Addictive Alessandro

Alessandro Savage walked through the same maze of streets in the French Quarter that he had walked for the last few months. He carried two things: his guitar case and a bottle of Jack. Months of self-induced punishment, wandering lost, looking for redemption. At least, that was the lie he told himself. It should have been him who died that fateful night the music had died in the Las Vegas massacre. He could never have absolution, because he had committed a crime unforgivable to those he lov...