The golden field stretches far beyond his line of sight. He grips the handle of the old plow in both hands, the sweat beading on his back and brow. The birds whistle as they soar above him; there is music in the wind. A muffled cry draws his attention to the little farmhouse in the distance behind him—a beautiful, dark-haired girl cups her hands to her mouth, calling out to him, then waves her slender hand high in the air. He waves back to her, wipes his brow, and tries to push his plow, but it remains steadfast in the ground. With each push, he drives it further into the arid dirt, which whips up and around him and fills his aching lungs. His throat burns, each cough suffocating him further. Suddenly the ground beneath his feet begins to rumble, and he looks up as a massive wall of water thunders toward him. In a panic, he shields his eyes as the wave plunges across the field to reach him—

Richard awoke in a cold sweat, his undershirt drenched and chest heaving beneath it. He swung his head around the dark hotel room, reorienting himself and glad to find the now-familiar hotel room swimming into view. Lucia slept soundly beside him, her face angelically peaceful. He had dreamt of her, before his apocalyptic hallucinations had forced him awake, and suddenly the urge to reach out to her was overwhelming. Just to touch her now might calm his frayed nerves.

He reached a tentative hand to her cheek, pausing mere inches from her—surely one touch would not wake her. He let his fingers fall gently on her face, tracing the apple of her cheek lovingly. No matter how much she had feared him at first sight, it was clear that she trusted him now. Capone's words burned in his head, and he hated the little man so much in that moment for daring to consider taking advantage of this lovely, innocent girl. He hadn't had the courage to tell Lucia of Capone's plans; she deserved to know, but more than that deserved to keep her illusions of the world for as long as possible before it betrayed her, as it betrays everyone in time. Besides, he still had two more days to formulate a plan.

Her eyes fluttered open suddenly, causing him to recoil. "I'm. Sorry," he said quietly. "I didn't mean. To wake you."

"It's all right," she replied sleepily, then widened her eyes at the sight of him. "My God, Richard! Are you all right? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"It was. A bad dream. I'm fine now."

"You don't look fine." She propped herself up on one arm. "I have nightmares all the time. I can never go back to sleep afterwards. Want me to stay up with you?"

"No. You should. Sleep."

"But I'm wide awake now," she yawned.

He smiled, charmed as always by her cheerfulness. "If you. Insist."

"I do, as a matter of fact. Shall I turn on the light?"

"No." He had taken his mask off tonight and feared the look on her face when she finally caught a glimpse of his horrible scars. They lay side by side in bed, city lights illuminating their room ever so slightly through the thin curtains.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"For what?"

"For dragging you into all of this. I never meant for things to get so...out of hand."

He thought briefly of Capone's warning, his heart sinking at the realization that she had no idea just how out of hand things had become. "What. Do you mean?"

"I don't know. Nick, Capone...everything."

"Do you love him?"

She laid back and thought for a moment. "I did. Maybe I still do; I'm not sure anymore. He can be very charming, and also very cruel."

"What happened. Between you?"

She sighed and pulled her hands behind her head. "Where do I begin? When I met Nick, I was just a girl, an immigrant girl at that. I had been in America for five years and it still didn't feel like home. My brother and I left New York for Chicago because he had heard there was work to be had out west, but then the consumption took him and, well..." She dropped her head, the pain of her loss newly restored. "Nick rescued me when I had nowhere else to turn. I probably would've starved, or worse, if he hadn't taken me in. I was 13, he was 20. He had a job, an apartment, and he was so handsome—what else could a young girl want?"

"Did you. Get married?"

She smiled, sorrowfully. "No, we did not get married. I doubt it would have changed much, but I learned my lesson the first time I brought it up." She shuddered, clearly suppressing a painful recollection. "I did get pregnant," she continued, "more than once, but I lost them all. Nick turned to the drink, and he started disappearing for days on end. I had no way of knowing whether I would ever see him again, and the bills kept piling up and I had no money to pay them. And then, one day, Capone shows up at our door. Nick was God knows where. Al tells me Nick owes him $1,000. More money than I've ever seen in my life! And he tells me he's gonna find Nick and teach him a lesson, which can only mean he's gonna hurt him. But where am I supposed to get $1,000? The most I've ever made at the Garden of Eden is $100, and I'd pulled a double shift that night."

"So what. Did you do?"

She rolled her head towards him, and he almost hoped she wouldn't tell him what he already knew, but she continued. "I went to a building on the North Side, where nobody knew me. I used a fake name and everything. I hated it so much, but I made so much money that I knew I could pay Capone off in no time. But, of course, he found out. Would you believe he was madder about me working on O'Banion's turf than he was about Nick's debt? He tells me he found Nick and he's holding him until I can pay up, but I can't go back up north and I can't very well do that kinda thing down here, can I? I could never show my face in the neighborhood again."

She paused, and Richard thought he could hear her choking back tears. "Is that," he started, "where you were. When you met me?"

"That's it."

"Have you heard. From Nick?"

"Not a word. For all I know, Capone killed him weeks ago." She sighed, the weight of the world on her slight shoulders. "But look at me, telling you my sad tale when I haven't asked for yours. So what is it?"

"What is. What?"

"Your sad tale."

Richard looked away, unsure of which one to regale her with and not wanting to burden her with any of them.

"Okay, forget the sad tale. I have enough of those for the both of us." She rolled towards him, propping her head on her arm again and narrowing her eyes at him flirtatiously. "Tell me this: have you ever been in love?"

He had been asked this once before, as he sat for Angela in the little beach house so long ago now. He had been unsure how to answer then, remembering with stunning clarity his emotionless response to his once-beloved sister after the war had taken from him everything he had once held dear. Now, however, he knew that the answer had changed. "Yes," he said finally.

"Did she have a name?"

"Julia."

"Julia. What a lovely name. Was she beautiful?"

"She is. The most beautiful thing. I've ever seen."

"And where is she now?"

Richard swallowed hard, his scarred throat aching with suppressed sadness. He squeezed his eye shut, mind propelled back to the night on the beach, Julia's sweat-glistened face swimming into his mind and the smell of the ocean in his nostrils.

Suddenly, he felt Lucia's fingers on his cheek. "Where did you go?" she whispered, her unflinching gaze bearing into him. For a moment, they merely laid there, gazes locked on one another and a lifetime of heartache exchange without a sound. She pulled his face to face hers, slowly, gently, her dark eyes sparkling in the half-light. He waited for her to speak, but she only licked her lips, her face fraught with ambivalence as she continued to trace the contours of his unscathed cheek with her fingertips. With the scarred half pressed against the pillow, he knew she could only see the part of him that had retained some trace of the handsomeness with which he had entered the war, and he realized with a swell of excitement that her face at this moment reflected none of the horror of their first meeting.

She leaned in, slowly, until their faces were mere inches from each other. "Richard," she whispered, "just for a moment, pretend that I'm Julia."

And then she kissed him, her full lips soft and inviting on his. He was torn between his loyalty to Julia and the immediacy of his desire, and desire quickly won out: suddenly he was kissing her back, wallowing in the fantasy that he was whole and human, that this was what he deserved.

As she pressed herself into him, he instinctively tugged on her nightgown; she only let go of him to help him pull it over her head. Her form now deliciously exposed, he let his hands explore the curves of her body. She gasped as his fingers brushed the sides of her breasts, and her back arched in acceptance of his touch. He moved his thumb to her nipple, rubbing back and forth, lightly at first, then rolling it between his fingers and enjoying immensely the soft moans that escaped her lips in response. Emboldened by her pleasure, he pushed himself further down in bed, his hands firmly on her waist, letting his tongue trace a road to each breast in turn, then down her stomach. He paused as he reached his destination, looking up at her for a signal; she nodded and let her legs fall to each side to accommodate his mouth. Her cries seemed to emanate from the spot where his tongue touched the velvety folds that made up the most sacred part of her, and soon he found a rhythm that clearly delighted her. As her passion mounted, he pushed a finger inside of her, then another, drawing the climax from her with an animal instinct that surprised him. Her whole body tensed, and she tightened around his fingers as she succomed to a wave of ecstacy that he was proud to have bestowed upon her.

Before he could lift his head, she was pulling him up towards her, her hands groping wildly for him. She struggled with his belt and the buttons of his fly, and he kicked his trousers off of him as if they were a threatening foe. She kissed him passionately as he pushed himself inside of her, the feel of her like heaven on his skin. His moans came out as grateful growls, and he pressed his lips to hers to silence them. With every thrust he thundered towards a release that engulfed his entire being, and her screams above him and the contraction of her muscles combined to propel him towards unconsciousness with the sheer force of their power over him. At the last possible moment, he flung his eye open to see her below him, back arched in a last surge of rapture, and he couldn't imagine being anywhere else in the world in that moment but here, with her, united in this unexpected dance.

He collapsed on top of her, chest heaving. "That was," she started, but then merely sighed. He supposed she too was now dumbstruck by intensity they had just experienced together. He too had felt it and, though he knew all too well that it would take more than a single night of passion for him to feel for her what he felt for Julia, he also knew that, in this moment, he had never felt better.

As the first shafts of morning sunlight ushered her awake, Luciana noticed the heavy arms wrapped tightly around her and nestled into them gratefully. His arms were strong, his dexterous fingers calloused but welcome on her skin all the same. It had been an incredible surprise, the surging pleasure she had felt last night—Nick had been a formidable lover, but he had never brought her such all-encompassing joy. She felt the stirring of desire building within her and spun around in his arms to face the source of last night's ecstasy.

"Wake up," she whispered between the kisses she planted softly across his undamaged cheek. "Wake up, mi amore." She found his lips and enveloped them in her own, nibbling slightly to demonstrate her intent. He hummed, ever so slightly, and the sound made her giggle.

She took him in her hands, glad to find his erection already beginning to grow, and stroked him until his hums turned to moans and he throbbed in her hands. Suddenly, he lifted her arms and began kissing her, without the unbridled passion of the night before but rather with a gentle sweetness that was still more than enough to send her reeling. She ached for him, and the feel of his fingers between her legs made her want him all the more. Still laying side by side, facing each other in a tangle of limbs, he entered her wet recesses, taking it slow this time, letting them both savor each thrust and bringing her closer to release with every movement. She swung herself on top of him, never loosening her hold, and began twisting her hips back and forth, watching his face contort with each gyration. She drew his hands from her waist to massage her breasts, and he squeezed each nipple as she pushed herself against him, letting the wave of climax overtake her as he bucked his hips below, clearly succumbing to a wave of pleasure all his own.

She collapsed onto his chest, panting, and was glad to feel his hand slip into hers. "Oh, Richard," she whispered, kissing the scar on his throat. He kissed her head protectively, and together they slipped back into unconsciousness.

"What have we done?" They were seated together in the bath, her back to his chest and her head laid back against his shoulder. They sat in silence for quite some time, Richard wringing warm, soapy water from a towel onto her breasts as he sorted through the jumble of conflicting emotions that threatened to overtake him. His mind reeled, searching for something to say, but there were so very many things he had to tell her and he knew not where to begin.

"Lucia," he started, but couldn't form his thoughts into words. He should tell her of Capone's plan, of his love for her, of his scheme to take her away from here, but more than anything he dreaded spoiling the magic of this moment.

"Take me away, Richard." She wrapped an arm up and around his head, dragging her fingers through his hair. "Take me away from Nick, from Capone, from Chicago."

"Where. Would we go?"

"Someplace where no one knows us. California?"

"You could be. A film star."

"You're crazy. I'm not beautiful enough to be a film star."

"You are. Too beautiful. To be a film star."

She turned around, staring into his eye and completely unfazed by the scars—he had left his mask beside the bed, it's coverage unnecessary in their newfound intimacy. Her eyes sparkled, swimming with tears. She kissed him tenderly, her fingertips lovingly tracing his ruined flesh as if it were healthy and whole. He knew he had to be honest with her, for both of their sakes.

"Lucia," he began. "I have. Something. To tell you."

She had heard his words, but hadn't believed them. A part of her was not entirely surprised to know that Capone had intended to turn her into his property all along, but the anger had burned within her all the same. She had climbed from the bath, splashing water across the floor, and now sat curled in a large chair by the window, her legs tucked up to her chest and the robe pulled tight around her. The streets below buzzed with activity, the bustling crowds unaware of her turmoil above. She wished she had never made the trek to the North Side, never met Nick, never moved to this godforsaken country.

More than anything, she wished she had met Richard years earlier, before they had both been so beaten down by the world. She could hear him puttering around the room, dressing slowly but not daring to disturb her. She wondered if he had always been so careful, so meticulous, or if that had been yet another byproduct of the war of which he refused to speak. Suddenly she realised just how little she truly knew about this man to whom she was prepared to give all of herself. She knew he had grown up on a farm in Wisconsin; that he had fought in the war as a sharpshooter; that he'd fallen in love in Atlantic City. In between each of these facts was a cloud of mystery, shadows where she longed for light.

She felt a strong hand on her shoulder and held it in place with her own. "I didn't mean. To upset you," he growled softly.

"You could never upset me." She rested her head on his hand.

"Do you still. Want me. To take you away?"

She closed her eyes, holding the tears at bay. "We'll have to stop at my place first."

Neither spoke on the car ride to her rundown neighborhood. He could see in her reflection in the window that she had lost her awestruck smile, and he squeezed her hand reassuringly as fantasies of revenge took hold.

Her tenement hall was much as he had expected it to be: a mess of wooden beams from which clotheslines crisscrossed high into the soot-darkened sky. She led him up an endless stream of stairs, past children playing and drunkards passed out between floors, and down a cramped hallway to what had to be her door. Key in hand, she paused and turned back towards him. "Still promise you won't judge me too harshly?" she asked meekly.

He stroked her soft cheek, and she lifted herself onto her tiptoes to kiss him—half on his lips, half on his mask. Then she pushed her key into the lock and opened the door.

Inside was a tiny living room with a sunken couch and a single tall lamp, a modest kitchen with a two-seat table, and a door to one side that could only have been to her bedroom. Richard registered the apartment's contents only peripherally, his eyes locked instead on a figure at the far end of the room. The man was tall, though not as tall as him, with sandy blond hair and, Richard noticed as the man turned toward them, a remarkably handsome, healthy, unmarred face.

"Lulu!" the man cried, his arms out in welcome.

Lucia dropped her keys to the floor but otherwise stayed frozen in place, her hand forming a vice-like grip on Richard's. "Nick," she choked out. "What in God's name are you doing here?"