After Ricky’s speech, the tight tension in the basement lounge melted away, replaced instantly by the familiar, roaring energy of the Syndicate.
Ricky hopped down off the bar counter and found an open stool near the tap. Before he could even sit down, Frank Murphy pushed his way behind the mahogany counter, rolling up his sleeves with a boastful grin.
"Out of the way, gents!" Frank announced, grabbing a glass shaker and reaching for a row of imported liqueur bottles. "Tonight, I am your master mixologist. I picked up a brand-new recipe from a fella who works the bar at the Plaza Hotel uptown. He calls it ’The Bomb’."
Arthur, sitting two stools down, rolled his eyes and scoffed into his glass. "The only thing exploding tonight is going to be our stomachs if you start mixing randomly, Frank. Stick to pouring rye."
"You lack vision, Arthur!" Frank shot back, aggressively shaking a mixture of amber whiskey, sweet syrup, and a splash of dark bitter. "A high-class establishment needs high-class spirits. Drink up!"
The crowd around the bar burst into laughter as Frank poured out his questionable creation. Across the room, a few route drivers hoisted their tin mugs toward Marek.
"Hey, Mr. President!" one of the senior drivers hollered over the noise. "When’s the grand wedding? Or should we be asking which day of the week you’re marrying which triplet?"
Marek groaned loudly, burying his face in his hands as the room erupted into cheers and teasing whistles. "Don’t you start too," Marek muttered, pointing a finger at Danny Brians, who was laughing heartily from a side booth. "Old man Callahan is completely out of his mind, I’m telling you."
"Hey, three wealthy uptown brides at once?" Danny chuckled, raising his glass. "Sounds like a tough life, Marek. We’re all weeping for you."
Before the teasing could spiral any further, the heavy wooden door at the top of the basement stairs clicked open.
Arthur’s head snapped toward the entrance, his bantering smile instantly softening into something surprisingly gentle. A young woman stepped carefully down the stairs, holding the strap of her leather handbag with both hands. She was dressed in a simple, neatly tailored dark blue dress, her hair pinned up with understated elegance.
Arthur stood up immediately, brushing off his vest as he walked over to meet her at the bottom of the steps. He took her coat with practiced care and guided her toward the center of the room.
"Listen up, everyone," Arthur said, his usual tough-guy voice dropping into a proud, slightly nervous tone. "Quiet down for a second. I want you all to meet someone."
The noise in the room tapered off as the men turned around.
"This is Rosemary... Rosemary Vander," Arthur introduced, looking over at her with a soft smile. "She’s a senior garment designer over at Thurn uptown... and she’s my girl."
Rosemary offered a timid, remarkably sweet wave, her cheeks flushing a light pink under the gas lamps. "H-hello, everyone," she said, her voice quiet and polite. "It’s... very nice to meet all of you."
For a second, the crew stared in mild shock. Then the basement practically shook with thunderous cheers.
"Attaboy, Arthur!" Frank yelled from behind the bar, slamming his hand on the wood. "Our roughneck finally found a proper lady!"
"Don’t scare her off, Arthur!" another driver shouted.
Rosemary let out a soft, relieved laugh, holding onto Arthur’s arm as he led her toward a quiet booth. In the corner of the room, someone sat down at the upright piano, striking up a lively ragtime tempo, while one of the tenement boys pulled out a brass trumpet to match the rhythm. Within minutes, half the room was clapping, dancing, and shouting jokes across the tables.
Ricky sat back on his stool, a quiet smile on his face as he watched the celebration.
Evelynn Vance stepped up beside him, holding a small glass of cider. She looked down at him through her thin spectacles. "I liked your little speech earlier, boss," she said softly. "To be honest, I thought you’d give us three quick sentences and tell everyone to get back to work."
Ricky scoffed, shaking his head. "Honestly? It felt pretty rough around the edges."
"That’s why it worked," Evelynn replied, her voice calm and sincere. "It wasn’t some polished, rehearsed speech written by a politician. It was raw, and everyone in this room knew every word came directly from you."
Ricky shrugged, taking a sip of his water. "I’m still a little embarrassed thinking about it."
"Don’t be," Evelynn said with a subtle smirk. "You gave them something to believe in besides just a weekly paycheck."
The party continued late into the night. Up on Washington Street, passing pedestrians and nearby residents glanced curiously at the closed doors of the building, listening to the muffled piano chords and distant laughter, wondering if a brand-new saloon had secretly opened in the neighborhood.
Seven days passed, and the quiet celebration gave way to a relentless, high-speed tide of expansion.
Over on Hudson Street, the atmosphere at the six-story Harrison & Bell building was completely transformed. Marek, Tom, and the McClain brothers officially moved into the top-floor executive suite. Evelynn spent the entire first week stationed there, guiding them through the complex paper trail of international shipping manifests, customs clearances, and wholesale ledgers until the new management team found their footing.
Just a few blocks down on the same street, Atlantic & Pacific Trading Company opened its new official corporate headquarters. The five-story brick structure was slightly smaller than the Harrison building, but it gave Ricky a clean, respectable corporate facade. Better yet, the syndicate’s primary staging warehouse was situated directly across the street, making inventory oversight and wagon dispatching entirely seamless.
Back on Washington Street, Aunt Molly’s old loft was repurposed into a central staging post run by Danny Brians. Every morning at dawn, between twenty and thirty local men recruited from the Greenwich tenement blocks gathered at the loft. They were given clean canvas aprons, served a hot breakfast, and organized into wagon crews before heading out on their daily delivery routes.
Inside the new Atlantic & Pacific office, Ricky was buried under an avalanche of administrative work.
"Boss, the customer service line is ringing off the hook!" a newly hired clerk called out, holding a sheaf of paper. "We have twelve new grocery orders from Midtown and five bulk requests from the hotels on Broadway."
"Route them to Jimmy’s team," Ricky ordered, signing off on a supply invoice without looking up. "Tell them orders placed before noon go out on the two o’clock wagons."
Ricky personally handled the final interviews for the expanding office staff. He vetted accountants, telephone operators, and administrative clerks, ensuring that every person brought into the core headquarters was capable, discreet, and sharp. The entire building buzzed with non-stop activity from sunup to dusk as the new staff raced to keep up with the overwhelming flood of daily orders.
Down in Greenwich, the mood was vastly different.
Inside his private backroom office, Barney lay stretched out on his worn leather sofa, staring at the water-stained ceiling while listening to the reports from his lieutenants.
When his men confirmed the rumors he had been hearing in the saloons—that dozens of his own corner boys were walking over to Washington street every morning to work wagon shifts for Richard Stevenson—Barney snapped.
He leapt up from the sofa, grabbed a heavy wooden chair, and slammed it against the wall with a deafening crash. He kicked over a brass coat rack and swept a stack of papers and empty glasses off his desk, sending shattered glass flying across the floor.
"Unbelievable!" Barney roared, his face turning red as he breathed heavily. "Using my own men right under my nose! He didn’t even have the decency to ask!"
He stomped back and forth across the room, seething with jealousy. The local street talk was infuriating. Saloon owners and corner boys were openly talking about how much better it was to work for the "Commission Boys"—how Ricky paid higher daily wages, provided hot meals, and didn’t treat his workers like street scum.
Barney knew he couldn’t touch Ricky. Ricky was his main goldmine, supplying the premium whiskey that kept Barney’s saloons profitable. Furthermore, Ricky had just moved his main headquarters and warehouse onto Hudson Street—right into territory of Circular Jack.
If Barney tried to make an aggressive move against Ricky, Ricky could easily cut him off, partner exclusively with Jack or Kid Yorke, and leave Barney stranded.
Barney sank back into his desk chair, his chest heaving. He reached for a bottle of Royal Spades and poured himself a heavy glass, his hands shaking slightly.
"It doesn’t matter," Barney muttered to himself, taking a long drink to steady his nerves. "It doesn’t change anything. His delivery wagons still have to drive right through Greenwich to reach his buyers. I still hold the leash on these streets. He needs me."
He forced a dry, rasping laugh, trying desperately to convince himself that he was still in total control.
A knock sounded at the door, and his trusted money-counter stepped into the office, carefully stepping over the broken glass on the floor. He carried a heavy metal cash box in his hands.
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