Back to 1910: Building America's Greatest Mafia

The black spring-wagon pulled up to the curb near the corner of Hudson and Gansevoort Streets, stopping in front of a imposing six-story brick building.

​Ricky looked up through the carriage window. The brickwork was clean, well-maintained, and capped with heavy stone cornices. Painted neatly across the broad lintel above the second-floor windows were large gold-leaf letters: Harrison & Bell Limited – Importers & Wholesalers.

​"This is it," Ricky murmured, stepping out onto the sidewalk. He turned to offer a hand to Evelynn as she stepped down, followed closely by Marek, who was still adjusting his flat cap and vest.

​They walked up the stone steps and through the double glass doors into the main storefront. The interior was striking—designed in a sleek, Grecian style with polished marble counters, fluted plaster columns, and high-backed leather chairs where visiting buyers could sample product lines or make inquiries. A few well-dressed clerks stood behind mahogany desks, though the room was quiet, devoid of the bustling crowds of buyers that usually filled such established trading houses.

​A young female clerk in a crisp, dark blouse looked up from her desk, offering a polite smile as they approached. "Good morning, gentlemen, lady. How may I help you today?"

​"Good morning," Ricky said smoothly, offering a calm, grounded smile. "I have an appointment with Mr. Harrison."

​"Ah, yes," the clerk said, standing up immediately. "Mr. Stevenson? Please, follow me."

​She gestured toward a paneled door marked Authorized Personnel Only. They followed her down a quiet, carpeted hallway lined with private office doors, eventually emerging onto a metal catwalk overlooking a cavernous, indoor loading depot. Down below, two large freight elevators sat quiet, and only a handful of warehouse laborers were moving crates across the concrete staging area toward the rear loading bays.

​The clerk led them to an electric elevator at the side of the depot. They rode it up to the sixth floor, where the iron gate slid open onto a quiet, sunlit corridor. At the end of the hall, she opened a heavy oak door into a spacious conference room.

​"Please wait here for a moment," the clerk said politely, bowing her head. "I will inform Mr. Harrison that you’ve arrived."

​"Thank you," Ricky replied.

​The door closed softly. The conference room was remarkably clean and minimalist, decorated with polished walnut paneling, a long conference table, and wide glass windows offering a sweeping view of the Hudson River.

​Before Marek could even sit down, the conference room door opened.

​An elderly man in his sixties stepped into the room. He wore a well-tailored, dark wool three-piece suit. His hair was silver-white, neatly combed, and his sharp, tired eyes scanned the three visitors as he stepped up to the table.

​"Mr. Stevenson?" the man asked, his voice carrying the deep, raspy cadence of a veteran merchant. "I am Neil Harrison."

​"Mr. Harrison," Ricky said, stepping forward and extending his gloved hand. "Pleased to meet you. This is my executive secretary, Miss Vance, and my associate, Mr. Kowalski."

​They shook hands, and Neil Harrison gestured to the leather armchairs around the long table. "Please, sit. I must admit, I was somewhat surprised when your secretary called to request an urgent meeting today. How can Harrison & Bell be of service to you?"

​Ricky took his seat, crossing his legs casually as he looked the old merchant in the eye. He didn’t bother with corporate poetry.

​"I’ll be direct with you, Mr. Harrison," Ricky said, his voice calm, steady, and carrying absolute authority. "I’m here to buy your company."

​Neil Harrison froze. His hands, resting on the mahogany table, twitched slightly. He stared at Ricky, thoroughly stunned, blinking as if he hadn’t heard the words correctly.

​"Buy... my company?" Neil stammered, a dry, nervous laugh escaping his lips. "Mr. Stevenson, Harrison & Bell is a thirty-year-old firm. We aren’t a corner grocery store up for auction. As much as I appreciate your confidence... I have no intention of liquidating my life’s work."

​Ricky didn’t blink. He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the polished wood.

​"Mr. Harrison," Ricky said softly, "you have an outstanding bank loan of thirty-six thousand, seven hundred dollars sitting on your books right now. Over the past three years, your net revenue was stable enough to clear that debt over time. But over the last two months... your monthly revenue has been cut right in half."

​Neil’s breath hitched in his throat. Color drained rapidly from his weathered face. "How... where did you get those numbers?"

​Ricky continued as if the old man hadn’t spoken. "Because of your declining income, the bank is already squeezing your credit line. You’ve had to initiate layoffs in your warehouse, you can’t afford to buy new import stock from Great Britain or Argentina, and within two years, the interest payments alone will drown you. The bank will foreclose, seize this building, and sell your assets for pennies."

​Neil Harrison sat frozen in his chair, staring at the nineteen-year-old sitting across from him. He didn’t ask how Ricky knew the private ledgers of his accountants. The numbers were entirely accurate.

​Neil slowly lowered his head, letting out a long, shuddering breath. The defensive pride of a veteran merchant collapsed, replaced by the sheer, crushing exhaustion he had carried alone for months.

​"You’re right," Neil whispered, his raspy voice shaking. "You’re completely right."

​He looked toward the wide window overlooking the river. "For thirty years, I built this house. Most of our regular buyers came from Greenwich, Chelsea, and Midtown. But over the last month... a new, aggressive distributor took over Greenwich overnight. My clients stopped ordering. My stock sat on the pallets."

​Neil offered a sad, self-deprecating smile. "I know business is business. There are no personal feelings on the market. But I always hoped... I prayed my sons and my grandsons would inherit this firm. That Harrison & Bell would secure my family’s future for generations. But I was too cautious. Years ago, I should have taken risks. I should have expanded our lines into Brooklyn, the Bronx, and East Manhattan. But I was afraid of taking on more debt... and now, my fear has brought my house to the brink of ruin."

​Evelynn watched the old man quietly, while Marek looked down at his lap, a familiar pang of sympathy in his chest.

​Ricky felt the weight of the moment, but his corporate mind remained sharp and pragmatic.

​"Mr. Harrison," Ricky said gently, "I’m offering you a way out. I will buy Harrison & Bell Limited, and my syndicate will shoulder your thirty-six thousand dollar bank loan entirely. Your thirty years of hard work won’t go to auction, and the Harrison name won’t be dragged through the bankruptcy courts."

​Neil looked up, his eyes bloodshot, searching Ricky’s unshakeable gray eyes. He saw no cruelty in the young man’s face, only a cold, incredible competence. He looked younger than Neil’s own sons, yet he commanded enough capital to buy a six-story trading house without flinching.

​A profound, overwhelming sense of relief washed over Neil Harrison. The crushing weight he had carried for months suddenly evaporated. His legacy would survive, even if the reins passed to another man.

​Neil offered a faint, genuinely grateful smile, nodding slowly. "I agree to the buyout, Mr. Stevenson. But... I have two conditions."

​Ricky raised an eyebrow, keeping his tone conversational. "Let’s hear them."

​"First," Neil said, leaning forward, "I want my family to retain a twenty percent equity share in the company for the next five years. Just enough for the annual dividends, so my sons have enough capital to start their own modest ventures. After five years, you can buy out the remaining fifteen percent."

​Neil held up two fingers. "Second... if my sons do decide to open their own independent retail shops or small manufacturing businesses in the future, your company agrees to act as their exclusive supplier, offering them wholesale rates so they can succeed."

​Ricky considered the terms for a brief second, his analytical mind testing the structure.

​"The second condition is a deal," Ricky agreed instantly. "We’ll gladly act as their exclusive supplier and give them wholesale rates. It saves them capital and guarantees us a loyal retail outlet."

​Ricky then addressed the first condition. "As for the equity... if you hold twenty percent, you would technically have to shoulder twenty percent of the bank debt we’re absorbing. But how about this: We’ll pay one hundred percent debt and you keep a fifteen percent dividend share for ten years, and after five years, you can choose whether to sell that share back to us or keep it."

​Neil stared at him, thoroughly stunned. It was a far better offer than he had dared to hope for. It completely shielded his sons from the bank debt while guaranteeing them a steady income stream for five years.

​"You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Stevenson," Neil said, a genuine laugh bubbling in his chest. "I accept."

​Ricky looked over at Marek. "What do you think, Marek?"

​Marek snapped out of his trance, offering a firm nod. "It’s a fair deal for both sides, Ricky."

​Neil adjusted his vest, pulling a ledger sheet toward him. "Based on our physical property valuation—this six-story building, the electric elevators, the loading bay, and our active import contracts—the company’s net valuation sits at roughly fifty-six thousand, seven hundred dollars. Minus the equity split... the direct cash purchase price comes to forty-eight thousand, one hundred dollars."

​Ricky smiled. "Alright. Deal."

​Neil let out a light chuckle, looking around his spacious conference room. "To be honest... when I first bought this building from a friend twenty years ago, I dreamed of filling all six floors with bustling offices and hundreds of clerks. But we only ever utilized three floors—the top office, the second-floor warehouse, and the ground loading depot. The third, fourth, and fifth floors have been sitting empty, used as temporary sleeping quarters for night-shift loaders. I always hoped we’d grow enough to fill the whole building... perhaps now, under your leadership, it finally will."

​"It will," Ricky promised softly.

​Ricky reached down beside his chair, hoisting three heavy leather satchels onto the mahogany conference table. The heavy metallic clink of silver and the crisp rustle of paper filled the quiet room.

​Ricky unbuckled the straps, opening the flaps to reveal stacks of brand-new, uncirculated United States currency bills.

​"There’s fifty thousand dollars in cash in these satchels, Mr. Harrison," Ricky said smoothly. "You can count it if you’d like. You can keep the remaining nineteen hundred dollars as a personal bonus for your trouble."

​Neil Harrison stared at the open leather satchels, his mouth literally hanging open. He had expected a certified bank draft or a series of promissory notes. Seeing fifty thousand dollars in raw, physical, crisp cash sitting on his table was a breathtaking, almost unreal sight.

​Neil reached out with a trembling hand, touching the crisp paper bills. "My God... fifty thousand in cash."

​He took a slow, deep breath, closing the satchels with profound respect. "What about the legal paperwork, Mr. Stevenson? The transfer documents?"

​"Evelynn and Marek will handle the legal filings with the municipal clerks," Ricky said.

​Neil frowned slightly, looking confused. "Pardon me, Mr. Stevenson, but as the new primary owner, you need to be present at the city hall to sign the deed transfer."

​Ricky smiled, a sharp, brilliant glint in his gray eyes.

​"I’m not the owner on paper, Mr. Harrison," Ricky said quietly. He pointed a thumb toward the Polish youth sitting beside him. "The legal owner and president of Harrison & Bell Limited... is Marek Kowalski."

​Marek froze.

​The room went completely dead silent.

​Marek’s head whipped toward Ricky, his jaw dropping in sheer, unadulterated shock. His face went pale, his eyes wide as saucer plates.

​"W-what?" Marek stammered, his voice rising an octave. "Ricky... what do you mean? Are you... are you joking right now?!"

​Beside Ricky, Evelynn Vance offered a rare, genuine, and highly satisfied smirk, thoroughly enjoying Marek’s stunned reaction.

​Ricky let out a warm, hearty laugh, clapping his hand hard on Marek’s shoulder. "I’m not joking, Marek. What do you think all those late-night administrative tutoring sessions with Evelynn were for? You think I was making you study balance sheets for fun?"

​Marek sat frozen, his hands trembling slightly on his knees. "Ricky... I’m stll seventeen. I’m an immigrant! I don’t know if I’m ready to own a six-story trading house!"

​Neil Harrison looked at the young Polish man, a warm, nostalgic chuckle breaking from his chest. The old merchant looked at Marek with deep, grandfatherly kindness.

​"Nobody is ever ready, son," Neil said softly, remembering his own terrifying first day thirty years ago. "When I bought my first drayage team, my hands shook so badly I couldn’t hold the reins. You don’t wait until you’re ready. You simply brace yourself... and you take the wheel."

​Marek looked at Neil, then turned back to Ricky. He saw no hesitation in his best friend’s eyes—only absolute, unshakeable trust.

​Ricky smiled softly, leaning close to Marek. "You’re ready, Marek. The Founder’s Syndicate has its public face now."

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