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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
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"You... you know exactly what you want, Don McLaughlin," Higgins said, genuinely impressed, his fear momentarily overridden by industrial respect. "We can absolutely fulfill that order. We have the connections with the foundries in San Denis and the patent holders back East."
Caleb nodded. "I wanted to buy the Pelton Wheel, Higgins. But I expect an affordable price, of course. I am bringing substantial, upfront cash capital to your business today."
The supervisor at first stated the price, clearing his throat nervously. "Well, Don McLaughlin, considering the custom casting of the dual buckets, the imported copper wiring for the massive generator, the specialized pressure valves, and... well, the sheer logistical nightmare of shipping several tons of precision machinery across the state lines and up into the mountains of West Elizabeth..."
Higgins pulled out a piece of paper, scribbling some rapid calculations. He looked up, swallowing hard, presenting a price which was truly, astronomically expensive for the era, including the exorbitant price for sending it.
"The standard market rate for the complete Pelton turbine system, including the generator housing, is roughly six thousand dollars, sir. But with the specialized overland shipping, the heavy wagons required, the armed guards to protect it from outlaws, and the installation consulting fees... the total price comes to nine thousand, five hundred dollars. It is... it is a massive undertaking."
Nearly ten thousand dollars in 1899 was the equivalent of a king's ransom. It was enough money to buy an entire building. Silvio, standing by the door, let out a low whistle of shock, his hand resting instinctively on his revolver.
But Caleb didn't even flinch. His MAX level Business Skill instantly activated, downloading a flawless, mathematical counter strategy directly into his consciousness. He saw the inflated margins, the unnecessary consulting fees, and the bloated shipping costs Cornwall Freight was attempting to pass on to the consumer.
Caleb leaned forward, steepling his fingers on his lap. "Nine thousand, five hundred dollars is the price you quote to an eastern aristocrat who doesn't know the difference between an impulse turbine and a windmill, Mr. Higgins. I am not an aristocrat. And I am certainly not paying a Cornwall premium."
Caleb began to systematically dismantle the quote. "First, we eliminate the installation consulting fees entirely. I have my own engineers in West Elizabeth who will oversee the assembly. Deduct one thousand dollars."
Higgins blinked, his pen hovering over the paper. "But sir, the warranty—"
"I don't need your warranty, I need your steel," Caleb countered smoothly. "Second, the shipping costs are drastically inflated. You are quoting me for overland wagon freight for the entire journey. We both know you have a direct railway line that runs from Saint Denis straight to Wallace Station, which is less than ten miles from my construction site."
"You load the components onto a Cornwall freight train, which costs you a fraction of the overland rate in coal and manpower, and drop it at the station. My men will handle the final mile transport up the mountain. Deduct another two thousand dollars."
The supervisor was sweating profusely again. "Don McLaughlin, the railway is heavily booked—"
"And finally," Caleb said, his voice dropping to a low, incredibly dangerous pitch, letting the terrifying aura of his Don persona bleed through the sophisticated businessman facade. "We discuss the 'protection' fee you factored into that overland shipping quote. The men you hire to protect your wagons from outlaws."
Caleb smiled, a cold, shark like expression that made the temperature in the office plummet. "You are looking at the man who controls the outlaws, Mr. Higgins. No one in Lemoyne, New Hanover, or West Elizabeth will dare touch a shipment that bears my family name. You don't need to hire private guards to protect my cargo. I am the protection. Deduct another thousand."
Caleb leaned back, his eyes locking onto the terrified supervisor. "I will pay you exactly five thousand, five hundred dollars for the Pelton Wheel, the generator, and the rail shipping to Wallace Station. It is a fair price that still nets your depot a solid profit, and it secures you a very powerful, very well funded ally in this city. Or, I can leave, buy the components from a rival foundry in Chicago, and remember that Cornwall Freight in Saint Denis was uncooperative with the new administration."
It was a flawless, absolutely terrifying negotiation. Higgins stared at his ledger, doing the mental math. He knew Caleb was entirely correct about the margins, the rail lines, and the protection. He also knew that refusing a direct, highly pragmatic offer from the new Don of Saint Denis would be career suicide, and possibly actual suicide.
Higgins quickly crossed out the nine thousand five hundred figure. "Five thousand, five hundred dollars," Higgins confirmed, his voice shaky but resolute. "We... we have a deal, Don McLaughlin."
When they reached a deal, Caleb nodded his head in profound satisfaction. He had just secured a state of the art technological marvel that would guarantee his hotel in Strawberry became the absolute pinnacle of luxury in the West, and he had done it by ruthlessly out negotiating a corporate supervisor.
"Excellent. The money will be sent to the depot by my men before the banks close today in solid, untraceable cash. So that the order can be processed and the components can be sent immediately."
Higgins nodded furiously, eager to finalize the terrifying transaction. "Of course, Don McLaughlin! Where would you like the initial components gathered for inspection before we load them onto the train?"
Caleb stood up, smoothing his suit jacket, adjusting his silver tipped cane. "I don't want them sitting out in your open yard, Mr. Higgins. I want discretion."
And Caleb asked for it to be sent to a specific location. "Have the turbine and the generator housing sent to the large, private warehouse owned by my organization in the north of the city. The one near the old Martelli estate. My men will inspect the machinery there, and from there, we will coordinate the loading onto your freight train."
"It will be done exactly as you ask, Don McLaughlin," Higgins said, scrambling to his feet and bowing respectfully.
"A pleasure doing business with you, Higgins," Caleb said smoothly, offering a polite tip of his hat.
He turned and walked out of the office, Silvio following closely behind, a massive grin on the enforcer's face. The Don had just walked into the belly of Leviticus Cornwall's own company, bought their most advanced technology at a massive discount, and forced them to deliver it right to the mob's front door.
The era of Angelo Bronte was truly dead. The era of Caleb Thorne, the gunslinger, the Underboss, the CEO, and the absolute King of Saint Denis, had officially, gloriously begun.
The heavy, iron reinforced doors of the Cornwall Freight administrative building clicked shut behind them, sealing the incredible, highly lucrative deal.
Caleb and his massive enforcer, Silvio, stepped back out into the choking, sulfurous smog of the southern industrial rail yards. The transition from the tense, quiet negotiations of Arthur Higgins's office back into the deafening roar of steam engines and clanking steel was jarring, but Caleb moved through it with the effortless, untouchable grace of a man who now owned the very shadows of the city.
They walked purposefully across the soot stained dirt of the yard, completely ignoring the nervous, sidelong glances of the hired mercenaries and Cornwall's private security mercenaries.
The guards parted for them, stepping back and lowering their repeating rifles, their eyes wide with a mixture of profound fear and reluctant respect. They had seen the regional supervisor bowing to this man, they knew better than to interfere.
Caleb and Silvio got onto the luxurious, black lacquered carriage that was waiting patiently by the main gates. The four pristine white horses stamped their hooves, eager to leave the noise and the filthy air of the industrial sector.
As Silvio pulled the velvet lined door shut, sealing them inside the quiet, opulent cabin, Caleb reached up and tapped his silver tipped cane against the wooden partition separating them from the driver's seat.
"Return back to the mansion," Caleb told the driver, his voice carrying the calm, absolute authority of his newly acquired station. "Take the main avenues. Let the city see the carriage."
"Right away, Don McLaughlin," the driver replied, cracking the reins. The carriage lurched forward, the wheels crunching over the gravel before finding the smooth, paved cobblestones of the thoroughfare.
As they drove toward the mansion, leaving the smoke belching smokestacks behind them, Caleb settled deeply into the plush velvet cushions. He unbuttoned his charcoal suit jacket, giving himself a rare moment to breathe, before his mind instantly shifted to the massive logistical hurdles of cementing his new empire.
Caleb at this time turned his piercing blue eyes toward his loyal enforcer and told Silvio his next immediate objective.
"Silvio," Caleb began, his voice dropping to a low, business-like rumble. "When we reach the mansion, you will not be resting just yet. I need you to turn right around. You will bring a couple of our most imposing men with you, and you will go directly to the grand Saint Denis National Bank in the center of the commercial district."
Silvio leaned forward, resting his massive forearms on his knees, his scarred face a mask of absolute, undivided attention. "The bank, Boss? You truly wanted me be the one making the withdrawal?"
"Yes I do. We are making a statement, and a payment, which needed an imposing man and thast you," Caleb said smoothly. "You will go into the vault, and you will retrieve exactly five thousand, five hundred dollars in solid, untraceable cash from the family's primary holding accounts. You will then personally deliver that money to Arthur Higgins at the freight depot to finalize the purchase of the Pelton Wheel."
Silvio nodded slowly, processing the order. "Just walk in and ask for five and a half grand? The bank manager there, that snooty little Frenchman... he was always terrified of Bronte. He only ever released funds when Bronte was there in person or sent his personal accountant with a sealed wax letter."
Caleb offered a cold, predatory smile. This was exactly why he was sending his most terrifying enforcer instead of a quiet accountant. The financial transition of power needed to be absolute and undeniable.
"That is precisely the point, Silvio," Caleb explained, his maxed out Business and Leadership skills mapping out the psychological warfare perfectly. "When you walk in there, the bank manager will undoubtedly panic. And when the bank manager asks under whose authority the money of the family is being taken out... you will look him dead in the eye."
Caleb leaned forward, the shadows of the carriage cabin making his features look chiseled out of cold marble. "You will tell him, very clearly, that the funds are being withdrawn under the authority of the new Don of this city. Don McLaughlin. And you will make it abundantly clear that if he delays the transaction by a single second, he will no longer have a bank to manage."
Silvio's eyes lit up with a dark, thrilling understanding. He loved this part of the job. He loved breaking the arrogant, wealthy elites who thought their marble floors and iron vaults made them untouchable.
Silvio nodded his massive head with a mischievous, almost terrifying smirk spreading across his scarred features. "I understand completely, Boss. I will make sure the bank manager remembers it well, my Don. By the time I walk out of there with the cash, he'll be engraving your name on the vault door himself."
"See that you do," Caleb chuckled softly, pleased with the enforcer's unshakeable loyalty and enthusiasm. "No bloodshed in the bank, Silvio. Just... overwhelming atmospheric pressure. Let him know the old regime is dead."
"Not a drop of blood," Silvio promised, cracking his massive knuckles in anticipation. "Just a change in management."
After that, the ride continued in a comfortable, victorious silence. The carriage rolled through the affluent streets of the Garden District, the towering, manicured oak trees providing a lush, green canopy that filtered the late morning sun.
They soon finally reached back to the mansion. As the carriage approached the boundary wall of the sprawling estate, the heavy, wrought iron front gates were immediately pulled open by the newly stationed guards, men who had sworn their blood and lives to Caleb.
They stood at rigid attention, their repeating shotguns held across their chests in a sharp, military style salute as the carriage of the Don passed through.
The carriage rolled inside the vast courtyard, the wheels crunching to a smooth halt near the grand marble steps of the main entrance.
Caleb and Silvio then got off the carriage. As Caleb's polished boots hit the gravel, he took a deep breath of the fragrant, flower scented air. The estate, washed clean of the previous night's carnage, looked peaceful, beautiful, and absolutely impregnable.
Silvio immediately took his leave. He didn't even bother going inside for a drink of water. The giant enforcer turned toward the side gardens where several of the phantom army soldiers were currently patrolling. He whistled sharply, raising two massive fingers in the air.
"You, and you!" Silvio barked, pointing at two particularly large, heavily armed men wearing long dusters. "Saddle up your horses. You're coming with me to the bank. We have a withdrawal to make, and I need you to look as mean as god gave you the ability to be."
The two men grinned fiercely, slinging their rifles over their shoulders and jogging toward the stables to follow him.
As for Caleb, he turned away from the courtyard and went to enter the mansion. He walked up the sweeping marble steps, his silver tipped cane tapping rhythmically against the stone.
Before he could even reach for the heavy brass handles, the massive double oak doors were pulled open smoothly from the inside.
The butler stood there, his posture impeccably straight, his uniform perfectly pressed. This butler name was Antonio. Caleb stepped into the cool, shadowed air of the grand foyer. He handed his hat to a waiting maid and then looked directly at the head of the household staff, purposely making direct eye contact. "Good Afternoon, Antonio. The house is running smoothly, I trust?"
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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: 3,322 dollars and 60 cents
Inventory: 286,492 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: -