The Unwanted Engagement
I have to get married.
But, fortunately, I was able to see the rising sun even after fainting.
"Ugh......."
"Are you okay?"
A voice I knew all too well drifted into my ears as I struggled to lift my heavy, throbbing eyelids.
Before I could even fully regain consciousness, my gaze shifted toward the source of the voice, and I saw the face of a blonde woman, just as familiar as the voice itself.
Where had I seen that face before.......
"Don't tell me, you don't remember me? That's a bit disappointing."
Only after hearing her voice, which sounded slightly pouty, and watching her pull out a red pack of Marlboros, did I finally recall the identity of the woman standing before me.
"Y-y-y-you......!"
"Ah, I guess you remember now? You almost disappointed me there."
Whoosh-!
She lightly blew a puff of cigarette smoke into my face, but I couldn't even bring myself to be angry.
The reason was clear.
"Why did you hide the fact that you're Al Capone's daughter?"
Al Capone.
He was the master of Chicago, the man who had just delivered me to the jaws of Cerberus at the gates of hell and then pulled me back out. And his daughter was the very reason I was in this situation.
However, at my angry outburst, she just smirked and continued.
"Have you ever seen a woman tell a man she met at a bar her father's name?"
"...I wouldn't know, as this is my first time in such a situation."
"Oh my, was it your first? You were quite skilled for a first-timer, both at the bar yesterday and in bed......."
"*Ahem!*"
A sense of pride welled up at her words, but I cleared my throat to calm myself and continued.
"Anyway, thanks to you, I've had an experience I'll never forget. Though I think it would have been better not to have such an experience......."
The experience of having my life threatened by a gang boss who controlled all of Chicago? If I wanted a peaceful life, deleting that memory from my brain would surely be the better path.
Though that would be impossible in the 1920s, a time before the Great Depression even hit.
"Don't worry, there will be plenty of new experiences to come."
Hearing my words, she smiled as if to reassure me and patted my shoulder.
But wait.......
'To come'?
"Hey, what do you mean by 'to come'?"
No way. It couldn't be.
Gulp.
At the ominous word mixed into her sentence, I swallowed hard and focused my attention on her red lips.
And then, the moment her lips parted.
"My father said I should marry you."
"*Cough, cough!*"
Why do the worst-case scenarios always turn out to be true?
Getting married when I couldn't even do it in my past life? And to a woman whose father was the biggest criminal in Chicago—no, in all of America?
"What's with that face? You look like you hate the idea. Shouldn't you be happy to marry an 18-year-old who just had a birthday?"
"E-eighteen?"
In the U.S., you're an adult at 18, but... still, isn't that too young?
"W-why?"
"I don't know that myself. It was my first time ever rebelling, and maybe that didn't sit well with my father. But one thing is certain."
She shrugged, stubbed out her finished cigarette in the ashtray, and opened her mouth with a meaningful smile.
"If you refuse, you won't be leaving this room alive."
...I'd heard that marriage was the graveyard of life, but I didn't know it was a literal Life vs. Graveyard situation.
Anyway... what on earth am I supposed to tell my parents?
"Oh, right. You don't know my name yet, do you? It's Rita."
After finishing my conversation with her—Rita, whose name I hadn't even known until now—I was able to leave the hotel looking clean and without a single scratch.
Of course, that was only on the outside; inside, I was rotting away.
"Marriage, marriage......."
And to Al Capone's daughter, no less.
But wait, didn't Al Capone only have one son? Where the hell did a daughter pop out from? An illegitimate child, or something like that?
No, that's not what I should be thinking about right now.
There was something more important, something that would determine the rest of my life.
Screech-!
"I'm home."
That was none other than telling my parents about this.
They were first-generation immigrants who had crossed the sea from Joseon by boat and traveled to Chicago by train. Even though they used more English than Korean, their mindset was still firmly rooted in the ways of Joseon.
On top of that, considering the rumors this marriage would stir up in the Korean community in Chicago, persuading them wouldn't be easy.
"Hey, Lee Jun!"
Hiss-!
As soon as I opened the door and stepped into the laundry shop, a middle-aged man's shouting echoed through the thick steam.
With that, my father appeared through the haze, holding a steaming iron in his hand.
Judging by his expression, he looked ready to burn my mouth shut with that iron right then and there.
"You brat, where have you been until now? What is this, have you been drinking? You don't study, and now this......!"
Seeing my father act exactly as I expected, I began to realize that I had returned to my normal daily life.
However, what I was about to do now was to shatter that very routine.
"Father."
"What?"
"I have to get married."
Clang-!
Psssssh-!
As soon as I opened my mouth, the iron in my father's hand rolled onto the concrete floor, hissing with steam.
Soon, my father, his face as red-hot as the iron rolling on the floor, spoke up.
"...What? Marriage?"
"There were some circumstances......."
"You rascal, you've finally come to your senses!"
...Huh?
I was taken aback by my father's reaction, which was a little—no, very—different from what I had expected.
No, perhaps that reaction was the correct one.
"You've been turning down every matchmaking offer that came your way, and now you've finally made up your mind! So, who's the lucky girl? Eun-sil from next door? Or Jin-ah from the block below?"
At twenty-eight, it was certainly a late age to be getting married by the standards of this era. Since I hadn't had any interest and had been too busy studying to even think about dating, it was only natural that my parents were burning with impatience.
Well, thinking about it that way, I suppose this could be considered a form of filial piety.
Even if it wasn't something I actually wanted.
"No."
"Hmm? Then don't tell me, is it Pastor Jang's daughter......."
"She's not Korean."
The moment I finished speaking, I saw my father flinch.
"Not Korean?"
"Yes."
"Well, we're going to live in America for the rest of our lives anyway, so... what does that matter? *Ahem.*"
Despite what he said, his expression clearly showed he was flustered.
"So... what's the girl's name?"
"Rita Capone."
"Rita Capone... sounds like an easy name... Capone? Wait a minute, I've heard that name somewhere before......."
"It's *that* Capone, Father. She's Al Capone's daughter."
"......."
Hiss-!
In the silent laundry shop, the only sound was the hissing of the iron rolling on the floor.
The day after my life-defining confrontation with my parents.
I had to leave the house to fulfill my duties as a fiancé.
In other words, a date.
"How is this place, Honey? The atmosphere is a bit different from where we met last time, right?"
"The music is good, for starters. I think it was a bit quiet last time."
Now that I knew her name and age, I had started speaking to her informally. I scanned the interior of the speakeasy as I answered.
The sound of clinking glasses, the chatter of people, thick cigarette smoke rising through the languid melodies of trumpets and pianos.
Except for the large bouncer standing at the door to distinguish guests from uninvited intruders, the atmosphere inside was no different from before Prohibition.
Of course, if the police were to raid the place, we'd all end up behind bars, but this place was under the protection of the Chicago Outfit, the gang led by Al Capone who ruled the nights of Chicago.
Unless someone didn't value their job or their life, there wasn't a moron in Chicago who would dare raid a small bar like this.
"Right? Actually, the place we went to last time had a terrible atmosphere. I told them to at least get a piano from somewhere, honestly."
"You seem quite familiar with speakeasies, don't you?"
"Isn't that obvious?"
Rita smirked as if my question was ridiculous and continued.
"I carry the Capone name, after all. I've been managing a few places since I became an adult. My father even gave me a gift a while ago."
With those words, Rita slightly lifted her long skirt, and her smooth, white thigh caught my eye.
More precisely, it was the leather holster and the black handle strapped to it.
It was a pistol.
"...That's a hot gift, isn't it?"
I mean, since she's the daughter of a gang boss, a gun is only natural, but... isn't that a bit much for someone who just became an adult?
"I haven't fired it yet. If you had done anything foolish that day, who knows?"
"Haha......."
Rita lowered her skirt with a bright smile, but I couldn't bring myself to laugh at her words.
Since she was basically saying I almost became the first person to lose my life to that gun, there was no way I could laugh.
Just as an awkward silence hung between Rita and me.
"Your order, sir."
The waiter approached and set down the glasses.
It was a liquid that didn't look very clear, and the poor quality typical of moonshine was evident even to the naked eye.
"I think the stuff we drank last time was clearer than this."
"If moonshine had a consistent quality, would it even be moonshine?"
With that reply, Rita pulled a silver lighter from her handbag.
Click!
With practiced movements, she lit the lighter, scooped a little of the alcohol with a spoon, and brought the flame over it.
Whoosh-!
Naturally, the alcohol met the flame and began to burn brightly on the spoon.
However, upon seeing the color of the flame, she frowned.
"Oh dear, it's a yellow flame."
I knew exactly what a yellow flame meant.
The standard for determining whether methanol, which is toxic, was mixed into the alcohol was none other than the color of the flame. The rumor was that if it were pure ethanol, it would burn with a blue flame, but if it burned yellow, it meant methanol was mixed in, so you shouldn't drink it.
Well, it was just a superstition, and there was no scientific basis for it, but still.
"Oh. I'm sorry, Miss. I'll change it for a new drink right away!"
As soon as she frowned, the bar manager, who had been watching us from the bar, turned pale and came running over.
"Forget it, all the alcohol coming out these days is like this anyway."
But Rita waved her hand in annoyance, clicked her tongue, and looked at me.
"It's gotten worse since the government messed with industrial alcohol last year. No matter how poorly they make it, it wasn't usually this bad."
"You're right, Miss. Thanks to that, the only way to get decent alcohol is to bring it in from Canada. And it's not like there are that many people who can afford to buy that expensive Canadian whiskey, either."
The manager cleared the glasses and chimed in at Rita's words.
In 1920s America, dominated by Prohibition, even having a drink had long since become a manly act that required risking one's life.
There had been news reports just a few days ago, around Christmas, about several people dying from drinking moonshine, so it wasn't anything new.
"Exactly. You just have to distill it and remove the methanol... it's a tragic situation."
Listening to them, I clicked my tongue and shook my head involuntarily.
At that moment.
"...Honey?"
"...Huh?"
"What did you just say?"
What... did I say?
Under the intense gazes of Rita and the manager, I couldn't hide my embarrassment.