Gavin leaned back in his chair and sipped the glass of vodka. The Sokolovs were far more Westernized than most of their peers and had imported some whiskey, but when in Rome... the burn of the vodka turned into a pleasant warmth in his stomach and he glanced around the room again for his contact. Gavin had gotten his start as Jack Mezzo's first enforcer: his fists and his gun had made his name on Race Street, but things had changed in the last few years. For one, he didn't work as much. Not only did he put more of his time into his family, but Tara was adamant that he only worked 'special' jobs. No need to build up the heat with the normal stuff when there were other people to do that; no, nowadays he mostly trained to stay fresh, with Tara turning him loose a couple times a month for jobs that she didn't trust other people with.

A job like extracting a dozen wealthy Russian citizens to America. Stalin's Joint State Political Directorate had been nibbling at the edges of the old Bolsheviks, and some of them had seen the writing on the wall. Having managed to accumulate some hidden wealth in the past decade, they had no intention of waiting until they were caught up in a purge. Two families, the Lebedevs and the Vasielievs, had reached out through the underground and Tara had arranged for their extraction. In 18 hours, they'd board a train from Moscow to St. Petersburg. In 36 hours, they'd be on ship heading west through the Baltic. He was anxious to get home, but he also felt the rush of adrenaline whenever he was in the field. 

Keeping an eye out for the purple flower that his contact- whether it was a man or a woman- would be wearing, Gavin ordered a second vodka. The Sokolovs threw private parties that attracted all sorts of Western expatriates and Russian locals; until his contact showed up, there were plenty of interesting characters to keep his attention. 

Alexander offered a superficially coy smile to the young Sokolov socialite hosting the party as his eyes, one black, one grey subtly scanned the room for threats. His bodyguards, ones that seemingly followed him everywhere he went, stood a few paces behind him sipping water doing the same as they tried to blend in.

Bringing his rapidly diminishing cigarette to his lips in a delicate clasp, he inhaled the sweet scent of tobacco and felt the familiar burn on the back of his throat before letting the smoke cascade out of his nose as he brought the cigarette down and flicked the butt to let the ash fall to the carpet below. Alexander wasn't sure what had attracted the young heiress's attention to him, cloaked as he was in plain black, a stark contrast to the colourful extravagance of the other guests. Perhaps tempted by the macabre aura that surrounded him, she had sought him out soon as he was alone.

Though he bantered politely, his mind was preoccupied with the task Mikhael had given him today. Vladimir Vasiliev, the son of a Russian minister was afraid of his father's newfound sense of Paranoia with regards to Stalin. The whole business of being sent off to America sat ill with him, and he had requested the aid of the Petrovna Syndicate in identifying his father's American contact and if possible gaining more knowledge about the man his father had foolishly decided to offer a small fortune to. 

While normally hesitant to get involved with powerful political families and their internal squabbles, Mikhael Petrovna could not look away from such an easy opportunity to form some goodwill with a young entrepreneur like Vladimir, especially when he came offering a sizable monetary profit for the venture. So, it fell to his newly groomed enforcer Alexander Knight, or as he was commonly known, John 'Vorona' Smith to handle the job.

With his return to America imminent, Alexander did not want to risk jeopardizing his relationship with the Petrovnas and accepted. It had all gone swimmingly, just another social gathering of the new Russian bourgeoisie in a private estate in Moscow, until Vladimir had seen fit to move off to get a drink and allowed the young Sokolov to accost him.

"Do you Mr Smith? Play the piano I mean? Father said he once heard you play for one of his friends and was enamoured of it. Oh, please! Won't you play some for us now?"  She requested sultrily with increased persistence. Inwardly cursing Vladimir putting puting him in such a precarious position, he let the cigarette slip from his fingers, burning a hole in the carpet as he stepped on it and forced a smile before responding.  "Very well Miss Sokolov, I think I can indulge the curiosity of my gracious host with a short piece." Nodding to his guards, he gestured for them to follow as he walked towards the grand piano in the rear of the hall, one hand, held elegantly by the socialite and the other holding his ebony cane that concealed his Damascus steel duelling sword.

He slid on to the bench with an ease that betrayed his familiarity with the instrument as he placed the cane within arms reach. The young host stood beside him waiting eagerly and his two guards stood behind him on either flank menacingly, warding off any strangers. He cracked his fingers and closed his eyes before caressing the ivory keys gently. With a final sombre sigh, he whispered his greeting to the ghost of the man he met in Salzburg over a year ago. "Forgive me Herr Mozart, my old friend, it's been too long." His fingers burst into a flurry of activity as he began to play the whirlwind that was the Rondo Alla Turca, Turkish March.

Gavin had made a dent in his second vodka as Anya Sokolov entered the room, turning heads as she went. She was a beautiful young woman, and her father was working to find her a husband; if the rumors were true, she was auditioning various men for the role as well. Anya had a tendency to get what she wanted. And at the moment... it seemed like she was interested in a man with striking eyes standing in the corner smoking a cigarette. After a brief conversation, he saw the man break off and head for the piano.

A scar like that, a couple bodyguards, and the attention of Anya Sokolov? That would certainly make him someone to keep an eye on. The man sat down at the piano and, as his fingers began dancing over the keys, Gavin noticed a man with a purple flower standing at the bar. Grimacing, Gavin downed the rest of his vodka and moved to get a refill. As the bartender turned away, Gavin made a comment about Russian winters to confirm his identity and mentioned the train departing for St. Petersburg in the morning. The man with the purple flower nodded as they both received their drinks.

Vladimir saw his father engaged in conversation with the American contact and grimaced. He hastened over towards the rear of the hall where Alexander sat playing the piano, lost in the moment and Anya Sokolov watched on in unbridled glee. As he neared he was stopped by a firm palm on his chest. Alexander's bodyguard had taken note of the man moving towards their subject with reckless abandon and their training had taken over. 

Vladimir chaffed at the brute's grip but knew better than to create a scene. Through clenched teeth, he hissed. "Vorona! Vremya prishlo."  Alexander heard him and abruptly stopped, much to Anya's chagrin. With a sigh, he clenched his ivory cane and stood up. "Miss Sokolov, forgive me for halting but my throat is parched. Perhaps you would be kind enough to escort me to the bar so I could relieve my thirst and return to performing for you again."

The woman knew something was amiss but intrigued as she was by the mystique surrounding Alexander that she couldn't possibly hope to resist.  "But of course Mr Smith. Perhaps we could take this opportunity to get better acquainted." She responded as she once again held his left arm as he walked cane in hand, flanked by his guards and trailed by Vladimir towards the bar.

Upon arrival, he set himself down with Anya in front of him in such a way that he could glance over her shoulder at Vladimir's father and the American he was subtly speaking to. Sipping a cup of black coffee he pretended to listen to the dull ramblings of the Sokolov heiress as he finally caught sight of the American's face.

A flash of recognition passed through his eyes and a dry chuckle escaped his throat as he remembered just where he had seen the man before. It had been a social gathering, much like this, in a Parisian Castle right before the cities went to war. Though he had not spoken to the man personally, it was hard for the main performer at the event to miss the guest of honour, the groom himself, Gavin Byrne.

The man seemed to notice his presence and their eyes met momentarily wondering if his new appearance did anything to betray his former identity to the American. Raising his cup of coffee he nodded in acknowledgement and waited. 

Gavin leaned against the bar and glanced over at the man who had quickly moved through the room. His haste and lack of subtlety had drawn his attention, and he quickly finished his conversation with the man with the purple flower, confirming the details of the exit.

The music stopped suddenly; several people continued talking aimlessly, but others gave a smattering of confused applause. Gavin watched the scarred piano player have a short conversation with the man who'd hurried back to him. The piano player moved toward the bar, accompanied by the socialite and a pair of guards as well. Gavin made eye contact with the man with the purple flower before tilting his head toward the door. The older man quickly downed a sizable portion of his drink and started to head for the exit.  

Wanting to attract the attention of the piano player and the man who'd talked to him, Gavin looked over and locked eyes with the scarred man for a moment. After he was acknowledged, Gavin sauntered over to the man's table and sat down across from him, leaning back in his chair. The man looked vaguely familiar, and Gavin stared at him for a moment. He couldn't place him. He sipped from his glass carefully, scrutinizing the man but speaking normally, like one man asking another for the time at a bus stop. Gavin doubted he'd have to deal with any physical attacks in this setting, but he was ready nevertheless. Still, he flashed a small grin as he spoke.

"English? Or Russian?"

Hopefully it's the former, because I don't speak a single fucking word of the latter beyond the very basics. Maybe Tara should have come with me after all. 

Alexander watched Gavin move over to him once Vladimir's father departed. He nodded for Vladimir to follow as he waited for the American to approach him. His bodyguards grew tense and caressed their holsters as Gavin sat down across from him. He flashed a grin and Alexander if so many of the local brutes in Philadelphia had witnessed the same grin before they were reunited with their maker. The man had made quite a reputation for himself in the seedy underbelly of the criminal world and Alexander would have been foolish to underestimate him.

"Ostav' nas, no ostan'sya na strazhe."  Alexander instructed sharply and his men retreated a few paces but remained watchful. Pausing to take a small sip of his coffee, he turned to look at Gavin and continued.  "Both sir, but for the sake of your sanity I shall refrain from the latter." Noticing the agitated woman by his side, he tore his gaze away from Gavin's reluctantly and added. 

"Ah, but where are my manners. May I present the resplendent Miss Anna Sokolov, our gracious host for this most wonderful of evenings."  He gestured towards the heiress beside him and forced a smile before turning towards Gavin as he said. "Miss Sokolov, may I introduce the famous American.... philanthropist from Philadelphia. Mr Gavin Byrne." 

With a wink towards Gavin he leaned back in his chair and sipped his coffee as he watched the conversation unfold, curious to see how Gavin would react and if he would be able to identify the former troubadour.

Gavin was an expert poker player- a fact that he was grateful for when the scarred man casually dropped his name. He bowed his head toward Miss Sokolov and smiled politely before turning his attention back to the man.

"Yes, more philanthropist than philanderer, these days. Glad to see my reputation precedes me. I'm afraid I can't extend you the same courtesy, however; have we met?"

It seemed the man really did not recognize him. Alexander was unsure of how to feel about that. As he carefully considered how to respond but before he could the young heiress beside him chimed in. "My apologies, Mr Byrne it seems I am proving quite the inadequate hostess. This is Mr John Smith and advisor of one of my father's friends Mikhael Petrovna. A mischievous one he is our Vorona, if you believe the tales that is."  Hesitating briefly as one of the other guests sought her attention, she continued with a sigh. "A hostess's work is never finished. Gentlemen, it's been a pleasure, I hope to get better acquainted with both of you in the future."

Alexander bid his farewell to the woman and slowly turned to face Gavin. The two of them sat in silence as the unanswered question still hung in the air. "No, we haven't. But we were in the same room once as we are now. Even if the room was much nicer and the times less cruel." He responded, maintaining a stoic expression.

"Judging by your companions departure, should I assume your extraction of the Vasieliev's is on schedule? If that is the case, my employer would be pleased to hear of your professionalism." He said indifferently as he scratched the scar around his right eye.

"John Smith, huh?"

A fake name, if he'd ever heard one. I mean, he supposed there were a few real "John Smiths" out there. But he'd never actually met one. 

Same room... once... at a party? Shit, Gavin was lucky if he remembered most people he'd met within a week.

Still, there was something about the man's voice. The more the scarred man talked, the more Gavin felt the back of his brain itch, like it was trying to piece together an epiphany. Gavin nodded politely as the young woman left, keeping the poker face up as the other man questioned him.

"I almost never run on schedule, Mr. Smith, so without knowing the details of what you're referring to, I can only assume you have some errant information. Who's your employer, if I may ask?"

He supposed it was possible that Tara would have arranged for more local support... but she usually didn't drop the ball with this sort of info.

A dry chuckle escaped Alexander's throat. Gently caressing the ebony cane he responded. "Vladimir Vasieliev, the young son, by all accounts the brains behind the family's numerous businesses. Let's just say the boy was a little concerned of his father's newfound paranoia and worried for the family's finances. He needn't have bothered with verifying your authenticity. The simplest of research would have informed him of your unyielding rate of delivery. Ah, but the boy never did learn much discretion. It was he that caught your eye I presume?"

Finishing off his coffee, Alexander put down the cup, gripped his cane and got to his feet. "As fun as this was, I must excuse myself for now. Still, the next time we meet, I suppose I might be able to entertain a longer conversation."

Offering a polite nod he began to walk away. But after he had taken a few steps, he paused. Looking over his shoulder with his scarred eye, he smiled slyly and continued. "If you could do me a favour Mr Byrne, remind your sister that the Studebaker was meant for her to adventure outside the confines of her office and not to collect dust in a garage."

Gavin smiled as the other man chuckled, but the smile didn't quite reach his eyes. Was the son just cautious? Or would he some sort of loyalist who'd try to turn his father in?

The man made it a few steps away and, with his parting comment and the mention of Tara the itch at the back of Gavin's mind finally bloomed as he realized who he was talking to. He stared for a moment, then called after the man, emphasizing to get his attention and hopefully draw him back.

"Surely there's no need to rush out. The Knight is young, isn't? Perhaps people don't stay out quite as late as they do in Paris, but surely we can share a drink, no?"

Understanding continued to dawn in Gavin's eyes as his mind kept catching up to him. He had no intention of letting the troubadour leave the room; the man had much to answer for. Gavin stood up, and there was a harshness in his voice that had replaced his curiosity.

"I insist."

As the man stood up and insisted harshly that Alexander stay. Once it would have frightened him, but after all this time and after all that had happened, Alexander was no longer the same man. He saw his bodyguards rushing in between the two men while pulling out their silenced pistols. Alexander himself slightly unsheathed the Damascus steel sword concealed in his cane at the abrupt actions of the man. Alexander would have been afraid yes, but the man the Russians called Vorona toyed with idea of permanently silencing Gavin where he stood.

Yet, his sense of logic prevailed. Gavin's demise here would bring unnecessary complications to his imminent return. Mikhael Petrovna might be upset about his deteriorated diplomatic relations and Tara, she would never forgive him. All for what? A momentary threat from an overzealous ghost of the past. 

"Nyet! Mne nuzhno snachala pogovorit' s nim."  He hissed and his men stopped where they stood but they did not tuck their guns. 

With a sigh, he sat down once again. Resting the cane beside him, he gestured for Gavin to retake his seat before he said. "Growing old is never easy is it Mr Byrne? Parts of ourselves are never the same. All this excitement you sprung forth will trouble my knee tonight. It isn't what it used to be. But then, neither I guess is your memory."

Gavin looked steadily at Alexander with narrow eyes; his arms were crossed so that he looked casual, but his right hand was close enough to his shoulder holster where he could make things interesting. He sank down to his chair again, but he seemed more like a tensed cat than his previous state. He stared the man down over the table; they'd drawn a little attention, but not much. Gavin leaned forward and spoke as casually as he could, although the words were still laced with anger.

"I'm doing just fine growing old, thanks. It's dying that tends to be more permanent."

He was quiet for a long time, thinking of his own memories and the bare bones updates Tara had passed along from New York. 

"Look, Madeline hasn't talked to me in years, but I've never stopped caring for her and hoping for the best for her. Our friendship may be one sided nowadays, but that doesn't mean I'm not prepared to ship you back to her in a crate. What the fuck, Alex? Why run like this?"

Alexander scratched his scarred eye as he gazed at the man in front of him. Gavin seemed angry though what reason compelled him to be furious with a man he had never conversed before, he couldn't tell. He glanced at the shoulder holster dangling loosely near the man's hand and thumbed his cane idly. A gun was a bad option in such close quarters and Alexander's fencing lessons had offered him the cautious confidence in his ability to ruthlessly parry and strike down any opponent. Not for nothing did the Russians call him Vorona, he who preceded death.

"I'll admit, the rumours of my demise have been grossly exaggerated. But if you needed someone to blame for that, you didn't have to come so far from Philadelphia to do so."  He replied and watched as the man sat quietly for an extended duration of time before speaking.

When he did, Alexander's stoic face twitched briefly before returning to its usual poise. "You know I heard tales of your marvellous misadventures Mr Byrne. Such thrilling stories they were. The appreciation of the women of Philadelphia for you rivalled my own. For a long time, I wondered just what kind of man could possibly create such a legend. Inspire fear and desire alike. But now that I've met you, taken a measure of your character, I am disappointed. Perhaps you once were the myth they all perpetuated, but no more. All I see is a domesticated old man still trying to relive the glory of his youth with the odd job and a deluded plot."

He shook his head in disapproval and leaned back in his chair. "Perhaps you've lost touch with the country you came from or perhaps you've lost your marbles. Either way, I tire of this charade. Madeline died with her bodyguard Nikolai in the war. You think the threat of prison alone would have kept me away for so long otherwise? I heard the news a few weeks after your wedding, on my way to the Venetian opera. So lemme ask Gavin, why the fuck would you bring up such painful memories in a demented manner? You, who ran away from her while she lived dare chastise me?"

Gavin's mouth was a couple steps ahead of his brain. His anger was mixing with confusion, and he processed what Alexander had said as he spoke. 

"Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you, Al, but you're about as right about me as you are about the rest of what you said- by which I mean not very fucking much at all."

He forced himself to pause and take a deep breath; ten years ago, he'd have already thrown himself across the table. But if Alex thought Madeline was dead? Well, that would explain his reaction- both tonight and why he'd disappeared in the first place. 

"Madeline's alive. I don't know where you heard otherwise. Tara had a meeting with her a month ago; Madeline's running her own crew now. Recognizing you here, I'd assumed you'd just cut and run from her... but if you heard she was dead, you got bad info. I know she was a target, and there were reports about someone taking shots at her... but she's alive."

Alexander sat silently in quiet contemplation. The man spoke with such assured vigour that for the briefest of moments, he made Alexander question his own convictions. The telegram, upon which his European life was built, the reason for his public 'death', his travels, his legacy, his rise and fall from greatness in exile, his unceasing pain, his scarred existence, his guilt and his shame, couldn't possibly be built on a lie.

But the seed of doubt was now planted in his brain, he knew he had to find out the truth. "Mr Byrne," he whispered.  "My return to America is overdue and you with your cruel words have given me cause to expedite the process. Once suitable arrangements have been made, I will return."

Meeting Gavin's gaze with eyes cold and unforgiving as the Siberian wastes, Alexander scowled. "But know this Sir, if I find out you have stretched the truth today for your own ends, my vengeance will be swift and ruthless. I will care little for my past with Miss Byrne or my respect for Miss Luciano. Pray Sir, pray that you are not misinformed. Pray that you never have to find why the Russians call me The Crow."

With all the poise he could muster, he stood up and gripped his ivory cane before turning away and heading towards the exit, flanked by his guards.

Gavin disagreed slightly with the characterization of "cruel words". He also had a few choice words about what would happen to a crow if one picked a fight with a wolf. But he suspected the size of the bomb he'd just dropped on Alexander, so Gavin held his tongue. He wanted to call Tara, have her reach out to Madeline... but this wasn't his news to break. He'd handle his own business and get through the extraction of these families; he'd leave Alexander and Madeline to handle their own affairs.