"Bang! You're dead!" Tommy crouched on the floor, clutching a toy soldier in his hand. Its tiny rifle pointed at the little figure before him, nearly dwarfed by Richard's fingers around it.

"Aaah," Richard gurgled, letting the figure fly back to land on the carpet. Tommy took the game too seriously to giggle at his friend's silly sound effects; he immediately set to the task of shooting more bad guys, without skipping a beat. Richard reached out to ruffle his hair affectionately.

A sudden scream grabbed his attention. It was a brief sound, cut short before it had a chance to taper off. Something about it proved disconcerting to the caretaker, a sense of foreboding rising in his chest.

"Tommy," he said, pulling himself to his feet. "Stay here. I'll be. Right back."

He closed Tommy's door as gingerly as possible, his gaze fixed in the direction of the odd sound. The girls' floor was directly above them, and today had brought plenty of business. Richard had no fundamental problem with the line of work performed in the Commodore's old house; he had long since abandoned any sense of moral upheaval at the thought of a woman selling her body, knowing full well the lengths one would go to just to survive. Before Gillian had offered him the caretaker position at her beloved club, he had performed far more reprehensible tasks to earn his keep.

The johns were a different story. Richard couldn't help but feel a bitter animosity for the men who sought out the company of these women, even knowing that he himself had once been such a patron. Mostly, it boiled down to a lack of trust: though Gillian continuously insisted that the Artemis Club set a standard of decency and decorum, he was well aware that an unspoken part of his job was to intervene if a customer dared to ignore the rules. It had been six months since the Artemis Club had opened its doors to lascivious guests, and his more specialized services had yet to be needed. This, however, did little to lower his guard.

As he climbed the stairs to the girls' floor, he remembered his first job for Jimmy. It hadn't even been three years since that fateful day, yet it seemed like a different life entirely. Richard wasn't sure why he was telling Jimmy about his arsenal while the two of them lingered by the Four Deuces bar, but Jimmy had seemed like a kindred spirit and it had felt good to talk about that side of him that he had been forced to keep so well hidden upon returning to the states. He had watched Jimmy's face, watched the wheels turning in his new friend's head as Richard detailed each beloved weapon in his possession. The Colt 1903 was great for killing people, but the M1917 Enfield sniper rifle was better.

Richard had rejoined Jimmy at the bar, knees weakened from his incredible experience with the beautiful Odette. He had been surprised when Odette said that Jimmy had taken care of the payment, and Richard wasn't sure how to repay him. He found out soon enough: Jimmy needed a job done that he thought Richard would be well suited for. There had been a girl at the Four Deuces—Pearl, and the wistful look that crossed Jimmy's face when he spoke her name made her role in his life abundantly clear. A john had slashed her face from brow to chin, destroying her beauty and her dreams in a single violent act. Jimmy had nursed her, feeding her orange juice laced with laudanum to keep the pain at bay, but he couldn't fight her demons, or the guilt he felt when he remembered that it was his gun that she had used to bring her pain to an end.

He needed Richard for revenge. A police informant had spotted Pearl's attacker in a restaurant on the North Side, and Jimmy had formulated a plan based on the abilities of his new friend. Richard had been touched by Pearl's story and accepted the job without thinking twice. Even now, after years of kills, he could still feel the exhilarating calm that washed through his veins—for the first time since France—as he'd pulled the trigger, aware even from 700 yards that it had performed its duty well. It was a thrill he hadn't felt since the war, an intoxicating sense of control. Though he had never tried opium, he wondered if the high could be anywhere near what he felt when he killed. It was like playing God.

His feet reached the third floor, and he immediately knew his instincts had been correct. A number of girls leaned into the hall, faces turned towards a door near the end. Edina's room. Richard liked Edina; she had a kind face and always greeted him with a smile. As he approached, he strained his ears to catch a hint as to the happenings inside, muffled by the thick wooden door and the whispers of curiosity all around him. He brushed his hand against the Smith & Wesson triple lock tucked into his waistband, reassuring his sense of control.

He paused at her door and listened carefully. He could just make out a faint whimpering inside, and the low hum of a man's rhythmic grunts. He tried the handle, finding it locked. Perhaps, he thought to himself, hand still poised on the knob, there was nothing out of the ordinary happening behind this door, but that did not explain the knot in his stomach and the distinct feeling that his services were desperately needed.

Without another thought, he kicked in the door.

A heavyset man was draped over Edina's thin body, his bare ass in full view and a sausage-like arm locked around her neck. At the crash of the door, he whipped his head around. "What the—" he cried. "Who the fuck are you?"

But Richard's arm was already stiffened before him, his gun poised at the man's head. "Get. Off of her," he growled menacingly.

The man dropped Edina, who fell limply onto the bed, clutching her throat and grasping for air. His hands flew up in a display of innocence, but Richard did not move.

"Hey," the man started, "I'm paying for this bitch. You best let me get my money's worth!"

"You should treat. Our ladies. With respect." Gillian's words sounded strange in the rough timbre of his voice, but he believed them all the same.

"I don't know if you've notice, but this is a fucking whorehouse."

"Edina," Richard said, addressing the girl without turning his gaze away from her assailant. "Tell me. What happened."

"He wanted to put it in my…in my…"

Richard's nostril flared. He knew exactly where this asshole had wanted to put it.

"I told him not to! But he did it anyway." She had tucked her legs to her chest, wrapping her arms protectively around herself.

"Don't act like you didn't like it, sweetheart."

"Get out."

"What?"

"I said. Get out." His arm remained still and true, gun fixed on its target.

The man was dumbfounded, but finally began to dress. He pulled a few bills from his pocket and held them up for Richard to see. "Here, sweet cheeks. For your trouble." He threw the sweaty bills at Edina's face.

In a flash, Richard's hand was around the man's neck, pushing him back against the wall. Edina screamed; the man's eyes widened in terror.

"Please!" he gasped. "Let…go…" He tugged madly at Richard's fingers, but the caretaker's grip was too strong. He held the man high against the wall, so that they were eye to eye and the man's feet dangled beneath him. His face began to lose its color, but still Richard held fast, a terrible sneer pulling at his lip.

"I told you. To treat her. With respect."

"Please…"

"Get out. Or I'll kill you."

The man was clearly losing consciousness. With a last grunt of anger, he dropped the man to the floor; his legs gave way as he landed in a panting heap.

Again, Richard pointed the gun at the man's head. Nodding wildly, the man gathered his remaining belongings and crawled to the door. Richard didn't need to escort him out; he knew the man wouldn't dream of returning.

He looked at Edina, her hands over her mouth in horror. "Are you. All right?" he asked quietly.

She nodded, eyes transfixed on his masked face.

He nodded once, his throat clicking as it often did, and left the room.

That night, after Tommy had been put to bed, Richard sat alone in his room, flipping through his scrapbook. It was a bittersweet ritual, the book's happy pages filling him with both joy and longing, but he looked forward to it every night. It helped to keep the loneliness at bay.

There was a soft knock on the door. "Come in," he called out.

Edina appeared in the doorway. "Mr. Harrow," she said.

"Hello. Edina."

She smiled. "I just wanted to thank you for what you did earlier today. I really did tell him not to—"

"It's. Okay."

"You're my hero," she said, coming towards him. "I don't know how to repay you."

"I was. Just doing my job."

She sank to her knees before him, placing her hands on his thighs. "Now I'd like to do mine," she cooed. She ran her hands up his legs and to his belt, undoing the clasp and pulling the fly loose. His heart raced in his chest as she pulled his erection from his trousers, smiling at the sight of him and rubbing the skin expertly as she brought her mouth to its tip.

He placed his hands on her shoulders and gently pushed her away. "Please," he grunted softly.

"But I want to thank you."

"I told you. I was. Doing my job."

For a moment, she appeared stung by his rejection, but then she nodded and stood. He looked at his lap, embarrassed as he tucked his stiffened appendage back into his trousers. Her fingers on his jaw brought his eyes back to hers, and she placed a tender kiss on his cheek before leaving him to his thoughts.

Another man, he realized, would have been thrilled at the prospect of such an experience as that which he had just dismissed, and he knew he would dream about what could have been tonight, in spite of how wrong it felt to do so. But Richard Harrow was not another man. He was a stonehearted killer, yes, but he was also a gentleman. He protected these women because no one else would, and he would never let them down.