*(?) = Unconfirmed/Unknown

Full name: Anthonei
Pronunciation: AN-thun-ee
Nicknames:The Golden Boy, The Smoking Sword, The Silenced Assassin, Pinstripes
(...Tony?)
Prefers: (?) (Probably not 'Tony'...)
Gender: Male
Age: est. at 34ish (?)
Species: Human
Hair color: Black
Eyes: pale blue-green
Height: 6'1
Occupation: Assassin/hit-man, once solely employed by Ukraine Mafia, now freelance
Ethnicity: Romanian (?)
Relatives: (?)
Relationship Status: (?)
Roleplay: open/CLOSED for now
Notes:
-Assumed mute by employer
-Grew up in a Romanian convent. Also assumed orphan.
-Only takes trophies from female victims
-Suspected of having lived briefly with a circus during childhood

"Rosalini Murder sus. #4: Whereabouts unknown. Insuf. lead--case open"

Anthonei's past is a curious one, veiled in a fine mist of mystery and nicotine--much like himself. For instance, his name is not, actually, Anthonei--or yet again it might be--but probably not--no one really knows. He was found as a boy, ten or twelve years of age, as he lurked about the outskirts of a Romanian convent. He was sullen, silent, and completely alone.

...He also had the most unnaturally pale eyes that any Order member had ever encountered.

Well, the Sisters of the Order had to call him something...and as long as he wasn't telling them his name, or anything else about his past for that matter, the name Anthonei--taken from St. Anthonei, the Patron Saint of Mutes--seemed appropriate. Though it was later determined that he did not, in fact, have any recognizable vocal defect: some say his terrified scream still haunts the empty sanctuary during those rare, devastating countryside storms.

There was much haphazard speculation between the convent members pertaining to the young man's origin before their intervening sanctuary. Though there was barely any satisfaction or resolve in the matter, it was generally agreed that the boy probably grew up around a circus. His sure-footed feats and high-away heists which took him across the highs and lows of the convent's bell-tower gave every indication of professional training...Or at least, diligent imitation.

Almost 13 years after arriving at the Convent, Anthonei departed without warning--but he managed one last goodbye, in the form of a sealed envelope left before the high Crucible in the main sanctuary, addressed to one Sister Katrina:

Forgive me.

Unfortunately, whatever Anthonei meant by this supplication was never determined; for Sister Katrina, a sweet, tender young girl only freshly inducted into the Order, died of pneumonia the same morning that Anthonei disappeared. It was only after her burial that the fellow Order members discovered the letter, which further spurred their mystification with the whole matter--no one was even aware that Sister Katrina and Anthonei had been introduced.
The letter was respectfully resealed and placed over Katrina's fresh grave without further, memorable incident--save one; none of the attending Order members could account for the single white carnation, delicately laced with a ribbon of the same color, which had appeared on the late Sister's grave during the night.

Although Anthonei's disappearance was abrupt, he keeps in minimal touch, and still plays his part in acknowledging all that the Convent did for him. Once or twice a year, the establishment receives a considerable donation from a source known only as 'The Golden Boy'. Strangely, this donation is received with no note of regards other than a single, white carnation.

For their sake, pray that the Convent doesn't learn how Anthonei is able to afford such generosity...What with the whole 'Thou Shalt Not Murder'...

The next stage of Anthonei's life is even hazier and more uncertain than before--Though through no fault or lack of a record. But quite frankly, it's hard to get the Romonov family to confirm or deny even their own name these days...

The next time Anthonei was encountered, the report generated from southern Barcelona; he had apparently been lurking around some exclusive dinner party hosted by...err, such 'corporate' names that aren't cleared for publication.

From all accounts, he hadn't changed much since his time at the Convent: slight build, slick black hair, defined eyebrows, and, as ever, abnormally pale eyes. The only substantial difference was that he seemed to have acquired the habit of excessive smoking; for he was only ever seen with a lit cigarette, and always partially engulfed by a billowing screen of smoke.

No one is quite sure how the alarm was first raised, but at some point during the evening, the body of the Prime Minister's mistress--ah, secretary was discovered, carelessly stuffed behind a bookshelf in the smoking room. Within a matter of minutes, the whole property was quarantined by the local authorities: routes of mass and minor exodus alike were ordered into lock down while investigators examined the scene. However, their efforts were in vain: the murderer was never apprehended, despite initiate precautions, and the authorities were forced to conclude their reaction had come too late--or that the culprit had somehow managed to scale a twenty-foot tall stone enclosure without being noticed.

There were only two clues ever realized on the case. The first was the murder method: the attending coroner was instantly able to perceive the single blade wound to the heart as the cause of death--though whether it belonged to a large dagger, or a small sword, remained a mystery. The second clue, and perhaps the more ominous, was Miss Esprancita's hair--or rather, lack thereof: for one half of her bangs had been torn away from the scalp without any apparent reason.

The missing clump of her shiny raven hair was never recovered; some say she lost it during the horrific struggle for her life--but investigators believed otherwise...There was rumor of a trademark floating across the lips of the anxious--or even worse, a trophy. While this meant that the killer was, ultimately, traceable, such a sinister signature nevertheless implied a series of occurrences;

There would be more.

No one can remember if Anthonei was ever questioned by police--or even if he was present when the body was discovered. However, everyone attending could collectively confirm one fact:

He had never said a single word.

That night initiated a murder spree that traced a grim path across northern and central Europe over the next several years. However, the killings were so sparingly interspersed that the suspicion of a serial killer never fully took root in the agenda's of the various governments. Besides, with such influential (or perhaps, evasive) names always involved, most law agencies were... indisposed to assume any more involvement than what was absolutely necessary; consequently, most of the murders even now remain unsolved. And though many of the bickering or blood feuding families of Europe had their own theories, no one felt the inclination to say it to the Romonov's faces--or if they did, their time to say anything else was short lived.

For ten years, every European crime family and their prominent affiliates lived in terror of the Romonovs and their "Golden Boy". The entire Ukrainian mob suddenly had all the western world at their fingertips--and as Anthonei was exceptional at avoiding cameras and detection, he was impossible to track...let alone stop.

Until, that is, the Romonovs grew too greedy.

A rich, young New Yorker, Gatsby by name and a generous associate of the Romonovs, approached the Family with an offer they couldn't refuse: a flattering price for Anthonei's unique services in uptown New York.
And so, with a precariously extended contract, Anthonei was sent to America to help a 'friend of the family' with a tiny...inconvenience.

What exactly transpired in New York that week is still a puzzle. The Romonovs blame Gatsby--Gatsby blames Anthonei--and Anthonei has never said who he blames.
Everyone seems to know one thing, though:

Anthonei--"The Golden Boy"--failed.

Gatsby's subject of interest (And, consequently, Anthonei's) had been an upcoming musician/model, miss Christa Päffgen; a young German beauty who always associated with all the right people.

No one quite knows why Anthonei was unable to...incapacitate miss Päffgen--some believe she had outsmarted him at the last second--others believe it was his choice to let her live. Miss Päffgen wasn't much help on the matter, either: the night Anthonei ran, she was found crumpled on the floor of a high-end dance club, in the back of a private room. Wasted on a reckless mixture of vodka and heroine, she kept repeated the same phrase over and over:

"Don't I know him?"

It was later realized that someone had cut off a small portion of her long, blond hair earlier that night.

Anthonei never returned to the Ukraine--probably not wanting to deal with the shame he had caused the Romonovs--and with Gatsby's considerable influence still prominent on the East Coast, Anthonei was forced to flee across the country.

Though his whereabouts are still technically unknown, the most frequent reports come from southern California--the Hollywood area, to be exact. Sightings in other states aren't completely unheard of, however; one claim hailed from a film festival taking place in Austin, Texas...Right before an independent film director, previously suspected of committing...ah, horrible things on a female coworker, was found dead. His body had been locked away in a utility closet. He died of a knife wound to the chest--though, as his hair was still intact, Anthonei was never immediately associated with the murder.

No one is quite sure who he works for now, or even what work he does--most assume that whatever it is, it can't be good. He has been seen a few times since then: apparently he still wears his pinstripes, smokes a cheap cigarette, and carries an odd shaped cane that he has no discernible need for--though, as ever, it's still his cold, deadly stare that remains burned into the memories of those unfortunate enough to cross his path.

~fin