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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
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"Good. Trust your instincts on this," Caleb said. He paused, eyeing the two men carefully. "Have you encountered any significant friction with the local underworld while you've been kicking these doors down?"
John and Javier exchanged a quick, highly amused look.
"We've crossed paths with a few of the local boys," Javier admitted, spinning a silver coin across his knuckles. "Some thugs from the Five Points tried to shake us down outside a copper foundry. But... nothing occurred that we couldn't handle."
"We deliberately avoided causing any unnecessary trouble, Caleb," John reassured him, his tone turning serious. "We didn't draw irons. We just broke a few noses and walked away. We know you don't want a street war while we're still trying to set the table."
"Exactly," Caleb agreed, genuinely pleased with their discipline. "For now, we do not need to make a great stir. Our absolute priority right now is gathering information, securing contacts, and understanding the nervous system of this city. I want New York to recognize our strength gradually. We will not give the gangs or the police a reason to unite against us before we are entrenched."
Caleb turned back to his accountant. "Strauss. Give me the schedule for the cooperative contacts. Who is first?"
Strauss opened his ledger, reading the precise itinerary. "First, this morning, you will meet Cornelius Van Der Rohe, the Wall Street banker. Second, this afternoon, you have an appointment with Deputy Police Commissioner Ewan Macleod."
"Tomorrow," Strauss continued, "you will meet 'Iron' Mike Hoolihan of the stevedores union. Following that, State Senator Julian Astor. And finally, on the day after those meetings, Alderman Dickie Vance."
Caleb nodded slowly, committing the order to memory. He understood intrinsically that he was not simply collecting a series of random favors, he was constructing a highly complex, interlocking network. Each of these men controlled a fundamentally different, vital piece of New York, capital, law enforcement, heavy industry, state legislation, and local political machinery. He would need to approach each meeting with an entirely different psychological strategy.
"The briefing is concluded for now," Caleb announced, rising from his chair. "Hosea, Strauss. You two are accompanying me today. Change your clothes."
An hour later, the three men stepped out of the Waldorf-Astoria. They were dressed not as mobsters, but as the absolute elite of American industry. Caleb wore a bespoke, midnight blue European suit that radiated staggering wealth and rising national power. Hosea looked incredibly respectable and distinguished in a tailored grey morning coat, exuding the quiet authority of an experienced senior partner, while Herr Strauss looked every inch the polished, meticulous European financial representative.
Their first stop was the towering, granite faced headquarters of one of Wall Street's most prestigious investment banks.
They were escorted past rows of frantic clerks and ticking ticker tape machines, directly into the sprawling, mahogany paneled corner office of Cornelius Van Der Rohe.
Van Der Rohe was a man in his late fifties, possessing the sharp, aristocratic features of entrenched New York old money. He sat behind a massive desk, smoking a cigar, exuding an aura of immense financial power and a deep, ingrained belief in his own superiority. He was a man who practically owned the markets, but Caleb knew from Pendleton's briefing that Van Der Rohe privately despised the crude, grubby political corruption of Tammany Hall, even as he was forced to fund it to protect his investments.
"Mr. Thorne," Van Der Rohe greeted him, standing up but not offering a bow, extending a firm hand instead. "A pleasure. I received the Bordeaux you sent. An exquisite vintage. You have expensive taste for a Southerner."
"And you have excellent taste in accepting it, Mr. Van Der Rohe," Caleb replied smoothly, shaking the banker's hand with a firm, confident grip. "Allow me to introduce my senior associates, Mr. Matthews and Herr Strauss."
As they took their seats in the plush leather chairs opposite the desk, the conversation began with a calculated, deliberate caution. Van Der Rohe already knew something of Caleb's reputation. The Thorne name had been quietly echoing through the financial districts. He knew about the success of Thorne-Marlin, the explosive bicycle boom in Saint Denis, and Caleb's reputation as an unusually young, but terrifyingly capable businessman.
"So," Van Der Rohe began, leaning back in his chair. "The conquering hero of Lemoyne comes to Wall Street. Tell me, Mr. Thorne. What exactly is a firearms manufacturer doing in New York? The military contracts are handled in Washington."
Caleb didn't reveal every card in his hand. He didn't mention Nikola Tesla or wireless electricity. He approached the banker entirely as a visionary industrialist.
"I am not just a firearms manufacturer, Cornelius," Caleb said confidently, immediately establishing them on a first-name basis as equals. "I am expanding a national industrial network. We have saturated the Southern markets with the Thorne Cycle, and our logistics networks are operating at peak efficiency. I am here because I intend to build companies that operate far beyond the borders of Saint Denis. I am looking at heavy manufacturing, national transportation infrastructures, and emerging technologies."
Van Der Rohe's eyes narrowed slightly, a spark of genuine interest catching in his gaze. "National distribution? That requires staggering amounts of raw capital, Mr. Thorne. Even for a man of your... rumored wealth. You are talking about moving thousands of tons of freight."
"I am aware of the capital requirements," Caleb answered naturally, his tone dripping with quiet intelligence. "Which is precisely why I am sitting in this office. I have the manufacturing capacity, the patents, and the ambition. But when I expand into the Northern and European markets, I will require the specialized international lines of credit, the raw material import channels, and the Wall Street backing that only an institution of your pedigree can clear quickly."
Strauss seamlessly interjected, opening his ledger to present a highly curated, flawless summary of Thorne-Marlin's quarterly growth margins. Van Der Rohe reviewed the numbers, his eyebrows rising in genuine surprise.
"These margins are... exceptional," the banker admitted, looking back up at Caleb with newfound respect.
"They are just the beginning," Caleb promised.
As the conversation flowed, Hosea masterfully steered the dialogue toward the delicate subject of New York politics.
"It is a shame, however," Hosea murmured, shaking his head with a disappointed sigh. "That expanding such profitable ventures into this city requires dealing with the... less refined elements of local government. The red tape of the wards can be so terribly suffocating to true commerce."
Van Der Rohe's expression instantly soured, exactly as Caleb had anticipated.
"Tammany Hall," Van Der Rohe spat the name like a curse, leaning forward. "They are a plague on this city, Mr. Thorne. They know nothing of industry or progress. They only know how to hold out their hands and demand a toll on the work of better men. It is the greatest tragedy of New York."
"Then we share a common philosophy, Cornelius," Caleb said smoothly, locking eyes with the banker.
Caleb carefully avoided making any reckless, concrete promises about destroying the political machine. Instead, he offered the banker exactly what he wanted: a highly lucrative, exclusive alternative.
"I cannot change the politics of this city overnight," Caleb reasoned softly. "But I can offer you a partnership in industries that are practically immune to their extortion. When I launch my next manufacturing ventures, technologies that will render current infrastructures obsolete, I am offering you, and your bank, the absolute first right of refusal on the investment bonds. We can build a national network that simply outpaces the politicians."
The meeting concluded on a high, incredibly successful note. Van Der Rohe, thoroughly impressed by Caleb's intellect and his sheer, unadulterated ambition, agreed to formally introduce Caleb to a select group of high level financial figures at his private club. He promised to assist Caleb in navigating the treacherous waters of Wall Street, and potentially arrange the massive financing services Caleb would need for his future expansions.
"It has been a pleasure, Caleb," Van Der Rohe smiled, shaking his hand warmly as they left. "I look forward to our next meeting."
As Caleb, Hosea, and Strauss stepped back out into the freezing New York air, they didn't pause to celebrate. They immediately boarded their carriage and headed toward the imposing, stone faced headquarters of the NYPD.
It was time for the second meeting of the day, the Deputy Police Commissioner Ewan Macleod.
This meeting was noticeably, fundamentally different from the plush, cigar scented elegance of the banker's office. Macleod's office was austere, smelling of stale coffee, cheap ink, and cold authority.
Macleod was a massive, broad shouldered man with a thick, graying mustache and eyes that had seen every brutal corner of the city. He didn't care about national distribution or European credit lines. He cared about order, street-level politics, reputation, and absolute control over his jurisdiction.
Caleb's objective here was far more complicated and delicate. He needed a degree of protection and practical immunity from unnecessary police interference for his capos, but he could not walk into a police precinct and openly bribe a Deputy Commissioner to ignore murder.
"Don Thorne," Macleod grunted, remaining seated behind his desk as they entered. "Senator Pendleton speaks highly of you. Says you cleaned up Saint Denis. But let me be perfectly clear with you right now, Mr. Thorne. New York is not Saint Denis. You cannot buy my entire department, and I will not pretend you do not exist just because you wear a nice suit."
"I would never insult your intelligence by suggesting such a thing, Commissioner," Caleb replied calmly, taking a seat. He remained entirely respectful, exuding a quiet, formidable confidence. "I am not here to bring chaos into your city. I am a businessman."
"A businessman who travels with two dozen heavily armed Italians," Macleod noted dryly, crossing his thick arms. "Word on the street is that your boys have already been asking questions down in the Five Points. I don't want a turf war in my industrial wards, Thorne. I've got enough problems with the local gangs."
"And that is exactly why we should establish a working relationship," Caleb countered smoothly, framing the negotiation as a mutual, highly beneficial cooperation.
"I have vast resources, Commissioner," Caleb explained, his voice low and reasonable. "My organization is highly disciplined. We do not deal in petty street crime, we do not rob banks, and we do not harass citizens. My interests are strictly corporate. If my men are operating in your city, they are doing so to protect my legitimate investments."
Caleb leaned forward slightly. "I am willing to help you maintain stability in the wards where I operate. If my organization uncovers information regarding dangerous, volatile criminals that threaten the peace of this city... we can quietly pass that information to you. We can prevent problems from spilling into the streets before your officers ever have to draw their batons."
Macleod's eyes narrowed as he weighed the offer. He was a deeply pragmatic man. He knew Caleb had the capital to cause massive problems if he was treated as an enemy, and he knew the NYPD was already stretched thin. Having a powerful, disciplined syndicate acting as a stabilizing force, and occasionally feeding him high level arrests to boost his political profile, was an incredibly tempting proposition.
"You want my officers to look the other way when your men are moving freight," Macleod translated bluntly.
"I want the assurance that my legitimate businesses, and my men, will not be unnecessarily harassed or targeted without just cause," Caleb clarified, maintaining the subtle tension of the negotiation. "As long as we keep the peace, and as long as we do not break the laws of this city, I expect to be left to my work. A practical understanding."
Macleod stared at Caleb for a long, heavy moment. He recognized a predator when he saw one, but he also recognized a man who kept his word.
"Alright, Thorne," Macleod finally grunted, leaning back in his chair. "A practical understanding. But hear me now, if your boys start shooting up my streets, or if you bring a gang war onto my docks, this understanding evaporates, and I will personally authorize raids on every property you own in this state."
"You have my word, Commissioner. We are here to build, not destroy," Caleb promised.
As Caleb, Hosea, and Strauss finally returned to the Waldorf-Astoria as evening fell over the city, Caleb walked through the gilded lobby with a profound sense of accomplishment.
He reflected on the staggering progress he had made during his very first serious day of business in New York. He had secured a powerful, highly influential Wall Street ally to fund his future, established a working, pragmatic understanding with senior law enforcement to protect his men, and his best gunslingers had promising leads on the most brilliant inventor of the century.
The gas lamps of New York were already flickering to life against the encroaching twilight when Caleb finally returned to the Waldorf-Astoria. The bustling energy of the city streets faded the moment he stepped into the hushed, gilded elegance of the hotel lobby, but it wasn't until he unlocked the heavy mahogany doors of the Presidential suite that the weight of the day truly began to lift from his shoulders.
Mary-Beth was waiting for him. She had ordered dinner to the suite, and a lavish spread of roasted duck, glazed root vegetables, and a bottle of chilled white wine was set out on the dining table near the floor to ceiling windows.
"You look exhausted, Mr. Thorne," Mary-Beth smiled warmly, stepping forward to help him slip the heavy wool overcoat from his shoulders.
"Just navigating the locals, Mrs. Thorne," Caleb chuckled, pulling her in for a soft, lingering kiss. "The air up here is a bit thicker than in Lemoyne. How was your day?"
They sat down at the table, the glittering, sprawling expanse of the New York skyline serving as their backdrop. As they ate, Mary-Beth excitedly recounted her afternoon with Sadie. They had explored the sprawling department stores along Fifth Avenue, marveling at the endless racks of imported coats and the dizzying variety of modern fashions.
"Sadie nearly caused a riot in a millinery shop when a clerk tried to tell her a certain hat wasn't 'appropriate' for a woman of her stature," Mary-Beth laughed, her eyes dancing with amusement. "I think the poor man thought she was going to draw a knife on him."
Caleb laughed out loud, genuinely enjoying the image. In return, Mary-Beth asked about his day, her tone supportive and deeply interested.
Caleb honored his promise to keep the heavy, suffocating details of corporate warfare at bay, but he shared enough to let her into his world. He spoke of the imposing architecture of Wall Street and the gruff, pragmatic nature of the Deputy Police Commissioner.
"They are different kinds of men than the ones we dealt with in the South," Caleb explained, swirling the wine in his glass. "They don't shout, and they don't threaten you in the streets. They do it behind mahogany desks with contracts and badges. But they all want the same thing. They just want to know where they fit into the future."
"And you made sure they know they fit right behind you," Mary-Beth smiled knowingly.
"Naturally," Caleb grinned.
When the plates were cleared and the hotel staff had discreetly retreated, the atmosphere in the suite shifted into something much softer and profoundly private. The great public spectacle of the day was entirely over. Caleb unbuttoned his waistcoat, the exhaustion of the negotiations finally catching up to him.
"Come here," Mary-Beth whispered, taking his hand and leading him toward the lavish, marble tiled en suite bathroom.
She turned the polished brass taps, letting thick, warm steam billow into the cool air as the massive shower enclosure filled with heat. They stripped away the heavy fabrics of the day, the starched collars, the silk ties, the corsets, and the concealed shoulder holsters.
Stepping into the cascading warm water together, the lingering grime and the heavy tension of the city were instantly washed away. The scene was incredibly tender and emotionally close. Caleb stood behind her, his strong hands gently massaging the tense muscles of her shoulders, his thumbs tracing the delicate curve of her spine. Mary-Beth leaned back against his chest, letting out a soft, breathless sigh as the hot water cascaded over them.
There was no rush, no frantic urgency. Caleb gently washed her dark hair, his touch careful and reverent. Mary-Beth turned in his arms, her hands resting flat against his chest as she looked up into his eyes. The steam hung thick in the air, wrapping them in a completely isolated cocoon. Caleb leaned down, his lips meeting hers in a slow, deeply sensual kiss that communicated a thousand words of trust, affection, and absolute happiness.
By the time they finally dried off, changing into soft sleepwear, they were completely, blissfully exhausted. They climbed into the massive four poster bed, tangling their limbs together beneath the heavy quilts, and fell asleep with the comforting, distant rumble of the city far below them.
The next morning, the sharp reality of Caleb's ambitions resumed.
He dressed in one of his finest suits, a pristine, charcoal grey three piece cut from heavy English wool, and met Hosea and Strauss in the lobby. Both men were dressed impeccably, mirroring Caleb's aura of high level industrial authority.
Their first meeting of the day required a journey away from the polished avenues of high society and down into the gritty, freezing, and unforgiving territory of the Brooklyn waterfront.
They were going to meet "Iron" Mike Hoolihan, the supreme leader of New York's stevedores and longshoremen.
The carriage dropped them off outside a massive, corrugated-iron warehouse that smelled overwhelmingly of brine, dead fish, and engine grease. The docks were a chaotic blur of shouting foremen, massive wooden crates swinging from rusty cranes, and hundreds of broad-shouldered laborers loading freight onto massive ocean liners.
Mike Hoolihan's office was a cramped, uninsulated wooden shack suspended above the warehouse floor, accessed by a rickety iron staircase.
When Caleb, Hosea, and Strauss stepped inside, they found Hoolihan sitting behind a scarred wooden desk, cleaning the dirt from his fingernails with a heavy steel shipping hook. Hoolihan was a mountain of a man, with a face that looked like it had been repeatedly smashed with a brick and a thick, bristling red beard. He controlled the labor network responsible for moving practically every crate entering or leaving the ports of Manhattan and Brooklyn.
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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: 2,772 dollars and 60 cents
Inventory: 283,392 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 Broken Pirate Sword, 1 Milton's Safety Deposit Key, 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: -