The Black-Haired Son-in-Law of Al Capone
I’m screwed.
It’s an unfamiliar ceiling.
No, "unfamiliar" doesn't even begin to cover it. The stained ceiling of an inn in some fantasy world or the sterile white ceiling of a hospital ward—they were nothing like the cold, gray concrete ceiling staring back at me now.
"Ugh......."
As the chill from the concrete floor seeped into my spine, I twisted my body, bound tightly by rope, and scanned my surroundings.
The air was thick with the damp, musty stench peculiar to a basement. I rolled my eyes through the darkness, but there wasn't a single window in sight. The only exit was a heavy, securely locked iron door.
Along with a throbbing headache from a hangover, my right shoulder ached as if I’d slammed it into something hard. Last night. Right, what happened last night?
Fragments of faint memories drifted through my mind. Loud music, the smell of strong liquor, and... the hazy sound of a woman’s laughter.
I couldn't for the life of me figure out how that laughter connected to this cold concrete floor.
Damn it, what the hell is going on?
With nothing but nameless anxiety and terror encroaching on my mind, I desperately racked my brain, which was half-paralyzed by the hangover, to make sense of the situation.
BANG!
That was when the tightly shut iron door flew open with a deafening roar.
Appearing from beyond the door were men in long coats. Only then did I realize who was behind this situation.
Even in the spring, long after winter had passed, the only guys walking around in long wool coats and fedoras, hiding guns in their coat tails—the guys the educated folks called the Mafia—were criminals.
And that fact told me only one thing.
I’m screwed.
The city I live in, Chicago in 1928, is a city teeming with legendary gangs, including Al Capone’s Chicago Outfit. In this lawless zone, which is essentially Gotham City without Batman, being dragged around by gangsters meant one thing: my life as a human was over, and I was about to be reborn as a corpse.
The problem was, that corpse was going to be me.
"Um, gentlemen? Could you tell me what I’ve done wrong? If possible......."
I looked at the two men with desperate eyes, but I had no choice but to shut my mouth at the murderous glint in their eyes, which suggested they’d pull out a Chicago Typewriter (Tommy gun) and go full-auto if I opened it again.
Soon, the men hauled me up with rough hands, dragged me out of the concrete room like a piece of luggage without saying a word, and shoved me into the backseat of a black sedan.
Vroom-!
Inside the car, thick with cigarette smoke, I thought about everything that had happened to me so far.
About 100 years from now, I was born in Korea, got into a decent university, and died in an accident while working a part-time job at a logistics center.
No, I thought I died, but I hadn't.
There was the minor issue of waking up not in the 21st century, but in early 20th-century Chicago, USA.
Still, it was fortunate that I’d grown up safely without any major incidents, thanks to my first-generation Korean immigrant parents who ran a laundry business quite diligently.
At least, until yesterday.
Screech-!
The car stopped in front of a rather flashy hotel. With both arms held, I was dragged out of the car like luggage, taken into the hotel, and headed to the top floor in an elevator.
Ding-!
As the elevator doors opened, the opulent interior of a suite unfolded before my eyes. Even to someone like me, who had no connection to such expensive places, it was clear the room was filled with pricey furniture and decorations. But what really mattered wasn't how the room was decorated, but who was in it.
"You're here."
As I turned my head toward the deep, heavy voice that pierced my ears, I saw a face I knew all too well.
A middle-aged man adorned with expensive jewelry, wearing a white fedora and a cigar in his mouth. And, crucially, the scar on his left cheek.
At this point, it was impossible not to recognize him.
"A-Al Capone......?"
If you didn't recognize the true master of Chicago, the ruler of the night, the Robin Hood of Chicago, you couldn't call yourself a citizen of Chicago.
"You know me? You look Chinese, that's interesting."
Unlike his friendly tone, his expression as he scanned me up and down with sharp eyes was cold and rigid. But that was the least of my concerns; those thoughts had long since vanished from my mind.
Al Capone.
That Al Capone dragged me here?
Why?
It’s not like I threw a stone and hit a frog—why on earth would he target a commoner like me?
Just as I was blinking my eyes in confusion, unable to comprehend the situation:
"Last night."
Capone finally opened his mouth. His voice was low and quiet, but it carried a weight that sliced through the air of the room.
"Where, and what did you do?"
In an instant.
As if that question had been a trigger, the hazy fragments of my memory began to unfold like a single video.
Last night, I had snuck away from my father to visit a bar, sipping on some nameless hooch to relieve the exhaustion of working at the laundry. And then, I saw her.
A woman sitting alone in the corner of the bar, nursing a drink. She wasn't flashy, but she had a strange, captivating charm that drew my gaze, and I approached her with a surge of courage I didn't know I possessed.
Soon after, she and I left the bar and headed to her room, which looked quite expensive. And then.......
"Looks like you remember."
It was Capone’s chilling voice that broke my reverie. The dizziness of the recollection vanished like a mirage, leaving behind nothing but bone-chilling terror.
Hiss-!
Capone slowly stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray, then pulled a small photograph from his desk drawer and tossed it in front of me.
It was a photo of me and her at the bar last night.
"This woman, right?"
Capone asked, gesturing with his chin at the photo. His voice was lower and colder than before.
I nodded instinctively.
"Yes, that's right, but......."
At that moment, seeing the corners of Capone’s mouth twist into a cruel smile, I knew something had gone terribly, horribly wrong.
"B-but she’s a woman I met for the first time yesterday! Just an ordinary woman you find at a bar. You know what I mean? The kind of women who need a man. I was just......."
I hurriedly continued my excuses, but the more I spoke, the deeper Capone’s smile became. Soon, I understood the reason for that mysterious smile.
"She’s my daughter."
"Ah."
Ah.
Ah.
Ah.......
Fuck.
I fainted right there on the spot.