It was good to get back to Milan after his interviews in London. The Italian city had slowly become familiar, the Englishman had learned the language and could almost pass for a native, almost but not quite. He was infamous enough that many were aware of his association as the muse of the Maestro. As such he appeared in the gossip magazines and was seen at shows, even if he no longer participated officially. He arrived at the apartment to be intercepted by Heloise, the assistant of the assistant, who had packed his bags and had booked him into a hotel.

All things end, Alex listened as he was told Gigi was entranced by the Pierre, a nineteen year old intern and they were in Paris together. The staff had finally manoeuvred him out of the way. Alex loaded up his car. He would not stay, no point. He did not want to drive back to London. He had put off visiting Venice since Sergei's death. The city a home from home for Yassen and the European base of operations for SCORPIA. He would rent an apartment, sightsee and finish his novel. It was doubtful he would cross paths with his past associates, he could not bring himself to describe Yassen as a friend, nor as a lover. Associate was cold enough to be accurate. In his heart of hearts, after five years with no contact, he was almost convinced Yassen was dead. He would be well over forty, nearer fifty now.

Without booking accommodation, he drove north-east out of Milan. Maybe he would find love in the City of Casanova and Vivaldi. More likely just fall in love with the place, as he had already heard first hand of its charm, culture and history. He was beginning to feel like the love was for others, not for him. He could always start hustling again. Plenty of pockets to pick in St Marks Square and the Rialto Bridge. His hands tensed on the wheel as he left the city. Twenty-six and he was homeless once again. He travelled precisely at the speed limit, weaving in and out of the slower vehicles. The journey gave him time to process the highs and lows of his life, this was not a real low, just a push to let go of Gigi's apron strings. He had been settled, content, but not the fulfilment and sense of home that Jerry had talked about. The speeches from the wedding two weeks ago had been committed to memory, with Tom describing the ridiculousness, neglect and horror of their parents marriage, then the opposite of the love of a devoted father from Edward. If he ever married, who would speak from him? Gigi as pseudo-parent to talk of him nearly destroying himself. Tom about a one time school friend, who he could not relate to. The absurdity of Yassen telling all attending how well he screamed and pleaded; he had no idea of the adult, only the teenager he had toyed with. Alex laughed out loud at his imaginings. One thing was certain, even if he stumbled over true love, there would be no stately home based wedding, no multitude of friends and family, no designer gowns or morning suits, cakes or bouquets.

...

A courier delivered a letter for The Maestro originating from the Hotel Danieli in Venice. Four pages of neat handwritten script on finest hand made parchment. All in perfect Italian, describing Venice in awe of the canals, the alleys, the ghetto, the squares, churches and the food. His darling Alex spoke of a long yearning to visit, now evolving to a love of the places never visited by the majority of tourists, who never saw the real city, only swarmed around the st Marks and Rialto. At the end were details of where the scholar had rented an apartment with an open invitation for Gigi and his Pierre. The writer's plan was to spend Autumn finishing his novel and then he had been invited to spend Christmas in London with Edward, Liz, Sabina and Jerry. There was a long passage thanking Gigi for his time and his compassion, for allowing Alex to become grounded and to thrive. The epitaph striated, 'you are more than a friend, more than family, more than any therapist to this orphan, I have basked in your love. Eternally yours, call on me for anything anytime. I now understand the old English saying I am your servant. May Pierre find such peace, tranquility and security with you."

The older man sat back for a moment, he had expected acrimony, bitterness even a vicious backlash over moving on with a new muse, when Alex had found his footing and purpose in life. The designer had expected it sooner, but he had also spent three years studying, learning and appreciating the culture and the beauty of the Near East. They had both grown and healed, the journey had not been singular nor one way. He then penned his own letter back. The symbiosis of a creative partnership had now shifted into friends through letters, true confidants. He would not withhold anything between them, truth could be a weapon, but it was one reality that both he and Alex had never shied from. He wrote of his work, his current muse abc the fact designing for one wedding had snowballed into a hundreds of requests willing to pay five figure sums for his attention to detail. Sabine's dress had been inspired by her eighteenth century venue and the her original purchase of a simple pale grey wrap dress. All his wedding dresses would be holistic, to fit venue, bride and his own sense of now. He would be busier than ever and had taken on two trainees. This might just be a fad, but weddings were big business everywhere and his blog had gained thousands more followers because of that one gift.

...

Alex had secured a short term leased apartment within a week of his arrival, his routine was simple. Two hours exercise was followed by a frugal breakfast before writing. He ate lunch out, then returned to work on his book or on correspondence in the late afternoon, had a simple supper and went walking in the evening before bed. He had several favourite haunts and did not feel lonely, even though he was alone.

The restaurant was tiny, the interior decorated in dark wood with only ten tables for service, but it had become Alex's favourite. Initially the place had been recommended by the concierge at his hotel, with the added guidance of asking for the chef's suggestions. Normally it was bookings only, as a temporary resident he had been given the owner his number, as he could fill in if a table became available last minute, one diner was better than no diners when margins are tight. He was fashionably late, as he entered and Cosimo seemed nervous, "I hope it's not an imposition, to be sharing a table. A last minute drop in by our landlord, he is old and very private. I doubt he will engage you in conversation. Please be polite."

The old man was sat next to the kitchen, he was a petite figure with long fine fingers, wearing a hand made suit. Alex went to the table and softly introduced himself in Italian, "good afternoon, I hope I am not disturbing you, I will be joining your table."

The old man chuckled, his finger tapped his water glass three times and the other diners all left. When alone, he commanded in accented English, the dark eyes and pale wrinkled face took in every detail of his special guest, "please sit, Dr Rider, we have much to catch up on. We have never met, but I feel I know you very well through our mutual friend, Cossack. I wish to congratulate you on your fine portfolio of work for us. Such meticulous revenge against your dear Godfather after he outlived his usefulness. Your undercover work with Rushkov and that double feign when you planted that car bomb. We had tried for years to take out Sarov, you got full intel on his homes for us; and your last work gathering intelligence in Iraq, right under the noses of MI6 and the CIA, was masterful. All while most dismiss you through your legend of an abused former kidnap victim."

Alex was tense, as he now guessed this man was the infamous Dr. Three.

The restaurant owner then poured both diners a glass of Crystal Champagne. "I am the financial backer here. I don't eat here as often as I would like, but the chef is a master in flavour combinations and simple, yet elegant dishes. You should not be apprehensive, your work has been exceptional. I would offer you employment at my school, but your skills are far too specialised for such mundane work. To think my former directors wanted to make an example of you. Ms Rothman, Mr Kursk and Major Wu were most short sighted. Their position made Cossack most unhappy. Your relationship with our contact in Iraq was fraught. His demise was justified, one must always handle our deep cover specialist with utmost care. As Cossack is busy handling our Chinese, South-east Asian and Australian markets, we need to find another with the finesse to continue our arrangement."

Alex sipped the chilled beverage. Happy that the appetiser arrived. Eating was easier than small talk with a world renown psychologist. As the last bite was savoured, the young operative pondered with distaste of chord of breaking in another handler. He had thought SCORPIA had understood his displeasure at the ineptitude of Cossack's replacement after he was dismembered and couriered the desiccated flesh to their headquarters in Damascus. "Nile was sloppy. I was under constant surveillance and he acted like I should be dancing to his tune. Gigi noticed him. My friend is not an idiot even if the spooks following us were."

"I think Mr Walker will be more discrete. He has been Cossack's second in command for three years."

Alex sighed, "I am on a sabbatical, at least two years. I need a break after taking down your rivals arms supply network, using my doctoral research as cover. You could have easily done the work in Iraq in house, if Nile had any talent he would have. I think you sent me in just to take him down out of sheer frustration at his boorish incompetence. No more Raven work either. Get someone younger to fuck the odious foul creeps. Those mafia accountants were the worst. I could do without being spit roasted ever again."