The rain had lifted by nightfall. Richard had waited out the summer storm in a cafe, pushing food around on his plate in a well-practiced effort to blend in. Images of Lucia filled his mind—her smile, her smell, her taste, her touch—and the plan formed itself in his mind with increasing clarity as the evening wore on. He had to save her, no matter what it meant for him.

It was this understanding that brought him to the Garden of Eden. He was far from certain that he would find her there, but as he entered the bustling hall, brassy jazz filling his ears, he could feel her presence in his bones. He made his way to the far end of the bar and took a seat, ensuring he had a clear view of the dance floor and the door. He ordered a bourbon and a straw and settled himself into his post, sipping his drink and dabbing the corner of his mouth with his handkerchief while his eye stayed trained on the floor.

Like the red sea, the crowds parted, and there was Lucia. She wore the same dress she'd worn the night they met, her hair tucked loosely behind her head. He realized his jaw had slackened at the sight of her, and wondered if she had spotted him. If she had, she did not let on; she continued to dance, her chin lifted defiantly, feigning happiness though he could see the sorrow in her eyes from across the room.

After several songs, a few more bourbons, and innumerable customers holding Lucia in their arms, Richard began to let his guard down. There had been no sign of Nick or Capone; perhaps the threats had been empty, after all. As the crowd dissipated, Richard felt uncomfortably conspicuous. It was a feeling all too familiar—that of people willing themselves not to stare—and he knew he was a fool to be sitting here, but stayed put all the same. He couldn't help loving her, and those he loved were stuck with his protection as long as they needed it.

She was standing against the wall now, a rare occurrence for such a sure-footed partner, her forced smile long since gone from her face. Suddenly Richard was overtaken by the urge to perform some sort of grand romantic gesture, but his shyness gave him pause. She hadn't asked him to be here tonight—had, in fact, specifically asked to be left alone—but the night was waning and she looked so lovely, cheeks flushed and sweat glistening on her brow. He tossed back what remained of his drink and made his way to her.

Her eyes lit up when he reached her, but she did not smile. The music shifted into a slow, dreamy melody.

"I don't. Have a dime."

Now she smiled. "I forgive you." She took his hand and led him to the floor.

His self-consciousness melted away with her in his arms. She truly was a wonderful dancer, light as air on her tiny feet. He yearned to speak, to tell her the truth about himself and assure her that he had only her best interests at heart, but she rested her cheek against his chest and he knew better than to spoil the magic of the moment with words. He planted a tender kiss on the top of her head and held her close.

"What the fuck is this?" A hand reached between them and grabbed Richard by the lapel, yanking him from Lucia's grasp.

"Nick, what are you—"

"That's my girl, you son of a bitch!" Nick threw a punch that landed squarely on Richard's unscarred right cheek, sending him reeling backwards. He steadied himself, a searing pain in his jaw from where Nick's fist had made contact. The band had paused their playing, joining the hushed crowd to watch the action unfold.

"She's nobody's property," he growled.

"Fuck you, Frankenstein! I'm not letting my girl dance with a freak like you."

Lucia screamed as Nick wound his fist to throw another punch, but Richard caught it in midair. The muzzle of his Colt was pressed against Nick's forehead before he'd even released the man's hand.

"Oh God," Nick whimpered, "please don't shoot!"

Richard's mouth contorted into an angry bull's sneer. "Tell her. The truth."

"Put the gun down!"

"Tell her what happened. Between you. And Capone."

"Christ, please—" Tears streamed down Nick's face.

The assassin gripped his victim's lapel in his free fist, holding the sniveling fool in place.

"Tell her," he snarled. "Or I'll kill you."

Nick's eyes flashed to Lucia, who stood beside them with her hand to her mouth and eyes jetting back and forth between the two. Richard stood stock-still, his right arm straight and his hand free of tremors as always around his pistol. He was a study in calm and control, though his eye still bulged with rage.

"All right," Nick cried, "It was me, all right? I promised Capone I'd get him a new girl if he gave me some money upfront, but Lulu wouldn't do it. So I told her I was in trouble and got Capone in on it. I didn't know she'd go to O'Banion's turf! I didn't mean for things to get so crazy!"

Richard didn't move, though his finger quivered against the trigger. Nick sobbed before him, shaking uncontrollably. The crowd waited with baited breath for one of them to make a move.

"Richard," Lucia said quietly, "put the gun down."

He looked at her calm poker face, then lowered his gun. Nick sank to his knees.

"Baby," Nick blubbered, "you saved my life!"

"I didn't do it to save you." She stared down at him, her not a trace of doubt in her face. "I want you to get up and walk out of here. I don't care where you go, but I never want to see you again."

"Lulu—"

"You're free to stay here, of course, but if I ever do see you again—I will kill you myself."

Nick searched her face for some sign of compassion, but her cool expression stood fast. He searched the room wildly for an ally, but they all avoided his eyes. Finally, he rose on unsteady legs and made his way to the exit, knocking Richard's shoulder with his own as he broke through the crowd.

For a moment, the room was completely still. Richard stared at Lucia, her face impossible to read as she stared at the spot where Nick had knelt mere moments before. She lifted her gaze to meet his, and his heart swelled with affection for her. Clearly, she felt it too—she rushed to him, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him as if they were the only two people in the world. The crowd erupted in applause around him, like they had so many months ago at the Legion Hall. But this time, he did not stand frozen in shock; this time, held her, shielding her against the world, and kissed her back.

"Are you ready to tell me the truth?" They were seated face to face on the hotel bed, Luciana in the thin robe and Richard in his undershirt and trousers, suspenders hanging loose at his sides and mask lying safely on the nightstand. He had held her as they'd left the club, held her in the car ride over, held her in the elevator; he had only let her go when she insisted on changing her clothes, but the look of adoration he bestowed on her now made her certain he would draw her back to him at the first chance he got.

Luciana wasn't certain she even wanted to know the answer to her query, but she knew she couldn't feel entirely comfortable with him until he was completely honest with her. Whatever his response, she decided, she would accept him. His devotion would be clear in the mere act of truthfulness, whatever that truthfulness entailed. Besides, his abilities had been thrown into stark relief back in the Garden of Eden, in the handling of that gun he'd held to Nick's head with such serene self-assurance.

"I am. A hitman," he said slowly. "I'm paid to kill."

Strangely, she was not alarmed by his answer in the slightest. Perhaps she had always suspected that this was his true identity—why else would Capone have associated with a man such as him? "Can I ask," she said softly, "how many?"

"During the war. Or after?"

"Total."

"85." He said this without hesitation, as if the number had long been rehearsed in his mind. She thought of Dario, and understood the mysterious expression on his face completely.

"I need to tell you something."

His face reflected his surprise. "You can tell me. Anything."

She lay back against the mountain of pillows, staring at the ceiling. She had never acknowledged the truth to anyone but herself; even Nick, who lorded it over her like his ace in the hole, had never heard her speak of the event. But she knew that Richard would withhold judgment, and a part of her was desperate to divulge the truth.

"My brother, Dario—he didn't die from consumption." She took a deep breath, her heart racing. "I...killed him." The tears flowed with surprising intensity, her body wracked with shuddering sobs. Richard pulled her to him, wrapping his strong arms around her as she released seven years' pent-up guilt.

"How. Did it happen?"

He lay back to accommodate her settling into him, her head and hand securely on his chest. "It was my first time," she began, drawing back her tears as memories of that day—the way the light filtered in through the tattered curtains, and the smell of grease and tobacco on Nick's skin—flooded to the forefront of her mind. "My first time with Nick—well, with anyone. He'd been begging more for weeks. I was so naive, I thought he wouldn't marry me if I didn't."

Richard's throat clicked as his muscles tensed; she could feel his anger through his skin.

"Dario was supposed to be working a double that day, but he came home early—who remembers why? He walked in and saw us, and I've never seen him so mad. He started yelling in Italian, and he yanked Nick off of me and just started pummeling like his life depended on it. Damn near killed him." She paused, running over the memory in her head, wondering what might have been had Dario succeeded. "I was so scared. I just wanted to make it stop. Nick's gun was right there."

"Did you mean. To shoot him?"

"I don't know. No, I couldn't have. I loved my brother, more than anything in the world. But he was gonna kill him, and—" She choked back a sob, unable to continue. Richard merely held her closer.

"What happened after?" he said, in as close to a whisper as his throat could manage.

She shrugged. "I cried for days. Weeks. I hated Nick, but...well, he knew, and I didn't want anyone else to." She took a deep breath, staring off into space. "And then, after a while, I didn't hate him so much. And then I didn't hate him at all. But I never forgot; I just never let myself remember."

He kissed the top of her head, urging the pain away with the tenderness of his touch. Neither spoke for several minutes, letting her words hang in the air like the scent of wild strawberries in the summertime.

"Did I tell you," Richard began, quietly, "about the first men. I killed?"

She looked up at him and shook her head.

"Two vandals. Were robbing all. The farms. In the area."

She looked up at him, his eye focused hard on the recollection.

"Broke my father's leg. Then, they came back. And tried to hurt. My sister." He winced. "I put a bullet. Through each of. Their eyes. I had only been shooting. For a few weeks."

"How old were you?"

"I was ten."

Ten. Just a child and already doing what needed to be done to protect his family. Luciana felt a surge of admiration for this quiet but powerful hero in whose arms she felt so safe and secure. She reached up to his face and pulled him down until their lips met, building quickly in intensity as the years of heartache between them burst forth into a wild passion that overtook them both. Hands groping madly, ripping clothing away to expose skin flecked with goosebumps. They rolled onto their sides, and suddenly his erection filled her, the force of his thrusts varying from soft to hard and back again, drawing her ecstasy from her deepest depths until it came plunging forth in a scream of unbridled joy, twisting every inch of her being into a knot of pleasure so all-encompassing that it made her tremble. Her screams only made him thrust harder, mining ever deeper until she her body went numb from the power of her climax. Only then did he release himself inside of her, holding her lips with his as they lay quivering in each other's arms.

"Come with me," he breathed into her ear.

"Where?"

"To. Atlantic City."

"But my whole life is here."

"You need. A change." His gaze was fixed on her, his eye filled with sincerity. "Please. Come with me."

She was quiet for several moments before whispering, "All right."

He had waited until she'd drifted off into a peaceful slumber before he dressed and slipped out of the hotel. It was that part of the night closer to sunrise than sunset, when the darkness is eerily absolute in the absence of the bustling urban throngs. Even the bakeries had yet to begin pumping floury steam into muggy night the air. Chicago was bathed in the calm of restfulness.

The walk to the Four Deuces took little time at all. He couldn't be sure how he knew to go back to the familiar house, but he had followed the intuition that had served him so well thus far and found his feet falling on recognizable pavement as he approached the building in which the direction of his life had been determined.

He ducked into the shadows, with a clear view of the front steps, and thought about Jimmy. Richard had been shocked to find that his new friend called such a place home; he hadn't said a thing at the time, but it had been his first time in a whorehouse, and he had been a jumble of nerves. His thoughts turned to Odette, and her "ticker-tape parade" that had proven more thrilling than any parade he could have imagined. He had loved her from that moment on, but then again had a habit of falling in love with anyone who could see past the mask, if only for a moment. He had trained himself, in the years since, to accept that she had only been doing her job, but a part of him still held a candle for the beautiful brunette who had made him more of a man than the war ever had.

Richard checked his watch; it was nearly 3:00, and the events at the Garden of Eden seemed a world away. Yet he had far from moved on. He placed his hand inside his coat, grasping the Colt firmly. He had been itching all night to pull the trigger.

The door flew open and a drunkard staggered out, nearly tumbling down the stairs in his stupor. Though his fedora threw his face in shadow, it was unmistakably the right man.

As the drunk approached Richard's alcove, the masked man stepped out from the shadows and blocked his path, holding the Colt high, straight, and true.

"This is. For Lucia."

The gunshot pierced the night air, but not a soul emerged from the building to see Richard walking calmly from the scene, Niccolo Caro's body crumpled on the pavement behind him.