novelbin Chapter 487 487: 459. Just Enjoying Time With The Gang
Chapter 487 487: 459. Just Enjoying Time With The Gang
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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
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"Sweet mother of god," Sean MacGuire groaned happily, his mouth half full of buttery potatoes. He looked across the table, pointing his fork directly at the gang's resident cook. "I'm sorry, Mr. Pearson, but all of these foods are much, much better compared to your cooking! I think I actually tasted an angel in this gravy!"
"Ain't that the truth," Lenny laughed, tearing into a piece of crusty bread. "No offense, Pearson, but I don't think I've ever tasted meat that wasn't boiled until it turned into shoe leather until today. This is unbelievable."
Pearson, sitting near the middle of the table with a plate piled high with roast beef, immediately stopped chewing. His face flushed a deep, indignant shade of red. He slammed his fork down, completely offended by the sudden attack on his culinary pride.
"Now you hold on just a damn minute, you ungrateful little whelps!" Pearson barked, throwing his hands up defensively, which of course caused the rest of the table to snicker. He quickly gave his impassioned response. "I would like to see this fancy, white aproned French chef make a decent, hearty stew out of three stringy squirrels, a handful of wild mint, and a block of salted pork that's been sitting in a wagon for three weeks! I did the absolute best with what I had!"
"You served us bat wing soup in the swamps, Pearson," Sadie Adler pointed out dryly, taking a sip of her wine. "Don't try to defend the bat wings."
"It was a local delicacy!" Pearson argued frantically, pointing a finger at her. "It builds character! And besides, Miss Grimshaw never gave me enough of the camp funds to buy proper spices!"
"Oh, don't you dare blame me for your lack of talent, Pearson!" Miss Grimshaw snapped back from the other end of the table, though she was fighting a smile of her own. "I gave you plenty of funds! You just spent half of it on navy rum for yourself!"
The entire table erupted, completely sharing a good, roaring laugh at the cook's expense. Pearson grumbled, crossing his arms, but a few seconds later, he couldn't help but crack a smile himself. He picked up his fork and went back to his roast beef, silently admitting that the food was, indeed, significantly better than anything he could ever produce over a campfire.
Caleb sat back in his chair, a glass of expensive bourbon resting loosely in his hand, watching the beautiful, chaotic family dynamic unfold within the pristine walls of his mafia stronghold. It was a surreal, perfect collision of his two worlds.
He looked at Mary-Beth, who was laughing openly at Pearson's defense, and he knew that all the blood, the scheming, and the danger had been absolutely worth it.
The grand, lavish lunch continued for nearly two hours. They ate until they couldn't take another bite, and they drank enough premium liquor to put a small army to sleep. The tension of their arrival had been entirely replaced by a warm, heavy, incredibly comfortable lethargy.
When their lunch was finally finished, with the silver platters picked completely clean and several bottles of wine emptied, Caleb stood up from the head of the table. The chatter died down as they looked to their host.
"Alright," Caleb announced, checking his gold pocket watch. "I know that train ride took a lot out of you, and the food probably finished the job. You all need to rest, wash up, and get settled."
He spread his hands, officially opening the estate to them. "Everyone is free to look around anywhere in the mansion and the grounds. Go find your rooms on the second and third floors, they have already been prepared for you. There are hot baths, clean clothes in the wardrobes, and soft beds. Go walk the gardens, sit in the parlors, or read in the library."
But then, Caleb's tone shifted, just slightly, carrying a firm, non-negotiable weight. He needed to establish one strict boundary to protect his illicit operations.
"Except in the basement," Caleb stated clearly, making eye contact with the more curious members of the gang. "No one goes into the basement levels. Those areas are strictly reserved for my security personnel and specific family business. Stay above ground, and the house is yours."
He smiled, softening the command. "And if you need any help, if you need directions, or if you simply want a glass of water, you do not have to lift a finger. You can ask the servants, the maids, the guards, and especially Antonio. They work for me, which means they work for you. Treat them with respect, but don't be afraid to ask for what you need."
Hearing that they were finally allowed to rest in actual, luxurious beds, the gang didn't need to be told twice.
After that, everyone slowly pushed back their heavy leather chairs and dispersed. Jack grabbed Abigail's hand, dragging his mother out of the room to go explore the massive staircases.
Tilly and Karen linked arms, giggling excitedly as they headed off to find the bathrooms to wash the trail dirt from their skin. Uncle practically hobbled out the door, loudly declaring his intention to find the softest mattress in the entire state of Lemoyne and sleep for three consecutive days.
The dining room rapidly emptied out, the sounds of awe and excited chatter echoing down the marble corridors as the gang scattered to claim their corners of the palace.
Within a few moments, Caleb was left standing alone at the head of the table with only two men remaining.
Arthur and Hosea hadn't moved to leave. They sat in their chairs, the relaxed, jovial atmosphere of the lunch fading away as their minds returned to the heavy, serious reality of the empire they had just been invited to join. They were the lieutenants, the senior strategists, and they knew the day wasn't entirely over for them.
Caleb looked at the two veteran outlaws. He respected them too much to just send them off to take a nap. There were deeper, more complex conversations to be had, away from the ears of the other gang members.
"I know you both still have a hundred questions," Caleb said softly, walking around the table to stand near them. He gestured toward the open doorway. "Come on. Leave the plates."
He invited the two of them to leave the dining room and follow him deeper into his private sanctum, offering them a luxury that spoke to their newfound status. "Let's go to the study. I've got a box of the greatest quality Cuban cigars in the city, and a bottle of scotch that's older than I am. We can smoke, drink, and talk about tomorrow."
Arthur let out a slow, appreciative breath, pushing himself up from his chair. "I ain't gonna say no to a good cigar, Caleb. Lead the way."
Hosea grabbed his walking cane, hauling himself upright with a tired but deeply intrigued smile. "A quiet study and a good smoke. Now that sounds like the first civilized idea I've heard all month."
Caleb nodded, clapping them both lightly on the shoulders as they walked out of the dining room together. Leaving the remnants of the feast behind, the three men walked shoulder to shoulder down the quiet, heavily guarded corridors of the estate, moving toward the Don's private study.
The thick, intricately woven Persian rugs absorbed the heavy thud of their boots, rendering their footsteps entirely silent as they navigated the labyrinthine eastern wing of the mansion.
The armed mafia sentries stationed at the intersections of the hallways respectfully averted their eyes and bowed their heads as the Don passed by with his two most trusted lieutenants.
Finally, Caleb, Arthur, and Hosea reached the heavy, brass reinforced oak doors of the private study. Caleb pushed the doors open, entering first.
The study was a breathtaking sanctuary of quiet intellect and concentrated power. The air inside smelled deeply of polished mahogany, old paper, and lemon oil. Heavy velvet curtains were pulled back to reveal tall bay windows that overlooked the sun drenched gardens, casting warm, golden rectangles of light across the hardwood floor.
While Caleb confidently crossed the room and headed directly to the massive, intricately carved executive desk positioned in the center of the room, Hosea Matthews stopped just inside the doorway.
The older man leaned slightly on his walking cane, his sharp, calculating eyes sweeping across the sprawling walls of the room. He looked around at the sheer, staggering amount of books housed in the floor to ceiling mahogany bookcases that lined nearly every square inch of the study.
There were thousands of volumes, heavy, leather bound encyclopedias, massive tomes on constitutional law, intricate texts detailing modern industrial economics, and rows upon rows of historical biographies.
For a man like Hosea, who had always possessed a deep, profound love for reading and the acquisition of knowledge, the room was nothing short of a paradise. It spoke volumes about the man who occupied it. Caleb wasn't just a gunman with a title, he was a scholar of power.
Behind Hosea, Arthur stepped into the room and firmly closed the heavy oak door behind them. The solid click of the brass latch engaging sealed the three of them inside the soundproof vault, completely isolating them from the rest of the world.
Arthur approached the desk just as Caleb pulled a small brass key from his vest pocket. Caleb inserted the key into the top drawer of the desk, unlocking it with a soft mechanical clack, and smoothly pulled the drawer open. He reached inside and took out a medium sized, incredibly beautiful wooden box.
Arthur stopped at the edge of the desk, his green eyes dropping down to analyze the object Caleb had just placed on the polished leather blotter. Arthur let out a low, highly appreciative whistle.
"Well now," Arthur murmured, leaning in slightly to get a better look. He looked up at Caleb, a classic, roguish grin spreading across his weather beaten face. Saying to Caleb, his voice filled with genuine admiration, "That right there is the best cigar box I've ever seen. And trust me, I have seen a couple of the real fancy ones while robbing people out on the luxury trains and the riverboats."
The box was a masterpiece of imported craftsmanship. It was made of deep, rich Spanish cedar, polished to a mirror like shine, with intricate gold leaf inlays decorating the edges and a solid gold clasp holding the lid shut. It was the kind of object that practically radiated wealth and exclusivity.
Caleb chuckled at that, a warm, relaxed sound that filled the quiet study. He reached out and unfastened the gold clasp, opening the lid of the box.
The moment the seal was broken, the rich, deeply intoxicating aroma of perfectly fermented, heavily aged Cuban tobacco wafted up into the air. Nestled inside, resting on a bed of pristine cedar shavings, were rows of thick, flawlessly rolled cigars, each one wrapped in a delicate, gold embossed silk band.
With practiced, gentlemanly grace, Caleb reached into the box. He picked up one of the heavy cigars and handed it across the desk to Arthur. He then picked up a second one and handed it to Hosea, who had finally pulled himself away from the mesmerizing bookcases to join them at the desk.
Finally, Caleb reached in and took out one for himself, rolling the smooth, oily wrapper leaf gently between his thumb and forefinger to inspect the impeccable construction.
Then, he closed the box, the lid shutting with a soft, satisfying thud.
Caleb picked up a heavy, solid silver table lighter resting on the corner of his desk. He struck the flint, a tall, steady yellow flame springing to life. Leaning across the desk, he lit up Arthur and Hosea's cigars first, waiting patiently as the two veteran outlaws drew the flame into the tightly rolled tobacco leaves, puffing gently until the tips glowed a bright, even cherry red.
As they got their cigars burning, Caleb looked at the two of them. He says, his voice carrying a deeply appreciative tone, that this specific box is actually the fanciest one he has ever seen in his entire life as well.
"I acquired these directly from a private importer down on the docks a few weeks ago," Caleb explained, looking down at his own unlit cigar. "And to be completely honest with you both, I have never puffed even a single one of them. Not even to celebrate when I took the city."
Arthur raised an eyebrow, blowing a thick plume of blue-grey smoke up toward the plaster ceiling. "Why the hell not? You own the damn town, Caleb. If you can't smoke your own cigars, what's the point of having them?"
"Because," Caleb smiled, his blue eyes softening with a profound, brotherly affection. He looked between Arthur and Hosea. "I wanted to save them for a special occasion. A genuinely special occasion."
He paused, letting the weight of the moment settle over the three of them. "And well... looking at the two of you standing in my study, completely safe, with the rest of our family sleeping soundly upstairs... this one is a special occasion if I've ever seen one."
Arthur alongside Hosea laughed at that, a rich, deeply moved sound that carried absolutely no pretense or guarded outlaw paranoia. It was the sound of pure, unadulterated relief.
They puffed their cigars, the thick, aromatic smoke rapidly filling the space between them. The tobacco was unlike anything they had ever consumed. It was incredibly smooth, bursting with complex, earthy flavors of dark cocoa, roasted coffee, and a subtle, lingering spice that left a pleasant warmth on the palate.
The two of them looked at their cigars with profound respect and said to Caleb that this is a very, very great cigar.
"I'll be damned," Hosea murmured, inspecting the glowing cherry of the tobacco. "This makes the cheap cigarillos we used to buy in Valentine taste like rolled up newspaper and horsehair. This is extraordinary, Caleb."
"It goes down smoother than a glass of Kentucky bourbon," Arthur agreed, taking another long, deeply satisfying drag.
Caleb smiled, finally bringing his own cigar to his lips. He struck the silver lighter again and lit up his own, taking a slow, measured puff as well. The rich smoke filled his lungs, grounding him in the reality of his absolute victory.
For a few long, incredibly comfortable minutes, the three men simply stood around the massive mahogany desk in total silence, smoking the finest Cuban tobacco available in the western hemisphere.
It was a shared ritual of brotherhood, a quiet acknowledgment that they had finally crossed the finish line of their long, brutal marathon.
Before then, the heavy, celebratory atmosphere slowly began to shift. The Don of Saint Denis smoothly transitioned the mood from quiet reflection back to the intricate, highly consequential matters of running a legitimate empire.
Caleb exhaled a long stream of blue smoke, leaning back slightly against the edge of his desk. He looked directly at Arthur and Hosea, the sharp, calculating intellect returning to his eyes.
"As I mentioned earlier," Caleb began, his voice dropping into a serious, highly focused register. "I need men I can trust. I need a board of directors to help me run this machine. I would like to offer the two of you first, before anyone else in the camp, some of the absolute highest positions I could possibly offer within my organization."
Hearing that direct, incredibly weighty proposition, the two of them stopped puffing their cigars. Arthur and Hosea looked at each other, engaging in another one of their silent, heavily loaded conversations. They were outlaws. They knew how to rob trains, crack safes, and survive gunfights in the mud. They didn't know the first thing about running a business.
Before then, breaking their silent exchange, they turned their attention back to look at Caleb.
Hosea shifted his weight, leaning slightly on his cane, his brilliant, analytical mind already trying to map out the logistics. Hosea asked him, his tone deeply curious and intensely practical.
"We are flattered, Caleb. Deeply flattered," Hosea said carefully, measuring his words. "But you have to understand our hesitation. We are men of the frontier. We aren't politicians, and we certainly aren't accountants like Strauss. What kind of positions could you possibly have for me and Arthur that wouldn't end up with us accidentally burning one of your businesses to the ground?"
Caleb smiled, a wide, entirely unbothered expression. He knew exactly what their strengths were, and he had tailor made their roles to exploit those strengths to their absolute maximum potential.
He looked at the silver haired man first.
"Hosea," Caleb said, his voice carrying an immense, profound respect. "I don't need you to balance ledgers or negotiate shipping tariffs. I have hired accountants and lawyers for that. I need your mind. I need your ability to read people, to see the cons before they happen, and to understand the deep, psychological currents of a room."
Caleb took a step closer, emphasizing the sheer gravity of the role. "I want you to be exactly like how you were in the past for Dutch. His right hand man. His voice of reason. The man who pulls the reigns when the ambition gets too blinding."
Caleb paused, a dark shadow crossing his face as he thought of their former leader's descent into madness. "The difference is, Hosea... I will actually listen to you. After all, your lifetime of experience, your wisdom, and your ability to navigate treacherous waters is something that simply could not be bought or exchanged with anything of value in this city. Your counsel would help me immensely in navigating the political vipers and the rival crime families that still want my head on a pike."
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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: 3,222 dollars and 60 cents
Inventory: 285,392 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 Braithwaites Land Deed, 1 Broken Pirate Sword, 1 Milton's Safety Deposit Key, 1 Senator Pendleton Sealed Envelope, 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: -