3 Days Later.
Ricky sat behind his heavy oak desk, leaning back in his swivel chair. He pushed two fresh leather-bound route ledgers across the wood.
"Congratulations," Ricky said, his voice calm and carrying a firm, grounded authority. "Frank. Eli. You’re officially Route Leaders for the Midtown expansion. Three dollars a day base pay, plus your two-percent commission."
Frank Murphy grinned ear to ear, snatching up his ledger. "Hell yes. Here I thought, I’m the only Murphy who isn’t a route leader."
Eli Morgan picked up his book, a bright, disbelieving smile breaking across his face. Beside him stood his older brother, Caleb. The massive former coal-hauler didn’t smile, his arms crossed tight over his broad chest.
"I’m staying on his wagon," Caleb rumbled, his deep voice carrying absolutely no room for debate. "I don’t care about the route. I ride where my brother rides."
Ricky offered a respectful nod. "I wouldn’t have it any other way, Caleb. Eli leads the route and you’re his vanguard."
Standing near the door, Jimmy Williams adjusted his black flat cap, a sudden, eager itch taking over his posture. He stepped up to the desk. "Say, boss... what about me and my boys? We’ve been breaking our backs hauling double shifts in the Village. When do we get assigned to the Midtown drops?"
"Patience, Jimmy," Ricky said smoothly. "I’m setting up a weekly rotation. Half the crews in Greenwich will work in Midtown, half the crews in Midtown, will work in Greenwhich and we’ll swap every Sunday. Nobody gets stuck on the same streets forever. Plus everybody gets the experience."
Ricky reached for his coffee mug, taking a slow sip. "Besides, Marek hasn’t been back to the loft in five days. He called me on the telephone yesterday morning. The Waldorf-Astoria made him a ’special guest’ after the buzz he caused in their sampling room."
Frank scoffed, shaking his head with a laugh. "That lucky Polish bastard is probably sleeping on silk sheets and eating roasted duck with those 3 women feeding him while we’re hauling lard."
"Hey, give him a break
He’s acting as an ambassador for the company, you know." Ricky chuckled and corrected, a sharp, calculating smile touching his lips. "He has this... innocent look to him, but his tongue is pure silver. The high-society ladies and the hotel managers uptown love him. He’s cementing our brand identity without us lifting a finger. When he comes back down to earth, I’m having Evelynn teach him the basics of corporate administration."
Jimmy frowned slightly, his brow furrowing. "Administration? Why does Marek need to learn how to push papers?"
Ricky set his mug down. The relaxed, conversational atmosphere in the room shifted, replaced by a cold, heavy gravity. Ricky looked at Frank, Eli, Caleb, and Jimmy.
"Because we aren’t going to be hauling wagons in the dark forever, Jimmy," Ricky said quietly. "Sooner or later, every single one of you is going to be the registered president of your own legitimate company. You’ll sit in boardrooms. You’ll recruit politicians, shipping magnates, and elite merchants."
Jimmy swallowed hard, staring at the man sitting behind the desk.
"I’m not going to be the public face," Ricky continued, his gray eyes unshakeable. "I’m going to run the Syndicate from the shadows. But this organization... it isn’t stopping at 14th Street. It isn’t stopping at the Bronx. We’re going to expand across the entire country, and then across the ocean. We are building a global organization, Jimmy."
The room went dead silent.
Jimmy felt the air leave his lungs. He looked at Ricky, entirely stunned. Until this exact second, Jimmy had thought the endgame was simply getting rich—controlling the West Side, making a hundred bucks a week, and drinking premium whiskey. He thought the pinnacle of power was being a guy like Goo Goo Knox or Owney Madden.
But Ricky wasn’t playing the same game. Ricky was looking at the entire world.
Before Jimmy could process the sheer, terrifying scale of the ambition, a sharp, metallic ringing shattered the quiet of the office.
BRRRRING. BRRRRING.
It was the heavy brass candlestick telephone sitting on the corner of Ricky’s desk. The device had just been installed two days ago by a lineman from the Bell company, a massive luxury that cost the Syndicate a small fortune in installation fees.
Ricky glanced at the brass bells. "Excuse me, gents. Time to get to work on your routes."
Frank, Eli, and Caleb gave quick nods and filed out of the office. Jimmy followed them, closing the heavy pine door behind him.
As Jimmy walked down the freshly painted hallway, he listened to the low murmur of voices from the Human Resources room and the clatter of Walter Ross’s adding machine in the Accounting office. A heavy, profound realization washed over him.
My dreams are too small, Jimmy thought, his fists clenching at his sides. I thought having a mountain of silver made you invincible. It doesn’t. Connections make you invincible. Power makes you invincible. He and his brothers were making incredible money for the group, but physically hauling crates wasn’t going to secure a seat at the top of a global empire. On the next rotation, Jimmy swore silently, his jaw setting with fierce determination, I’m building a network. I’m getting to know the politicians. If the Syndicate is going to rule the world, I have to grow with it. I’m going to stand right beside him at the end.
Back inside the office, Ricky picked up the heavy black earpiece of the telephone, holding it to his ear while pulling the brass candlestick transmitter closer to his mouth. Even though he had grown up with sleek, glass-screened smartphones in 2026, using this heavy, mechanical relic of the past felt strangely revolutionary.
"Atlantic & Pacific Trading Company," Ricky said smoothly into the mouthpiece.
The line hissed and popped with static before a nasal, female voice cut through. "Operator. I have a long-distance connection from Miami, Florida. Will you accept the charges?"
Ricky smiled slightly. "Yes. Patch it through."
A series of heavy metallic clicks echoed in the earpiece, followed by the deep, gravelly voice of a man who sounded like he smoked a dozen cigars a day.
"Hello? Kid?"
"Mr. Martinez," Ricky replied, leaning back in his swivel chair. "How glad I am to hear your voice."
"No, no," Don Martinez chuckled, the sound dry and abrasive over the static-filled line. "I’m the one who should be glad. How are you doing these days?"
"I’m doing well," Ricky said. "How is business down south?"
"Business is booming," the Don said, a distinct trace of ruthless satisfaction in his tone. "That whiskey you sold me? The Three Piece? It sold out across my main territory in exactly one week."
Ricky raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised. "Wait, really? Three hundred crates in a week?"
"Aye," Martinez grunted. "Before I even knew it, the patrons were demanding more. I wanted to call you sooner, but I figured you were still getting your telephone lines run. Plus... I couldn’t exactly send a runner to relay a message to you up in New York. I’ve been a little busy handling a few bugs down here."
Ricky caught the subtle, cold edge in the Don’t voice. Bugs. Rival gangs.
"Bugs who got a bit too interested in my new luxury liquor venture," Martinez clarified dryly. "But my house is clean now. So we’re good."
Ricky smirked, resting his boots on the bottom drawer of his desk. "I take it you enjoy crushing those bugs, Mr. Martinez?"
The Don laughed, a deep, rumbling sound. "You guessed right, kid. I do like cleaning my house from infestations. And what better way to lure the roaches out into the open than by flaunting something they desperately want?"
Martinez had intentionally flooded his own market with Ricky’s pristine, cheap luxury whiskey, destroying his rivals’ profit margins and drawing them out into a vulnerable position where his shooters could wipe them out. It was a brutal, brilliant maneuver.
"Alright," Ricky said, getting down to business. "How many crates are we talking about now? I can procure another four hundred for you. How does that sound?"
Martinez scoffed loudly over the receiver. "Four hundred? That’s a lowball, kid, and you know it. I know you’re trying to restrict supply to drive up your prices, but we’re dealing with bugs here. They don’t come out of the woodwork for a few crates."
Ricky smiled, thoroughly enjoying the chess match. "I apologize, Mr. Martinez, but I’m already stretching my supply lines as it is. My weekly deliveries to the saloons and restaurants in Midtown Manhattan are taking up a massive chunk of my inventory."
The Don let out a heavy sigh, instantly recognizing Ricky’s calculated hustle. "Alright, alright, you greedy bastard. I’ll buy it for whatever inflated price you want to charge. But I want volume. I want twelve hundred crates of the Three Piece. And I want a hundred crates of the Royal Spades."
Ricky’s eyes widened slightly. Twelve hundred crates. "If my infestation stays gone," Martinez continued, his tone shifting into hard negotiation, "I want steep discounts on my weekly deliveries moving forward, you understand? And I want you to start showing me what else your mysterious supplier can pull off. I want anything more than just liquor. Dry goods. Tobacco. Give me a catalog."
"Of course, Mr. Martinez," Ricky smiled broadly. "I’ll have a full manifest sent down with the shipment."
The Don sighed again, the sound heavy with age. "Christ, I’m too old for this shit. I’d be fine sitting on a porch if my own son was a cunning bastard like you, Ricky. A cunning bastard who actually knows how to make money. But no... he just wants to stand on soapboxes, speak in front of people, and make empty political promises."
Ricky didn’t pry into the Don’s family drama. "I’ll have the shipment staged at the Miami port by next week. The boys will call your handlers when it’s secured."
"I’ll call you later, kid," Martinez said. "I nearly forgot I still have some blood on the floor that needs my attention."
"It’s a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Martinez," Ricky said.
The line clicked dead.
Ricky slowly lowered the heavy black earpiece back onto the brass hook. He turned his chair, looking out the dirt-streaked window at the bustling, smoke-filled Manhattan skyline. A deeply satisfied smile spread across his face.
It wouldn’t take a year for the Founder’s Syndicate to expand throughout New York, and by extension, into France and Europe.
His mind raced forward, analyzing the timeline. The calendar read 1910. He had exactly four years. Before World War I erupted in 1914, he needed to use these massive liquor profits to buy real estate and establish a legitimate front as a heavy industrial manufacturer.
Companies manufacturing weapons and steel make a shit ton of money from the first war, Ricky thought, his gray eyes going cold and calculating. And with another war coming in 1939... we’ll make enough money to build a mountain out of it.
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