If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead, be sure to check out my P-Tang12!!!
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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
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"Don McLaughlin... Madam McFarlane," Vance began, his voice shaking slightly before he cleared his throat to find his professional cadence. "The Saint Denis Times Literary Press is the most prestigious institution in the city. We propose an unprecedented, highly generous contract. We will cover all overhead costs for the initial printing of five thousand copies. We offer a standard advance of two thousand dollars, and we are prepared to offer the Madam a staggering twelve percent royalty on all gross sales. Furthermore, we will retain the standard publishing rights, but we will guarantee premium placement in every bookstore in Lemoyne."
Vance smiled, a sweaty, desperate look. Twelve percent was actually a phenomenal rate for a first time author in the 1890s, where most writers were lucky to receive five percent after the publisher recouped costs.
But before Caleb could even blink, the negotiation scene violently erupted into a cutthroat battlefield.
Arthur Sterling, head of the Lemoyne Heritage Publishing Group, let out a loud, highly condescending scoff. He saw the exact weakness in Vance's offer and lunged for the throat, completely disregarding the mob setting.
"Twelve percent? Five thousand copies?" Sterling mocked, shaking his head in sheer disbelief. He turned to Caleb, his eyes burning with competitive fire. "Don McLaughlin, with all due respect to Mr. Vance, he is insulting your Madam's brilliance with such conservative numbers. Lemoyne Heritage has double the printing capacity. I will immediately initiate a first run of ten thousand copies. We will offer a five thousand dollar upfront advance, and we will elevate the royalty rate to a massive eighteen percent of gross sales!"
Sterling leaned forward, slamming his hand on the glass table to emphasize his point. "And we won't just keep it in Lemoyne. I have direct distribution channels via the railway straight into Blackwater and New Hanover. We will make her a nationwide sensation!"
Vance's face turned purple with rage. "You arrogant fool, Sterling, you don't have the leather binding craftsmen to support a ten thousand-book run! You'll print them on cheap pulp paper! Don McLaughlin, I can guarantee gold leaf embossing—"
"Silence, both of you amateurs!" Thaddeus Beauregard interrupted, his booming, authoritative voice cutting through the squabble. The oldest and most experienced publisher at the table recognized that small increments would not win the day. He needed a devastating strike.
Beauregard looked directly at Caleb. "The Grand Corinthian Bindery does not play with pennies, Don McLaughlin. I see the vision. I see the empire resting on this table. We will offer a ten thousand dollar advance. We will commit to an initial printing of twenty thousand copies across the entire eastern seaboard. And I am prepared to shatter industry standards. I offer Madam McFarlane a full twenty five percent royalty on every single book sold."
Beauregard cast a triumphant, venomous glare at his two competitors. He had just offered a deal that would normally get a publishing executive fired by his board of directors. But he knew the Harry Potter series would make millions. Even giving away a quarter of the pie left him with a fortune.
The three heads of the publishing houses were now fully engaged in a rabid bidding war. They gave their offers, their voices rising over the gentle trickling of the garden fountain, where they then aggressively upped their offers, constantly calculating in their heads, making sure that they could still get a big, monumental benefit from the deal they were offering, all while trying desperately to one up the other two.
"Twenty five percent is a lie, Beauregard! You'll hide the profits in distribution fees!" Vance shouted, pointing an accusing finger. "Don McLaughlin, I will match his twenty five percent, and I will explicitly write into the contract that the family has full auditing rights to our ledgers!"
"I'll give you thirty percent!" Sterling yelled, entirely losing his high society composure. "Thirty percent, and we launch a dedicated marketing campaign! Posters on every street corner from Saint Denis to Valentine!"
Caleb, sitting at the head of the glass table, of course just let them do this. He leaned back in his comfortable wrought iron chair, sipping his dark Parisian coffee with an expression of mild, detached amusement.
This was exactly what he had engineered. By forcing them into the same room and exposing them to the absolute genius of the manuscripts simultaneously, he had weaponized their greed against one another.
He was letting them bleed themselves dry, ensuring that he could get the biggest, most unprecedented benefits imaginable without ever having to raise his voice or draw a weapon.
Beside him, Mary-Beth just stayed completely silent. She sat rigidly in her chair, her hands gripping the delicate fabric of her cream colored day dress beneath the table. She was incredibly nervous.
The sheer, astronomical numbers being thrown around, thousands of dollars in advances, tens of thousands of copies, nationwide marketing campaigns, were completely overwhelming.
Just a few months ago, she had been reading stolen dime novels by the light of a campfire, praying the Pinkertons wouldn't find them in the morning. Now, three of the wealthiest men in the state were literally screaming at each other for the privilege of printing her words.
She kept her face an impassive, cold mask of aristocratic boredom, exactly as Caleb had instructed her, but her heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
As the shouting match between the three executives reached a fever pitch, with Beauregard desperately promising thirty five percent and Vance threatening to leverage his printing presses, Caleb finally decided that the appetizer was over. It was time for the main course.
Caleb slowly set his porcelain coffee cup down onto its matching saucer. The soft, delicate clink was barely audible, but Caleb instantly deployed his Max Level Leadership Skill. The aura of absolute, terrifying dominance radiated outward from him like a physical shockwave.
The three screaming executives instantly clamped their mouths shut. The sudden silence was deafening. They shrank back into their chairs, suddenly remembering that they were not in a corporate boardroom, but in the private fortress of the city's deadliest predator.
Caleb looked at the three sweating, panting men. He deployed his Max Level Acting Skill, allowing a look of deep, profound disappointment to settle over his handsome features. He looked at them as if they were simple minded children offering him shiny rocks instead of gold.
"Thirty five percent?" Caleb murmured, his voice soft, cold, and dripping with absolute disdain. "A ten thousand dollar advance? You speak of nationwide campaigns, yet you offer me the crumbs of a beggar's feast."
The publishers paled. "D-Don McLaughlin," Beauregard stammered, entirely thrown off balance. "Thirty five percent is entirely unheard of in the history of literature! It is the highest—"
"I am not interested in the history of your insignificant literature, Thaddeus," Caleb cut him off smoothly, his Max Level Business Skill analyzing their entire supply chains, their profit margins, and their absolute desperation. He was about to dismantle their industry.
"You look at these manuscripts, and you see a profitable quarter," Caleb lectured them, his eyes piercing through their corporate shields. "I look at these manuscripts, and I see a monopoly. I see a story that will be translated into twenty languages. I see theatrical stage adaptations. I see merchandise, specialized binding editions, and a legacy that will outlast every single man sitting at this table."
Caleb leaned forward, placing his hands flat on the table, entirely taking control of the negotiation. He was no longer letting them bid, he was dictating terms.
"You are looking at this as competitors," Caleb stated, utilizing his Max Level Persuasion Skill to weave a web of terrifying, unavoidable logic around them. "But I do not want competitors fighting over my Madam's work. I want an empire operating in perfect synergy. Therefore, you are no longer competing against each other. You are going to work together, under my absolute direction."
The three men stared at him, utterly bewildered by the concept. "W-Work together?" Vance whispered.
"Yes," Caleb commanded. "Mr. Vance. Your Saint Denis Times Literary Press has the highest quality ink and the most pristine typesetting facilities. You will be responsible for the master printing. Mr. Beauregard, your Corinthian Bindery has the skilled craftsmen. You will bind the pages in genuine calfskin leather, with gold leaf embossing on every single spine. And Mr. Sterling, your Heritage Group possesses the aggressive railway distribution contracts. You will handle the logistics, ensuring these books reach every bookstore, train station, and general store from Lemoyne to Ambarino."
Caleb smiled, a sharp, predatory grin. "You will form a syndicate. A single, unified publishing conglomerate dedicated entirely to the distribution of Madam McFarlane's work."
"But... the profits, Don McLaughlin," Sterling argued weakly, the businessman in him terrified of sharing revenue. "How do we divide the profits if we pool our resources?"
"You don't divide the profits," Caleb answered, delivering the killing blow. "Because the intellectual property rights, the copyrights, and the absolute ownership of the characters do not belong to you. They remain entirely with Madam McFarlane. You are not buying her books. I am hiring your factories."
The executives gasped, the sheer, ruthless brilliance of the maneuver leaving them reeling. Caleb was effectively turning the most powerful publishers in the state into glorified, highly paid factory workers for his own family.
Caleb laid out the final, non negotiable terms. "Here is the deal. You will form the syndicate. You will print a first run of fifty thousand copies. The family will cover the raw material costs of the paper and the leather upfront, leaving you with zero financial risk. In exchange, Madam McFarlane retains seventy percent of the gross profits from every single book sold. The remaining thirty percent will be split evenly among your three houses to cover your labor, your distribution efforts, and your profit margins."
"Seventy percent?!" Beauregard choked out, his eyes bugging out of his head. "Don McLaughlin, that... that leaves us with only ten percent each! Our margins will be razor thin! It's extortion!"
Caleb's expression turned entirely to ice. The charm vanished, replaced by the terrifying, cold blooded killer who had conquered the city.
"It is not extortion, Thaddeus. It is the cost of doing business with the future," Caleb whispered, his voice vibrating with lethal promise. "Ten percent of a localized, mediocre novel is pennies. But ten percent of a hundreds of thousands dollars, nationwide phenomenon is a fortune. I am offering to make you the wealthiest printers on the eastern seaboard without you having to risk a single dime of your own capital."
Caleb leaned back, folding his arms. "That is the offer. Seventy percent royalties for the Madam, absolute IP retention, and a fifty thousand book unified print run. You take it, and you become rich beyond your wildest dreams. You leave it... and I will simply buy your printing presses tomorrow by force, fire your boards of directors, and print the books myself."
The silence on the back porch was absolute. The three executives looked at the towering stacks of the Harry Potter manuscripts. Their business minds raced. They calculated the sheer, undeniable volume of sales. Caleb was right.
Ten percent of an ocean was infinitely better than one hundred percent of a puddle. The risk was zero, and the potential reward was staggering. Furthermore, rejecting the deal meant facing the violent, unpredictable wrath of the mafia Don.
It was a flawless, inescapable checkmate.
Mr. Vance looked at Sterling, who looked at Beauregard. The three formerly bitter enemies nodded slowly in complete, defeated unison. They had been entirely outplayed, out negotiated, and utterly dominated by a man who understood leverage better than anyone alive.
"We accept your terms, Don McLaughlin," Beauregard said, his voice quiet, a mixture of profound defeat and the thrilling realization of the wealth to come. "We will form the syndicate immediately. Seventy percent royalties to the Madam. We will begin typesetting the first volume of the magical series by nightfall."
"Excellent," Caleb smiled warmly, the terrifying predator instantly vanishing. "I knew you were all highly intelligent men. Antonio!"
The head butler immediately stepped out onto the porch, carrying a silver tray loaded with fresh crystal glasses and a bottle of expensive champagne. "Yes, Don McLaughlin."
"Pour our partners a drink," Caleb commanded magnanimously. "We have a literary empire to celebrate."
As the terrified but secretly ecstatic executives accepted their champagne, Caleb turned his head slightly to look at Mary-Beth.
Mary-Beth sat absolutely frozen in her chair. Her nervous silence had transformed into profound, mind shattering shock. She had just watched the man she loved secure her a seventy percent royalty rate, an astronomical, legendary figure that no author in history had ever achieved, while securing the absolute safety and ownership of her creative soul.
She looked at Caleb, her dark eyes wide, shining with an ocean of unshed tears of pure, overwhelming joy and gratitude. She didn't dare break her aristocratic persona in front of the publishers, but beneath the glass table, she reached out.
Her small, trembling hand found Caleb's, and she squeezed his fingers with all the strength she possessed. Caleb squeezed back gently, a soft, loving smile meant only for her gracing his lips. The war for the underworld was won, the legitimate corporate foundation was laid, and now, the brilliant, beautiful storyteller of the Van der Linde gang was unofficially, undeniably, become the most powerful and wealthiest author of the Gilded Age.
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Name: Caleb Thorne
Age: 23
Body Attributes:
- Strength: 8/10
- Agility: 8/10
- Perception: 9/10
- Stamina: 8/10
- Charm: 8/10
- Luck: 9/10
Skills:
- Handgun (Lvl MAX)
- Rifle (Lvl MAX)
- Firearms Knowledge (Lvl MAX)
- Past Life Memory (Lvl MAX)
- Knife (Lvl MAX)
- Blunt Weapon (Lvl MAX)
- Sneaking (Lvl MAX)
- Horse Mastery (Lvl MAX)
- Poker (Lvl MAX)
- Hand to Hand Combat (Lvl MAX)
- Eagle Eye (Lvl MAX)
- Dead Eye (Lvl MAX)
- Bow (Lvl MAX)
- Pain Nullifier (Lvl MAX)
- Physical Regeneration (Lvl MAX)
- Crafting (Lvl MAX)
- Persuasion (Lvl MAX)
- Mental Fortitude (Lvl MAX)
- Cooking (Lvl MAX)
- Teaching (Lvl MAX)
- Trilingual Language Proficiency - G, I, & C (Lvl MAX)
- Inventory System (Permanent - 100x100x100)
- Acting (Lvl MAX)
- Alcohol Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Treasure Hunter (Lvl MAX)
- Drugs Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Business (Lvl MAX)
- Leadership (Lvl MAX)
Money: 3,322 dollars and 60 cents
Inventory: 285,392 dollars and 61 cents, 11 gold nuggets, 74 gold bars, 1 Double Action, 1 Schofield, 2 Colm's Schofields, 1 land deed (Parcel), 1 Mauser, 1 Semi Auto Pistol, 1 Lancaster Repeater, 1 Old Wood Jewelry Box, 1 F.F Mausoleum small brass key, 1 Ruby, 1 Braithwaites Land Deed, 1 Broken Pirate Sword, 1 Milton's Safety Deposit Key, 1 Senator Pendleton Sealed Envelope, Proof Of Marlin-Thorne Firearms Co., 10 Dynamites, 1 LeMat, 1 M1899, 1 Carcano, 1 Ownership deed of Doyle's Tavern, 3 Diamonds, & Important Documents & Deeds Of Cornwall
Bank: -