By the time Julius signed the suicide note the ash at the end of his cigarette had grown so long it collapsed landing on the wet ink. He cursed and tried to blow it off without smudging the letter. There wasn't time to rewrite it. He dashed around the hotel room placing a few personal items in his bag and removing others. These items he strategically placed in visible locations–a sweater over the back of a chair, his toothbrush and a comb in the bathroom–until the page, sufficiently dry, could be stuffed into the envelope he'd already addressed to his wife. Then Julius snorted a line of cocaine off the glass coffee table. Breathing deeply, he stood, straightened his tie, ran his hand across his smooth cheek while admiring his handsomely youthful face in the mirror and made his escape from civilized society, never to be seen again. 

Vienna, Austria: one week later

Paul wrestled the letter his wailing daughter clung to, as if for dear life while convulsing dramatically on the floor. Just as he suspected, it was from Julius. He hadn't written in weeks, they didn't even know where he'd gone. He walked into his study, leaving Mia screaming in the foyer. Slowly, Paul poured himself a scotch, smoothed out the crumpled paper, and sat back in his leather armchair to read what his son-in-law had to say. In the short time he'd known Julius, he'd displayed a knack for making poor choices and consistently avoided his responsibilities.  A pretty party boy, Julius managed to drain his considerable inheritance at an alarming rate. At least he'd had the decency to divorce his wife and marry Paul's daughter when he got her pregnant. Enough decency. Paul harrumphed. With considerable persuasion. 

Paul read the letter and drained his glass. When he looked up, Mia stood in the doorway, tear-streaked, clutching the doorway and prepared to swoon if necessary.

"Suicide," said Paul, setting down the glass with a loud thump. He doubted the sincerity of Julius' words but elected to keep this thought to himself. "It's for the best. The bon vivant couldn't control himself."

Mia helped herself to a drink, lit a cigarette, and sat down across from her father. "I suppose one day I shall love again?" Her words trailed off, and Paul didn't reply. She gave her father a wounded look, "Won't I Papa?"

Paul snorted. "Yes, dear, but we'll need a death certificate if you ever wish to marry again, and that might not be easy to acquire." He stood, poured himself another drink and began pulling papers out of the drawers of his desk. "Pack your things, Mia. We'll leave for Constantinople in the morning."