the back of his throat, he smiled and tilted his hair back as he tossed the still aflame stick to the streets below while letting the smoke cascade out of his mouth to the starlit skies of Milan outside his grand suite at the luxurious hotel. A chuckle escaped him as he found humour in just how far the skinny Orphan from Arizona had come.

"Scusi Signore, forgive me for interrupting you." The young concierge assigned to him, gingerly spoke up from the door breaking Alexander's reverie.  "A telegram has arrived, marked urgent. It's from Philadelphia Signore." An uneasiness began to plague the rear of his mind as he took his legs off the railing and stood up. Flicking the butt of the cigarette to let the ash fall below, he handed it to the young lad and took the telegram off his hands.

For a moment he briefly wondered what could have aggravated his lawyer Richard so much that the man found no recourse but to send an urgent telegram. With his brows knitting, he tore open the envelope and pulled out the short message within.

NATIONAL WAR STOP HEAVY CASUALTIES STOP EXTREME THREAT STOP GOVT RESPONSE IMMINENT STOP LEGAL PENALTIES LIKELY STOP RETURN NOT ADVISED STOP

Stunned into silence, Alexander read and reread the message before sighing dejectedly. He tossed the message into the fireplace and reclaimed his somewhat diminished cigarette. Replacing it in his mouth, he walked out to the balcony and picked up his cup of coffee as he inhaled a few quick puffs. "Please cancel my dinner reservations and inform my chauffeur that I will not be needing his services tonight. Also, kindly have a telephone sent up as soon as possible along with a fresh pot of coffee. Thank you, that will be all." He said with a sombre smile that never reached his eyes. The concierge bowed and hastened out of the suite. 

As soon as the door closed behind the man, Alexander flung the cup in his palms at the nearest wall in frustration while he bellowed a string of curses before dropping down to the floor. Resting his back against the bed, he stared into the fireplace with slouched shoulders as the cigarette hung loosely between his lips.

National War, simply the thought of it sent a shiver down his spine. The last national war he had witnessed had occurred 3 years ago when he was just a naive bartender in Los Angeles with hopes in his eyes and holes in his pockets. He had aged a century seemingly overnight as he discovered the love of his life, his godfather massacred at his place of employment, the bar where he enthralled drunk patrons with his first forays into music as a lifestyle. The sight of the bloodshed and all the savagery it had brought with it, still haunted him on lonely nights. 

His mind flashed back to the image of himself, bruised and betrayed, collapsing on the beach at midnight, covered in his own vomit, waiting to die. Every friend he made, every memory he had cherished, every possession he had, every future he had foreseen was lost overnight. He remembered the first rays of the sun hitting him as he woke up surprised he was alive. With all the resilience and fortitude he could muster, he had scrounged together some money and flown off to Detroit unwilling to move forward but unable to stay behind. The war had birthed the troubadour's wanderlust, something that still plagued him even as he scratched and clawed his way back up from the depths of hell to previously unimagined heights.

Once, he had little to lose and a lot to look forward to, filled with the naivety of youth. Now, he was weary, he was solitary, with many material possessions and a shadow of his former will. Tonight, as he rejoiced the arrival of his greatest triumph, he had potentially suffered his greatest defeat. Smiling in schadenfreude he chuckled at fate's cruel sense of humour and stood up while taking a long drag of his cigarette. 

Though he had barely held onto the constant lawsuits brought upon by NOMA in the past, he was certain this war would tip the scales against him in the court of public opinion. The authorities would have the excuse they needed to ignore his bribes and prosecute him to the fullest extent of the law and beyond. Tossing the cigarette into the fireplace he wondered if the musical empire he had so painstakingly built would similarly disappear into nothingness.

And what of his friends? Those that had sheltered and supported him? What of the woman who he dreamt of more often than not? What would become of the people he knew? History it seemed would repeat himself, for war, war never changes.

His concierge returned with the coffee and plugged in the telephone into one of the sockets by his bed. The lad took one look at the smashed coffee cup in worry, but Alexander's stoic gaze caused him to gulp in nervousness and hasten away. Alexander rubbed his temples and sat down on his bed as he dialled the number for his lawyer. 

It took him about an hour to get through successfully and the delay only caused him to worry about just what had preoccupied his man so much. At last he heard a raspy voice in his ear and sighed in relief. "Richard, this is Alexander. Tell me everything." He said and closed his eyes as his lawyer recited the new information that had emerged since the telegram had been sent out.

Alexander listened patiently, growing troubled with each passing breath. Sensing a lull in the conversation, he cleared his throat and responded. "I see. And you say there is nothing our allies at the DA's office or in the FBN can do? 15 years for Tax Evasion, Fraud and Copyright Infringement? No hope of parole ? This is my first offence for fuck's sake!" Pausing to take a long deep breath he unsuccessfully tried to calm his anger and continued. "Well, they can shove the deal up their ass. Turning state's witness in the middle of a national war to help with their goddamn witch-hunt? No, I don't have a deathwish."

"What news of Madeline? Where is she? Did you get in touch with Nikolas?"  He asked exasperatedly hoping for some good news to liven his mood but the response he received caused his heart to skip a beat as his brain struggled to process it. After a long drawn-out silence, he muttered  "I..I.." Taking a gulp he composed himself, sighed and added.  "I will be departing the hotel tonight and buying a ticket back to America for the records. But if she is no more, there is no point in returning only to be imprisoned. Thank you, Richard, for everything you've done for me but I must ask another favour of you. I don't know if this will work, but desperate as I am, I have little choice."

With the gears spinning in his head, Alexander said. "Two days from now, you will be making an official declaration of my death. Here's how you go about it......"

"Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light."
-Dylan Thomas

Zurich
2 Weeks After The Telegram

"To the Edelweiss theatre company!" Sarah, a gregarious young woman raised her glass of beer in a toast and four of her other five companions followed suit. Bruce rolled his eyes at Alexander's absence of an alcoholic beverage and chastised him playfully. "Come on John, we are celebrating. Don't sour the mood now." Rachel, Bruce's girlfriend who had been eyeing him coyly chipped in.  "Yeah John, live dangerously just a little."

She winked at Alexander, and her foot slipped out of her sandal under the table to caress his leg. In response, he maintained a forced smile, neither accepting nor rejecting her advances.  "Oh our lead actor is a teetotaller Rachel. You could come of your high horse and join us common folk some time Mr Smith. Might do you some good. Which reminds me, what kind of a name is John Smith anyway? John Doe was unavailable?" Smirked Connor and proceeded to gulp down his beer before bursting into a loud guffaw at his own joke.

"Like you've got no past to run away from Connor. Leave John be, if it weren't for him you'd still be leading our little stage production down the gutters." Elizabeth teased Connor, the former lead actor whose role had been given to Alexander for the past 7 days upon his arrival. Something which had acted as a catalyst for reigniting the dwindling spirits of the Edelweiss theatre company.

The group drank and laughed reminiscing about the past week while making elaborate plans for the future. Alexander, or John as he was known to them sat silent, offering just a passing remark between practised polite smiles. He was aware that his wait was over, plans had come to fruition. This was to be his last night in Zurich.

The evening passed into night and the group departed the bar they had come to frequent after the plays. Alexander refused offers to accompany the others on their plans as he usually did and began walking down the snowing roads that led out of the city centre. Autumn had given way to winter and a chill seemed to seep into his bones while he walked. With his hands behind his back, he gazed at the peaceful surroundings filled with young revellers celebrating life. 

A sombre look crept up on his face as he watched the inhabitants frolick about in careless joy. He watched with envy the simplicity in their happiness that he so deeply craved but could no longer hope to ever regain. With a sigh, he stopped outside his little cottage while fidgetting in the pockets of his woollen coat for the keys. Once inside he shut and locked the door behind him. Taking off his coat, he hung it nearby and reached behind his ear for the cigarette that always lay hidden there.

His hand came up empty, Camels, weren't exactly popular in Europe and he was yet to find a suitable alternative. Shaking his head, he reached for the coat again and pulled out a packet of the local variety he had recently purchased. Unwrapping the box, his nimble fingers pulled one out about an inch before he brought the packet to his lips and tasted the rich tobacco on the cigarette. Pulling the box down again, he placed it into his pocket and looked up. 

In the mirror on the opposite wall, he caught the reflection of a stranger. Hair, once brown and unkempt, now cropped short and dyed blonde. His chin, absent of the usual stubble. His eyes, filled with hope, now weary. Pulling the cigarette out of his lips he waved at himself almost as if he was hoping to confirm that beneath all the changes, the man that stood in front of him was the man he had always been.

"And here I was hoping you would pay me before you lost your marbles."  Teased a sultry voice the sound of which slowly cascaded into his ears like a sweet melody. Despite his now seemingly everpresent dejectedness, a dry chuckle escaped Alexander's throat.  "And I was hoping you would try not to break in at least once before I left." He replied, and placed the cigarette in his mouth again before igniting it. Feeling the familiar burn in the back of his throat, he let the smoke fly out of his nose and turned around to face the stranger who had come to frequent his residence in the past week.

The elegant woman, stood leaning against the door frame as she shrugged and smiled. "I did try, but what can I say, I guess I just don't get tired of watching you jump every time I surprise you." Pulling the cigarette out from between his lips, Alexander delicately flicked the butt and watched the ash fall to the floor before he said.  "Dangerous habit, no?" The woman pushed off from the door and remarked. "Professional Hazard. We live in dangerous times Mr Knight or should I call you Mr Smith?" She handed him an envelope and he raised an eyebrow in amusement as he opened it to glance at the Visa, the Austrian Shillings and the Reichsmark therein.

Although he initially suspected the reliability of the contact Richard, his lawyer had given him, the woman had proven rather useful in the two weeks since his departure from Milan. She had helped him forge papers, provided him with Swiss Francs and rented the cottage for him in Zurich. Now that he had successfully withdrawn sufficient funds from the untraceable Swiss account his lawyer had prepared for him, there was no more reason to stay in the snowy paradise.

He had to make his way forward to Salzburg. But before he could do that, something else remained. A considerable opportunity that might have a significant impact on his upcoming litigations. "You never did tell me your name." He reminded the woman as she prepared to depart. With a coy smile, she pushed a stray strand of fiery red hair behind her ear and responded. "You never did tell me why you're stopping in Munich."

She had him there. He couldn't very well ask her to trust him if he with her secrets if he was unwilling to do the same. "I always did want to be a bartender." He joked as he helped her with her coat and opened the door. "Figured I'd learn how to pour a good riesling now that I have the time." She chuckled and said. "Well Mr Smith, bring me a vintage in Austria and maybe you'll find out." Offering a light peck on his cheek she left him with the intoxicating scent of her perfume and the cool breeze of the wintery Swiss night to distract him from his melancholic solitude.

"Music, even in situations of the greatest horror, should never be painful to the ear but should flatter and charm it, and thereby always remain music."
-Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

3 Months After The Telegram

Soft winter snows descended from the heavens, disturbing the busy shopping street Getreidegasse. The Austrian citizenry of Salzburg briefly paused in their tracks to raise their faces up above and feel the cold caress of the falling snow against their skin. Their ears ringing with the melancholic melody escaping a cheap violin. The man playing it, a young blonde lad wrapped up tightly in a plain woollen coat, subtly squeezed the sounds out of the instrument. Standing underneath the pale glow of a solitary gaslamp, his sombre eyes seemingly lost in the past, he quietly stood.

Absent of all refinery, the man manufactured a mellifluous sound, seemingly impossible from such a shabby instrument. A sound, that hadn't been heard in that particular street for centuries. People passed by him and dropped a few shillings in the violin case placed beside his feet. The metallic clinking of coins did little to interrupt his reverie and he remained lost in a world far far away. A tear slipped out of his eye before quickly freezing on his rosy cheeks in the cool breeze.

An elegant young woman stood next to a kiosk, wrapped in rich furs. Her fiery red hair blew wildly in the wind as she gazed upon the man and wondered just why her contact had summoned her to this dreary place. From all the information she had managed to gather about him covertly, he had always been a man of lavish tastes, a man who surrounded himself in luxury and yet, ever since she had met him months ago, she had found him to be the opposite. It was difficult for her to reconcile the information she had of the impeccably dressed man, serenading women on grand stages in expensive suits with the man she saw in front of her in his tattered coat, playing to himself, in the middle of nowhere with a minuscule audience of passersby. 

"Es ist sinnlos, gnädige Frau"  The owner of the kiosk chimed in from behind the counter. She looked at him puzzled and he chuckled before placing his elbows on the wooden surface as he leaned in and spoke again, this time in English. "It is pointless ma'am. Herr Smith seldom talks to anyone." She raised an eyebrow in amusement and asked. "Ah and what else do you know of this Herr Smith?"

The man shrugged and responded. "Not much. He showed up a month ago in search of something, seduced by the history of this street as many young men before him have. Except, he wasn't excited and his eyes were filled with a sadness where others often show anticipation and arrogance. Like most of his Vorgänger, uh predecessors, a single visit wasn't enough for him. They all return night after night and stand where he now does till they find what they seek. Some leave, some like him, pick up an instrument. The others though, boastful in their youth, garner large audiences and perform whatever it is they have learned. Seldom though do they captivate the attention of the people for this street is home to sounds of absolut exellenz."

The owner paused his story to nod in the man's direction and continued in a reverent manner. "Not him. A week ago, he picked up the violin and his sound seems to have a solitary target in mind. For the past seven nights, he seems to have let his melody share secrets of sadness and the nature of beauty itself with a ghost. Others watch him play in the harsh snows, but he seems to be lost in his musical conversation with the ghost of a man dead for centuries, a man born right across the street in the 3rd floor of the 9th house over a 150 years ago." 

Pulling out a pouch of tobacco, he placed it on the counter and added. "He pauses, only to roll and smoke a cigarette. Perhaps you could take some over to him. You might get lucky, it looks like he is finished conversing with the ghost of Mozart." The woman accepted the pouch and tipped the man for the information as she made her way to the musician. The location of the meet now made sense to her, and she reached inside her coat to confirm the presence of the envelope she carried.

As her heels clicked against the snow stained, stone pavement while she walked, the musician glanced at her and stopped playing. He tucked the violin into its case and closed the lid. "Herr Smith, I must say, you do have a flair for dramatics." She said gesturing to Mozart's house in front of them. The hint of a smile appeared on his face as Alexander chastised in response. "You wouldn't be blaming me for finding some way to preoccupy myself while dealing with your tardiness now." 

The woman rolled her eyes and replied. "I know I'm late, but I come bearing gifts." She tossed the pouch of tobacco in his direction and added. "So if you're done pouting can we get down to business?" Alexander caught the bag and let a dry chuckle escape his throat. Nodding towards a nearby bench, he picked his violin case up and said. "Step into my office."

The two of them walked over to the bench, brushed off the snow and sat down. Alexander began to roll a cigarette deftly, now used to the practice because of his prolonged stay in the city. There was much he wished to hear, but foremost on his mind were recent events. "Munich first, then the rest." He said softly as he placed the cigarette in his mouth and rummaged in his pocket for a lighter.

At the mention of business, the woman turned serious and began debriefing him.  "You were right, the man you encountered in Munich was a NOMA spy. Tracking him down wasn't easy or cheap. But all photographic evidence he had of you has now been destroyed. The Zurich National Bank reaffirmed their willingness to maintain your anonymity so there is no paper trail. But he has seen your face and rumours will continue to spread. You may just have to take the extreme measure."

Alexander listened intently as he inhaled sharply and felt the familiar burn at the back of his throat before letting the smoke cascade out of his nose. Nodding in acknowledgement he said. "What news from the states?" The woman, expecting the question recited the information in a monotone manner. "Your lawyer, Richard Erikson has informed me that the war is over. The Godfathers of Las Vegas, Los Angeles, Chicago and Detroit are dead. Apart from the four cities, New York has suffered heavy casualties but it is difficult to confirm who is still alive. As far as your business interests are concerned, Charlie__Pavanno has assumed control and is proving capable as expected. The buzz garnered by your death has caused a surge in public interest, your album sales have increased threefold. With the war and the political backlash it brought now gone, most of the lawsuits against you are in a stalemate, but with your recent Munich debacle, it is advisable to freeze your financial footprint for a few months."

"I see." Alexander paused to flick the butt of his cigarette and watch the smouldering ash fall below before being quenched by the snow as he continued. "What of Mr Pavanno? What is the estimate for our plans with him?" The woman although unaware of what the actual plans were, was nevertheless knowledgeable of the timeframe the lawyer had prescribed. She elaborated. "It is still too early. Mr Erikson believes it is best to keep him in the dark for now so that we can use him as a scapegoat if the freezing of your assets proves ineffective in stopping NOMA from finding your trail again. But, I feel it is my duty to inform you that the extreme option will prove incredibly inhospitable. Are you certain you wish to continue?"

Alexander took a quick puff of his rapidly diminishing cigarette as he responded with eyes glazed over. "I am not even certain why I try to struggle anymore, with so much lost, what is the point of it all?" Pausing to sigh dejectedly he resumed.  "Nevertheless, if I am going to struggle, I will be resolute in my endeavours. A little in-hospitability will not dissuade me."

The woman, surprised by Alexander's fortitude handed him the envelope. "Papers, to get you from here, across Hungary and into Romania. Directions to a popular gipsy camp as well as some money to get you there. Once you begin your journey with the gipsies, it will be near impossible for NOMA or even me to track you till their return 6 months later. Similarly, you will be unable to access your funds or contact us in case of an emergency. I... I hope you know what you are doing."

She gazed at him with a conflicted expression. Having gotten used to their interactions, she found his uncertain departure more painful than she was willing to admit to him, or herself. He could see the worry in her eyes and was touched by her concern, but he knew he had to do this. There was no other way he could escape a life in prison. A sombre smile appeared on his face as he reached into his coat and pulled out a flask.  "Getting soft on me, are you? Luckily I have something to stiffen you back up. The vintage riesling as promised in Zurich."  He handed her the flask and collected the envelope. 

Chuckling at her shocked expression, he leaned in to give her cheek a polite farewell kiss. "Sasha" She whispered sultrily. "My name is Sasha Petrovna" His eyes, seemingly memorising the image of this elegant woman with her fiery hair blowing in the falling snow on the winter night in Salzburg out of fear that he may never see her again, he responded sombrely. "Farewell, Miss Petrovna." 

Picking up his violin case he tossed his cigarette into the snow and crossed the street, coming to a halt at the house he had stared at for the past month. He wondered if Mozart himself had ever stood on the doorstep with a past filled with loss and a future filled with uncertainties, violin case in hand.  "Maybe the next time we see each other old friend, you can tell me how you found the resolve to keep on keeping on like a bird that flew, tangled up in blue." He whispered to the ghost that seemed to have kept him company before he walked off on the next leg of his journey.

"A day will come when you think yourself safe and happy, and suddenly your joy will turn to ashes in your mouth, and you'll know the debt is paid. "
-Tyrion Lannister

Soviet Countryside Outside Stalingrad
1 Year After The Telegram

"Kako! Wake up! Dai says we are about to reach." Someone urged enthusiastically. Reluctant to get out of the comfortable fur blankets, Alexander pretended not to hear the child, aware that it wouldn't work and yet desperate to get a few more minutes of sleep. The playful child unwilling to leave him be, began to tug on his brown ponytail. Finally, Alexander grunted in defeat and opened his eyes. He pushed off the furs and sat up. 

"That's it you little brat! You're dead now Manfri." He exclaimed and tried to grab for the boy, but the squirrelly young lad, afraid of being tickled again, took off chuckling. Alexander shook his head and reflected on the past nine months as he reached for his tunic.

After departing Salzburg, he had made his way through Vienna into Hungary and from there to Bucharest, Romania. Sasha had provided him with instructions to a gipsy caravan that was about to depart and although they were somewhat hesitant to accept a stranger into their fold, Alexander's charm had put them at ease.

The first couple of months had been tough as he tried to familiarise himself with the customs and the language while socializing with the others. His unwillingness to drink, though frowned upon was overlooked because of the songs he regaled them with at the bonfires each evening. It had been a strange experience for Alexander, living off the land, cut off from everyone else in the world, constantly travelling from one location to another. The troubadour within him could finally feel its wanderlust satiated.

Although initially a stranger, Alexander or John Gilabno as they called him, soon became an integral part of the community. He tended to the horses with the kids, hunted wild game with the men, gathered wood and cooked food with the women. Yet, even amidst these strangers that had made him a part of their family, he simply couldn't forget the past. He slept with one eye open, always looking over his shoulder for his demons to catch up to him. No matter how far they travelled, he simply could not let his fears subside and learn to live in the present.

That was until he met Kezia. Manfri's mother Kezia, the carefree old soul joined their caravan with her son not long after he did. Free-spirited and chaotic, yet seemingly scared to love, the living paradox danced to the beat of her own drum. Alexander was unsure what attracted them to each other. Whether it was their shared wanderlust or the hidden sadness in their eyes, it had nevertheless been magnetic. He didn't care about where she had come from, or if Manfri's father was looking for them, just as she didn't seem to care why someone as talented as him and as unfamiliar with the gipsy way of life was doing in a caravan. 

Their feelings for each other turned to a fiery love that surprised them both, and although they were afraid, they found solace in the other's passionate embrace. Alexander though once had sworn off kids, having had enough of them during his time at the orphanage, came to care for Manfri as his own boy, teaching the young lad how to hunt and ride horses.

Lost in his new life, he had prolonged his stay and sent a message to Sasha about the same. But now, as the extension was coming to an end he knew he had a decision to make. His old life, filled with glamour, troubles and wealth, waited for him back in America. But his new life, one of peace and travel, tempted him to stay. The previous night as he lay on the roof of their shared carriage, Alexander had steeled his resolve and he had popped the question. Though hesitant, she had given him an affirmative answer on the condition that they wait a little longer to ensure they would not become another set of regrets in their lives. 

Alexander scratched his long brown beard and lit a cigarette as he stepped past the curtain to the front of the carriage. Kissing his fiance, he stepped off the carriage and began walking alongside to stretch his legs. They would soon be upon Stalingrad and he would inform Sasha of his decision to stay with the caravan. He was unsure of how his lawyer, Richard Erikson would feel about the decision, but he no longer cared. The world had come to accept the death of the troubadour Alexander Knight, perhaps it was time he did too. 

The caravan came to an unexpected halt as shouting echoed out in front of them. Alexander, curious about the commotion, ordered Manfri to stay with his mother as he jogged up ahead. As he came upon the leading carriage, he caught sight of a dozen armed Russian banditi engaged in fierce conversation with one of the caravaneers. Though such instances hadn't been rare on their journey in the past, something felt different about this particular iteration. His heartbeat quickened as an unease crept up his spine. His ears picked up a gut-wrenching shriek from his rear but as he turned his head to investigate he saw the hard wooden butt of a rifle crashing towards his eye before everything went black.

As his consciousness slowly returned, Alexander felt a searing pain coming from his bruised right eye. He struggled to breath, hurting with each grasp of air even as blood continued to drip down his lips. He tried to wipe it away with his hand but found both of them to be restrained above his head. His long hair hung in an unruly mess in front of him. Struggling against the ropes, he stirred, muttering inaudibly as his eyes flashed open. His pupils slowly adjusted to the dim interior as he gazed around trying to get his bearings. 

"I told you the podonok was alive." Someone said before a splash of cold water hit across Alexander's face. Alexander shook his head ferociously before glaring at the thug who threw the water. The man smirked in response as someone else chimed in. "Good, I was done with the cyka anyway." Alexander followed the voice to the sight of a man pulling up his pants. As he moved aside, Alexander saw what lay behind him and his face contorted in horror as his mind numbed. Manfri, lay on the floor, bleeding next to Kezia. His beautifully carefree Kezia, bound, bruised, naked and defiled. 

Their eyes met for a brief moment as blood and tears streamed down Alexander's cheeks in confusion when suddenly a pop echoed loudly in the room and time itself stood still as the bullet buried itself in her. Alexander watched in absolute disbelief as the free-spirited gipsy, the woman who had taught him to live in the present again, the woman he had come to love, the woman he was soon to marry, breathed her last. Words refused to escape his throat and his eyes, one teary and the other bloody, pleaded with his captors for answers.

In response, he saw the man who had just fired, aim the gun towards him. Although stunned into silent shock, Alexander knew it was better to die now than live in a world where such cruelty could transpire. He closed his eyes and waited for the bullet to hit his chest. Yet when the cold metal pierced his tender skin his eyes flashed open in an agony he had never felt before. The numbness that had enveloped him, evaporated as his entire existence turned into an unquenchable pain. 

He wondered if death always hurt as much as it did him or was he despite all he had been through, still weak-willed. Amidst the searing bursts of pain, he felt his consciousness strengthen instead of diminishing, almost as if the adrenaline was coursing through his veins with reinforced vigour. Realization soon struck as he noticed his ability to breathe easily, that the bullet had struck his knee instead. Hanging as he had been by his wrists, he simply hadn't felt his leg give out from under him. 

Now though conscious because of the tremendous pain, he couldn't help but wonder why the men were torturing him so. What had driven them to such extremes? He gazed at the man standing on his right through the bloody haze in his eye and whispered huskily. "Why?" Vocalizing the single word had taken immense amounts of strength and though his heart ached with unbridled fury and his blood boiled with rage, he knew bound and battered as he was, he was helpless to resist.

The man shrugged his shoulders and replied indifferently. "Samuel Walsh wanted you to suffer as he has. He said you should blame the sins of your past." Alexander searched his memory but was certain he couldn't remember ever even meeting any Samuel Walsh, let alone enraging him to such lengths. What had possessed this stranger to pay for such vile atrocities to be committed not just to Alexander, but Kezia and Manfri?

"Enough! Kill this mudak already so we can get back to Moscow and get paid." The other man chimed in from a distance as he walked towards the door. Alexander turned back towards the first man and saw the glint of the steel barrel pressed against his temple. Confused, distraught, furious, he sighed in defeat as the door opened and sunlight entered the room, casting an unearthly glow on the man about to kill him. Alexander saw the man's finger gently tug on the trigger.

The shot echoed yet again in the room followed in quick succession by two more as Alexander watched his assailant's head snap to a side while the man crumpled to the floor. In the doorway stood Sasha and two strange men holding gleaming pistols of their own. Sasha caught sight of his sorry state and rushed to help him. She cursed and issued instructions in rapid Russian, as she sliced through his restraints and the men tied a tourniquet on his leg.

She gently caressed his bloody eye with the sleeve of her elegant dress as she whispered. "Dammit John! Why didn't you return earlier? Russia is no longer safe for you, we have to get you out immediately."

"NO!" Alexander shouted, summoning what little strength was left in him. "Moscow. I need to get to Moscow." She looked at him in bewilderment as her two associates draped each of his arms around their shoulders before lifting him up. "Didn't you hear me? Russia is no longer safe, John. For fuck's sake Alexander you almost died!" She cursed, no longer caring to use his alias.

But Alexander, wouldn't listen to any argument. He kept repeating the same thing. He knew he had to get to Moscow. He had to find Sam Walsh. He had to ask the man just why had he wrought such pain and suffering. He had to torture and kill him.

"You either die a hero, or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain."
-Harvey Dent

Moscow
18 Months After The Telegram

In a brightly lit basement in Moscow city, two men stood facing each other. Their bare chest, one intricately tattooed and the other plain, gleamed with thick beads of sweat. Each man held a fencing sword in a white-knuckle grip. Every so often, the two of them would move, lunging and parrying as the sounds of the steel clashing echoed around them. The blonde man, clearly the better swordsman, guided the dark-haired, tattooed man patiently.

"Remise!" He instructed and Alexander moved forward, unleashing a quick flurry of strikes. The blonde man nodded in appreciation as he parried each move. "Riposte!" He shouted and Alexander stepped back, deftly parrying the incoming strike before quickly capitalizing with a subtle stab towards the man's chest. The man gracefully retreated and chuckled. "Good, good. And now Passata Sotto!" He said and lunged forward. Alexander hastened to follow the instruction. Dropping his body beneath the incoming weapon, he placed his free hand on the ground for support. As his opponent loomed over him, Alexander attempted to straighten his sword arm and stab the adversary but his leg gave out under him and he collapsed on the floor, allowing his opponent to place the sword across his throat and effectively end the spar.

The man smiled and tossed his sword aside as he leaned over and offered his hand to Alexander. Grateful for the help, Alexander accepted it and stood up.  "That was a good session, but it seems your leg still needs time to heal. Still, at least your eyesight has fully returned. Those were some good reflexes out there." He said as he patted Alexander's back and nodded towards his eyes.

Alexander paused to reflect on the injuries the man had spoken of, earned half a year ago in Stalingrad. He thought back to his arrival in Moscow. Sasha had reluctantly offered minimal first-aid and postponed his treatment because of his insistence that they arrive in Stalingrad as soon as possible. Unwillingly she had stashed him at her father's house. Her father, Mikhael Petrovna, leader of a local criminal syndicate, did not care much about what feelings his daughter had developed for her contact. He saw Alexander as the cash cow he was. Eager to make full use of the gift that had landed in his lap, Mikhael assigned two of his best men to guard Alexander at all times. He arranged for discrete medical care as he made inquiries into the whereabouts of Samuel Walsh, making sure to remind Alexander of all the favours he was doing for the man while he sent his daughter far away on a new assignment.

Blinded by his thirst for vengeance, Alexander formulated an unofficial business relationship with Mikhael. The doctor that was brought over chastised him for delaying treatment as he hastened to minimise the damage that had been caused. The blunt force inflicted by the butt of the rifle had affected his right eye with Traumatic Iritis and Subconjunctival Haemorrhage. Though the doctor treated it, the pigment in his pupil was lost, giving it an eery grey appearance along with temporary vision loss.

Now that his vision had all but returned, his discoloured eye and the scar around it were the only lasting remnants of his facial injury. His leg, however, was another matter. The tourniquet had prevented crucial blood loss, but the delay had allowed the bullet to settle behind his kneecap next to a particularly sensitive nerve. While the ligament damage would subside with time, the doctor informed him that any attempts to remove the bullet could result in him paralysing half his leg.

He established physical therapy regimens for Alexander to follow but also informed him that full recovery was near impossible. Alexander had cared little about the damage for all his thoughts were focused on Samuel Walsh. With Mikhail's influence, it wasn't hard to locate the man and within a month, Samuel Walsh was handcuffed to a drain pipe in the dungeon of the Petrovna estate.

Mikhael put the still recovering Alexander on a wheelchair and guided him down a ramp. He brought him to the dungeon and closed the door behind them. The dingy room was empty apart from the three men and yet it smelled of blood, fresh and dried. Alexander wondered just what the room had been used for in the past but before he could his eyes caught sight of the man handcuffed in front of him.

Sam Walsh, looked deep into his eyes and chuckled as he said.  "I should have known you would somehow survive, you squirrelly bastard you always manage to come out alive, unlike the people around you."  Mikhael let go of the wheelchair and stood silently to one side as Alexander rolled himself closer to Sam Walsh. He could sense some resemblance but was unable to comprehend who this man reminded him of. With teeth clenched in fury, he let out a solitary word. "Why?" He asked as he leaned in close to Samuel.

"They told you didn't they? I wanted you to feel the pain I felt. The pain I felt when you seduced my daughter away from New Orleans. She would have been a star. My position in NOMA would have ensured it, but your lies beguiled her and she ran away. You remember her, don't you? 'Fiery Fiona Walsh', that's what you called her at that blasted wedding in France didn't you? I wanted you to feel the pain I felt when my decades' long work in NOMA was crumbled by your impudence. The pain I felt when I heard my daughter died in an accidental shooting which was targeted at you. The pain I felt when my wife committed suicide upon hearing the news." Samuel responded spitefully shocking Alexander.

Alexander remembered Fiona very well, she was one of the finest signings Troubadour's Records had scored. The red-headed Irish woman who had sung with him at the Byrne-Luciano wedding, the woman he was grooming to become the next star. The knowledge that the woman died because of him and that the realization drove her mother to an early grave and her father to a vengeful crusade stunned him to his very core. 

"I never believed the so-called evidence of your death. I led the legal pursuits resolving to decimate your musical empire even as I searched for rumours of your reappearence. Though you escaped my first attempt in Munich, I knew it was only a matter of time before you got careless. While I may not have succeeded in killing you, I know I have caused you to feel the pain I felt. You may lie to yourself, but every time you look in the mirror, you will remember the truth, you will remember the deaths you've caused and the evil you've brought into this world. Every time you look at your reflection, you will curse yourself for living while you lament the deaths of the ones you loved and the ones you lost." Samuel added and smiled.

Alexander sat, distraught, reeling from the realization and wondering if he really was at fault for all of it. He couldn't deny that far too many people had lost their lives simply by being associated with him, while he carried on seemingly unaffected by the tragedies. Mikhael stepped forward aware that things were getting out of hand and Alexander might change his mind. He offered a loaded revolver to Alexander urging him to do what was necessary here. Alexander sat contemplating in silence for a long time before he accepted the revolver. 

The alien object felt heavy in his hands and yet somehow it felt like an extension of him. "You're right Mr Walsh, the death of your daughter was my fault as was the death of your wife. I spent my whole life trying to run away and hide from violence, turning a blind eye to it, hoping that if I couldn't see it, it wouldn't impact me. But I was a naive fool, no matter what I did, death wreaked havoc regardless. Violence reigned supreme in this cruel world of ours. But thanks to what you did to me, never again will I be the same for I know the truth now. Sometimes the quickest way to end the vicious circle of violence is utter ruthless violence itself." Raising the gun to Samuel's heart he whispered "Forgive me."  and pulled the trigger without hesitation.

The next few months passed by quickly. No longer averse to the idea of violence, Alexander deepened his association with Mikhael, using him to blackmail, threaten or execute any of the NOMA holdouts who still attempted to pursue legal action. Once he had cowed them into submission, he used his lawyer Richard Erikson to begin secret negotiations for a hostile takeover of the organization itself. Of course, enforcing his will required manpower and capital to pay for it. As his own was tied up in untouchable trusts, he initiated the smuggling of Russian Vodka distilled by the Petrovna syndicate in Moscow to Philadelphia, funnelling the shipping logs through one of the shell subsidiaries under Troubadour's records. 

Where once he had shied away from any and all forms of criminal activity, now he had actively orchestrated a large-scale bootlegging programme, extensively extorted, blackmailed and threatened state officials and ordered the assassination of multiple American citizens. He was aware that it was only a matter of time before Charlie__Pavanno suspected something and knew it was time to bring the man into the loop. His signature, as well as his silence, would be necessary for the acquisition of NOMA. Besides, he still needed Charlie's contacts in the media to put a positive spin on his eventual return.

But even as his financial and legal troubles disappeared along with his morality, he redoubled his efforts on physical recovery. The fencing had been Mikhael's idea. The man had given him a regal yet concealable ebony cane sword and suggested he learn to defend himself with it. The man had even arranged for the son of a former royal tutor to the former Tsar to offer him lessons. That was how he had found himself sparring in the basement of one of Mikhael's warehouses at midnight.

As the two men dressed and got ready to depart, his tutor hesitantly enquired that now that they had spent 5 months training together and developed considerable trust, if he would be willing to sing at his and his girlfriend's anniversary because she had been a big fan of the troubadour. Alexander smiled bitterly and revealed his regret that the tutor had broken their Cardinal rule and informed someone else of his true identity. He turned towards the two bodyguards who still accompanied him wherever he went and ordered them to neutralise the liabilities. Before the tutor could do anything a shot echoed and he collapsed dead on the floor. The next morning his girlfriend and her mother would meet the same fate.

 Alexander's return to America was imminent and he had to play it just right. The man returning was vastly different from the man who had left 18 months ago and anything or anyone that jeopardized his plans would be swiftly eliminated.