Luciana awoke the next day feeling more rested and relaxed than she had in ages. Her normally aching muscles felt like butter beneath her skin, and she curled herself into the pillows for quite some time in an effort to prolong such comfort. Smiling broadly, she rolled over to speak to Mr. Harrow, but his half of the bed was vacant. She propped herself up on her arms while she glanced around the room, oddly concerned about his whereabouts. It couldn't have all been a lovely dream, since the bed was still so wonderfully real beneath her.

She pressed her mind to recall the previous night's events—truth be told, she had been a tad drunk—and remembered his meticulousness in removing what little clothing he had, and the way he had climbed stiffly into the bed beside her. She had laid there for quite some time, feigning sleep and listening instead to his labored breathing. Something about him intrigued her, but she knew it could be suicide to act on it (regardless of how handsome the visible side of his face may be).

Suddenly, the door swung open. Mr. Harrow walked in, clutching two paper cups and a small paper bag.

"Good morning," Luciana exclaimed cheerfully.

"Good. Morning," he grunted back. "I thought. You might like. Some breakfast."

"Oh yes, I'm famished!" She scooted from the bed as he set his bounty on the table. She studied him, his back to her, while he removed the lids from each cup and opened the bag to remove an assortment of pastries, which he began stacking neatly atop a napkin. It amused her, the care and precision that he seemed to bestow on every task. She pulled a robe over her shoulders and approached him.

"I didn't know. What to get."

"It's perfect. All of my favorite foods." She took a seat and selected a danish from the neat little stack. It was still warm, and steam wafted up from the coffee. She dug in, tearing the sweet, flaky flesh with her teeth and guzzling the coffee appreciatively. But he merely sat there before her, hands on his lap, his coffee untouched. "Aren't you gonna eat anything?" she managed to spit out through a full mouth.

"I'm. Okay."

She furrowed her brow, then swallowed her bite definitively. "Forgive me if this is too forward, but—" She paused, unsure how to phrase her question. "Is it difficult? Eating, with the mask in the way."

He looked down at his hands. "Yes." Then he added, "I wouldn't want to. Put you off. Your meal."

She rolled her eyes. "Clearly you don't know me well. I am always hungry."

He moved a tentative hand to his jacket and soon retrieved a straw, which he plunged into the coffee. He took a sip and almost immediately tossed his head back, then drew a hand to his mouth to wipe a teardrop of coffee from his cheek. Luciana looked at her plate, ashamed of the reckless abandon with which she had approached her meal—she had spent so much of her life unsure of where and when her next would come that she hadn't considered the ways in which it could have been worse. It could always, she reminded herself now, be worse.

"Please," he grunted, "Don't stop eating. Because of me."

His selflessness touched her, and she tore a small piece of her danish free and popped it into her mouth with a smile. "So, Mr. Harrow," she began.

"Call me. Richard."

"Richard, hm? I like that name. Okay, Richard. Does your boss have a plan for us today or are we to fend for ourselves until further notice?"

"I told you. Capone is. Not my boss."

"Well whatever he is, I can tell who's calling the shots. I just want to know how long until I can go home. I have a life, you know."

"I can. Take you there."

Her hand paused on the pastry, mid-tear. The thought of this man in her cramped apartment made her nervous, though she couldn't for the life of her figure out why. Thus far, he had given her no reason to fear him beyond the initial shock of the mask. Still, she realized that Capone had to have some reason to employ him; just because she hadn't seen his monstrous side didn't mean he was without one. Life with Nick had more than taught her that.

"Lucia?" His monotone growl shook her back to the present. She sipped her coffee and her cheery disposition returned.

"I suppose that would be all right. It's in a terrible state, though, so don't judge me too harshly when you see it."

"I have no reason. To judge anyone."

"Aren't you a beacon of nobility in a barbaric world?" She popped the last of her pastry into her mouth and rose from the table. "Well, if you'll excuse me, I should get dressed." She retrieved her dress and stockings, flung over a chair the night before, and flitted to the washroom. Humming to herself, she pulled the door near-shut, then tilted it so that she could see Richard's reflection in the mirror affixed to it.

She watched as he carefully lifted the earpieces of his glasses from his ears and peeled the mask from his cheek, setting it ever so gently face-up on the table before him. Luciana felt her pulse rise as he raised his head enough for her to see what had been hidden all the while: where his left eye should have been was instead a gaping hole; where the cheek should have been, a patch of sinewy scarlet; in place of lips, only bared teeth. She brought her hand to her mouth, less horrified than grief-stricken for this poor, sweet man. She wondered for a moment what awful fate had befallen him, but quickly reminded herself that the cause was irrelevant. Whatever his flaws may be, she decided, he had not deserved this.

She diverted her eyes when he lifted a section of pastry to his damaged mouth; it was not right to watch him this way. Instead, she focused hard on the task of pinning her hair up at the nape of her neck. Her hair was her favorite feature: while most of the other girls at the Garden of Eden had long since chopped theirs into fashionable bobs, she held onto her flowing locks with the fierce protectiveness of a lioness over her cubs. It was the one thing of hers in which she took any real pride. She wondered, her cheeks flushing scarlet at her superficiality, what gave Richard pride.

After reapplying her lipstick and deciding that she was as satisfied with her appearance today as she would ever be, she returned to the room proper. "You never did answer my question," she said, feigning playful frustration.

"Which question. Was that?"

"What will you do with me today?"

"What would. You like to do?"

"Well," she said, eyes turned dreamily to the ceiling in thought, "seeing as a certain slimy New Yorker has decided to put my life on hold and all, what's say we make the most of it? Come on." She grabbed her coat and made her way to the door. "I'll show you my favorite spot in all of Chicago."

He wasn't sure what he had expected—a speakeasy, maybe, or one of the big department stores they'd passed on route to their destination—but Richard certainly hadn't expected to finally stop at a massive, beautiful wood-and-glass building perched atop the long, wide pier that jutted out into the storm-grey waters of Lake Michigan. In the relatively short time he had lived in this city, he had never stepped foot onto the Municipal Pier, though Jimmy and the girls had often invited him to join them in their frivolous evenings at the waterfront theatre. True enough, he had left for Atlantic City before the pier had fully transformed into the glimmering center of entertainment that he found himself facing today, but either way he knew he would never had thought to come here himself had he not been urged along by another. Too many people, too many faces to look upon him in horror and disgust. It had been bad enough on the Atlantic City boardwalk, though Julia's presence had helped to distract the nosy onlookers (or at least had given them something to gawk at aside from his face alone). Here on the pier, he again felt something close to normal as Lucia slipped her hand around his arm and steered him towards the building's entrance.

Inside, a glittering structure beckoned them closer. An enormous circle of brightly-colored paint and lights, its midsection spun in a dizzying swirl, tossing its occupants up and down on the frozen beasts with the poles through their backs to which their riders clung, propelling all aboard ceaselessly forward. Richard had seen a carousel once before, at the foot of Sacre Coeur during one of his leaves from the war, but he had never been this close, much less ridden one. He stared up at it, his good eye wide, then whipped his glance toward Lucia as the sound of an excited giggle escaped her lips. She looked up at him impishly, her face awash in amusement.

"What are you waiting for?" she implored. "It isn't going to ride itself!"

Soon, they were spinning round and round, side-by-side on their candy-colored steeds. He sat to her left so that, if he stared straight ahead, she would only see the good half of his face, but as the ride continued he felt his self-consciousness slip away. He looked at her, that grin of impetuous youth illuminated by the hundreds or thousands of bulbs as they swished past, and felt a strange warmth build in his chest. As their horses pumped up and down and around again, he realized that all he really knew about this lovely, dark-haired girl was that she'd had the brass to cross Capone. He knew not why, and suddenly he didn't care. His protective instinct was taking hold of him once more, and he decided, in the shadow of the enormous canopy and with carnival pipes filling his ears, that whatever her offense he had no choice but to stay by her side—not as Capone's lackey, but as her white knight shielding her virtue from the cold, cruel world into which she had been thrust. It would be up to him, once more, to fight for the justice of the innocent.

The ride slowed and his head spun dizzily in the absence of centrifugal motion. Lucia slid from her mount and offered him a hand from his. "Aren't I. Supposed to help you?" he asked her as he jumped down.

"Yes," she replied with a sly smile, "but I've done this before."

She licked melting ice cream from a sugar cone clutched in her free hand, the other still looped around her escort's arm, as they meandered to the end of the pier, the gray expanse of Lake Michigan stretching out before them into an endless abyss. The sight reminding Luciana of the trip across the Atlantic, a young girl filled with wonder at the sight of the cold, limitless ocean. It had been a far cry from the crystalline waters of home, the sun-drenched shores of the Sicilian coast. When she closed her eyes, she could still feel the warm beads of sand falling away under her toes as the tide swam in and out over her tiny feet. It was a flicker of a memory, fading ever more with each passing day, but she cherished it all the same.

The air was warm with the coming of August, but a cool breeze wafted from the surface of the lake and sent a chill through her as they neared the pier's end. She squeezed Richard's arm absentmindedly, glad suddenly for the strong, politely reserved man beside her. She couldn't begin to think why, but somehow she implicitly knew that Capone's reach did not extend this far. Against her better judgment, she trusted him.

She spotted a vacant bench, right at the tip of the pier, and hurried to claim it. Richard lowered himself stiffly beside her, hands on his lap as they listened to the shouts and laughter of spectators behind them and the cries of gulls above. "Is this what Atlantic City is like?" she asked, biting into the newly exposed cone in her hand.

"Somewhat," he said, his growl growing more familiar to her with each carefully chosen word. "I think. You would like it."

"I suppose I would, then." She stared out at the water, her mind flooding with half-formed dreams and memories.

"Where. Would you like. To go?"

"Why Richard, we only just got here."

"No, I meant. If you could go anywhere. In the world."

She thought for a moment, unaware of the sticky stream of vanilla now dripping down her hand. "I suppose I would just like to be near the sea."

"You have. The lake."

She shook her head, smiling dreamily. "It isn't the same. I miss the sea I grew up with. It wasn't cold like the water here. It was warm; welcoming."

"I would like. That sort of sea."

"Yes," she smiled, "I think you would."

"Where. Did you grow up?"

"Palermo. Sicily. My father was a fisherman. We were very poor, but we always had plenty of fresh fish to eat. Have you ever tasted fresh fish? It's the most delicious thing in the world. My mother was a wonderful cook." She slipped into reminiscence, her mouth watering.

"Where. Are your parents. Now?"

"Back home. I send them money whenever I can, but—" Her tears caught in a knot in her throat. Speaking of her family always filled her with such sadness; she had to change the subject. "What about you? What do your mother and father think of their son, the gangster?"

"My parents. Are dead."

Her forced smile faltered. "I'm sorry," she said softly.

"It's. All right. I have a sister."

"Are you close?"

"We were. I haven't spoken. With her. In several years."

"I'm sure that's very hard for you."

It took him a moment to respond. "Yes," he said finally. "I loved her. Very much." Luciana looked up at him, the unscathed half of his face fraught with untold turmoil, and couldn't help but place her hand on his. After a moment, he turned his hand under hers and intertwined their fingers. Together, they sat in silence, surrounded by shouts of revelry, searching the hazy horizon for their long-lost signs of home.

Two days passed before Richard finally heard from Capone. The time had passed in a blur of activity and conversation: Lucia had taken him to all of her favorite haunts, all the places in town that still held magic for her, and they had spoken of their history and hopes all the while. She had told him of her childhood in Sicily, her large family with their quirks and quarrels, and he in turn had told tales of Plover that he hadn't let himself remember in ages. Her easygoing nature calmed his ever-present nerves, while her smile sent a spark through his spine and made him all the more thankful for this supposed job. In fact, he had begun to forget that it was a job at all, until Capone's sneering voice snapped him back to reality.

They were in the hotel, just before noon. Lucia was taking a long bath, singing a lovely melody that wafted from the bathroom and all around him like a blanket of tranquility amid the noise of downtown that charged up at them from the street below. The trill of the phone cut her tune like a knife, and Richard rushed to answer it in order to cease its angry scream. "Hello?" he answered, gruffly.

"Harrow," Capone admonished, "is that anyway to answer the phone?"

"I'm. Sorry."

"Just try to be more conscientious in the future, is all. Listen, ditch the girl for an hour and meet me at the Four Deuces. We gotta talk business."

"I thought. You said—"

"I know what I said, but I'm giving you permission. Lock her in your fancy hotel room, for all I care, just get down here. You got twenty minutes." The line cut out, leaving Richard seething. He had never liked Capone, but now he didn't trust him, either.

He told Lucia he had to run an errand; she had protested at first, but he reminded her that this hotel offered room service and left her daydreaming of delectable menu items as he walked out the door. He tried not to think about how delectable she herself had looked in the thin hotel robe, her hair a mess of curls bunched atop her head.

"Glad you could get away so fast," Capone called to him from the bar as he entered the familiar whorehouse. Scanning the room for Odette as he had before (again, she was absent), Richard took a seat. "Now," Capone continued, "you and the missus seem to be getting along. She's a real piece, ain't she?"

"She's. A nice girl."

"Oh-ho," Capone laughed, "don't go getting all googly-eyed on me. What, you think a doll like that is gonna fall for you?" He laughed in Richard's face, spraying flecks of spit on the mask.

Richard's eyes narrowed. "How much longer. Do you need. Me here?"

"Got a hot date back in Atlantic City?" Richard remained stone-faced. "Come on, it was a joke. Look, lemme level with you. Remember that guy I told you about, Niccolo Caro? Ms. Morici is his sweetheart. I told you he owes me money; it's up to her to pay the bill. Hey, you know me." He slapped his barrel of a chest with pride. "I'm a nice guy. Alls I want is to make the little girl a deal. She works for me, I'll consider it an investment. I'll let her boyfriend go so long as I can keep her."

"What do you want. From her?"

"Now, Mr. Harrow." Capone leaned in close, his smile menacing. "You think whores grow on trees?"

"She's not. A whore."

"Tell that to Dean O'Banion. He sure made a pretty penny off a her."

Richard stood, disgusted.

"Hey! Don't forget who's calling the shots here!" He had stood and hurried to block Richard's exit, pointing a threatening finger to Richard's chest though the hitman towered above him. "So long as you're here, you work for me. You get that girl to see the light, I give her back her boyfriend, and you're free to run along back to Nucky. That clear?"

Richard grunted, staring straight ahead.

Capone laughed and clapped his hands on Richard's arms. "See? Wasn't so bad, huh? I'll give you three more days. After that, I may not be so nice to either of them."

Richard pushed past him, heading for the exit.

"Hey, Harrow!" Capone cried. Richard paused, anger burning in his ears. "I may not be so nice to you, neither."

Richard swallowed hard and continued on his way.