The private basement lounge beneath the Washington Street building was packed to capacity, hazy with cigar smoke and humming with noisy conversation. Low wooden beams stretched across the ceiling, catching the warm yellow glow of gas lamps mounted along the brick walls.
Around the tables sat the core of the Syndicate: office clerks, warehouse managers, and Evelynn Vance, who sat near the corner with her usual neat leather binder resting on her lap. Beside her were route leaders, senior field agents in crisp black suits, Danny Brians and his dock crews, and dozens of former slum workers from the tenements who had spent the evening celebrating another successful delivery run.
"Hey, pour another round over here!" Frank Murphy shouted from a side booth, knocking his empty glass against the table with a grin.
"Take it easy, Frank, we’re on early routes tomorrow," Arthur growled back, though he was already pouring his brother another splash of rye.
Ricky stepped out from the back hallway, watching the crowded room for a brief moment. He caught Marek’s anxious gaze near the center table. Ricky offered a small smirk, then walked directly up to the solid mahogany bar counter.
He swung one leg up, stepping onto the wooden footrest, and hauled himself straight onto the top of the bar.
The sudden movement caught everyone’s eye. The clinking of glasses tapered off, and within seconds, the loud chatter of thirty people died down to total silence.
"Gentlemen and ladies," Ricky began, his voice clear, grounded, and carrying easily across the low-ceilinged room. "We’ve come a long way over the last four weeks. Most people looking at us from the outside would say our syndicate has grown too fast. But we’re young, and in this city, if you stand still, you get buried. We take every opportunity that comes our way. We dive into the unknown and take risks, but we do it with rational minds."
A few senior agents nodded slowly, listening closely.
"We built our foundation using unusual methods," Ricky continued, looking over the faces in the crowd. "We pushed through the street chaos, legalized our operations, and acquired the official title for our first company—the Atlantic & Pacific Trading Company. At first, we borrowed that name from a barely noticeable firm. We built our reputation on it, bought out the original owners, and announced our arrival to the corporate world. But we don’t stop just because we’ve had a taste of success. We only stop when we’re dead. Our syndicate will live on and spread its shadow across the globe."
A soft murmur rippled across the room. Danny Brians crossed his arms, leaning back against a pillar with an intrigued smile.
"Tonight," Ricky said, raising his hand slightly, "I’m announcing the acquisition of our second company."
The room burst into sudden, hushed whispers. Arthur looked up from his glass, swapping a sharp look with Frank.
"This isn’t a small, hidden operation," Ricky said, his voice dropping into a steady, intense cadence. "This company built its foundation over thirty years. It should have stood among the finest major corporate firms in New York. But it missed its chance to spread its wings because the previous owner was too afraid to let the bird fly on its own. In our hands, we’re going to make sure it soars. It won’t just stand among global trade companies—it will stand at the very top."
Ricky paused, looking down at the table near the front. "I give you the new official owner and president of Harrison & Bell Limited... Marek Kowalski."
Marek froze. His face turned instantly red as dozens of heads whipped toward him. He forced a stiff, deeply embarrassed smile, slowly standing up from his chair and raising a hand.
A second later, the room erupted into thunderous applause and cheers. Men slammed their tin cups against the wooden tables, though almost everyone was caught completely off guard. Most of the crew had assumed Ricky would keep every corporate title in his own name.
"Look at him blushing!" Frank yelled over the noise, clapping Marek hard on the back. "Congratulations, Mr. President!"
Ricky raised his hand again, smiling as the applause gradually settled.
"This man beside me was my very first friend in this city," Ricky said softly, pointing down at Marek. "My closest associate, and the very first one to start this business with me. We were just two boys with a single horse and a wooden spring-wagon, riding through Greenwich, selling high-quality goods for cheap. We built relationships with shop owners until they started calling us the ’Commission Boys’. We grew so fast that the two of us couldn’t handle the routes alone anymore. That’s when fate brought us John Caldwell."
Over in the shadowy corner of the room, John tilted his flat cap, a quiet, satisfied smirk on his face as everyone glanced his way.
"John was the second to join us," Ricky continued. "Then came the Murphy brothers."
Arthur and Frank bowed mockingly from their booth, raising their glasses as the men cheered.
"Then we realized we needed eyes on every stoop," Ricky said, looking over at Danny. "So we met Danny Brians and his crew. We were still operating out of a tiny attic on Commerce Street back then. A week later, we moved to Washington Street. We started our night deliveries, and soon after, the Williams brothers joined us—men who’ve become some of our most valuable field members. Then came the McClain brothers, who built the administrative masks and paperwork disguises that allowed us to switch to daytime deliveries without fearing police inspections. Next came the Morgan brothers, and then the hardworking men from the tenement blocks."
Ricky looked around the crowded basement, his gray eyes locking onto every worker in the room.
"We built this foundation together," Ricky said firmly. "Marek may be the first to own a major corporate trading house, but he will not be the last. Every single one of you will rise in status and position—not just because of connections, but because of your talent, skill, and sheer effort. You won’t fly alone. We fly together. The Founder’s Syndicate will be made of dozens of independent companies, coordinating through the shadows to stabilize the global market and lead humanity toward a better future."
The room was deathly quiet now, every man and woman hanging on his every word.
"We will face greedy oppositions that only seek to monopolize trade and technology for themselves," Ricky said, his voice echoing against the brick walls. "Our syndicate might not be able to stop every war, but we will be there to cushion the blow and prevent the horrible economic collapse that follows. We will stand as living proof that wars are spun by quarreling old men sitting in comfortable offices. The Founder’s Syndicate is the foundation of a future society. We exist only among ourselves. Nobody outside this room will ever know our name. To the world, we are just ambitious, independent business owners. We will build our network in the shadows, letting society play its games, while we ensure that the parasites at the very top can never crush the working man again. We are the voice of those who came from the slums, seeking justice, equality, and a fair life. We will make sure no working family ever has to spend a full day’s hard labor just to buy a single loaf of bread."
For a moment, absolute silence hung over the basement. Then, Danny Brians began clapping softly.
Within seconds, the entire room erupted into wild, deafening applause. Men stomped their boots against the wooden floorboards, shouting in agreement, their eyes burning with fierce, unshakeable loyalty. Even Evelynn had set her binder aside, clapping with a rare, genuine smile on her face.
Ricky stepped down from the bar counter, catching his breath as the crowd continued to cheer.
Inside his mind, Ricky was genuinely startled by his own words. It felt as though he had entered a strange trance up on that bar, speaking directly from the deepest well of his soul.
He had spoken those words because, deep down, he knew they were true. Coming from the 21st century, he had seen what happened when corporate monopolies were allowed to run rampant. He remembered the absurdly high cost of living, the stagnant wages, and the endless financial squeezes that forced ordinary people into desperation. When people couldn’t afford to eat, crime skyrocketed. When governments tried to suppress it with force, riots broke out, eventually spiraling toward civil unrest and global conflict.
Humanity was stuck in a endless cycle. Despite living in concrete buildings instead of mud huts, people were still fighting the exact same stone-age resource wars, killing each other over food, land, and money. Society convinced itself that written laws meant civilization had evolved, but whenever a small elite took control of basic human survival needs, that illusion shattered instantly.
If people never had to worry about basic food and resources, Ricky thought, leaning against the wooden pillar as his crew celebrated around him, they would only fight over ideas and beliefs. And eventually, humanity might finally realize that an idea isn’t worth slaughtering your neighbor for. Maybe then we’d actually evolve.
Ricky looked over at Marek, who was currently being dragged into a loud toast by Frank and Arthur.
Ricky took a sip from his water glass, a cold, quiet resolve settling over his heart. He wasn’t just building a business empire anymore. He was building a shield for the future.
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