If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead, be sure to check out my P-Tang12!!!
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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
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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."
Hosea stared at Caleb, entirely taken aback by the sheer, unadulterated respect and the monumental level of trust being placed upon his tired shoulders. To be offered that position, to be the guiding hand behind the most powerful man in the state, was the greatest honor he had ever received.
With Hosea's role established, Caleb turned his sharp blue eyes toward the massive, broad shouldered enforcer standing on the other side of the desk.
"As for you Arthur," Caleb addressed him, his tone shifting from respectful counsel to the hard, unyielding cadence of a military commander. "With how incredibly skilled you are, with your unparalleled combat instincts, your loyalty, and your ability to completely dominate any physical threat that crosses your path... it would be a tragic, unforgivable waste of your talents to put you behind a mahogany desk."
Caleb mapped out the sheer, terrifying scope of the responsibility he was about to hand over. As he would like Arthur to become the absolute Head of Security for his entire operation, overseeing the protection of his life, his properties, and the entirety of his mafia businesses here in Saint Denis.
"I need a general, Arthur," Caleb declared, his voice ringing with absolute certainty. "I need a man who can organize my guards, secure my perimeters, and make absolutely sure that no rival gang, no corrupt Pinkerton, and no rogue capo ever manages to strike at this family."
Caleb then leaned back, tapping his cigar over a crystal ashtray, diving into the critical, foundational philosophy of his new empire.
"You have to understand the transition we are undergoing, Arthur," Caleb explained, his max level Business Skill shining through his words. "I am not running a network of cheap, illegal gambling dens and moonshine shacks. I am actively laundering this empire into the light. The saloons, the restaurants, the import export warehouses on the docks... I am structuring them so they become proper, tax paying, legal businesses."
He looked at both of them, ensuring they understood the absolute safety of the operation. "They wouldn't just be closed down by a sudden police raid, because the police have no legal grounds to raid them. They don't need to be used merely to launder dirty mafia money in the shadows, or act as temporary, dangerous safehouses for fugitives anymore. We are operating in the open."
Caleb pointed his cigar toward the windows, gesturing toward the sprawling, unseen industrial sectors of the city. "After all, the sheer, legitimate revenue it will generate on its own is very, very good. We are talking about tens of thousands of dollars a month in clean, untouchable capital."
And then, Caleb dropped the crown jewel of his industrial ambitions directly into Arthur's lap.
"And," Caleb continued, a fierce, visionary light burning in his eyes. "When the massive firearm company I talked about in the dining room, the Thorne-Marlin manufacturing firm from Connecticut, finally begins to build the massive factory right here at the outskirts of Saint Denis..."
Caleb locked eyes with Arthur, delivering the ultimate responsibility. "That entire industrial complex, the factory, the supply lines, and the armories, will be entirely part under your absolute jurisdiction as well. You will be the commander of a private corporate army, Arthur. You will protect the weapons that will shape the future of this country."
To immediately preempt the inevitable, deeply ingrained financial anxieties of men who had spent their lives counting pennies from stagecoach robberies, Caleb raised a hand.
"And don't worry," Caleb promised, a wide, generous smile breaking across his face. "The two of you will get a pretty good wage. You won't be living on the gang funds anymore. You will have salaries that will make you some of the wealthiest men in this district. You will have your own bank accounts, your own properties, and complete financial independence."
Hearing that staggering, monumental breakdown of their new lives, Arthur and Hosea were completely, profoundly silent.
They stood in the quiet, sun drenched study, staring at Caleb. The sheer magnitude of the trust, the responsibility, and the absolute, unshakeable safety being handed to them on a silver platter was almost impossible to fully comprehend.
For a long, heavy moment, the only movement in the room was the slow, rhythmic curling of the blue grey smoke rising toward the ceiling. As they puffed the Cuban cigars now and then, their minds raced. They were outlaws. They were men with bounties on their heads in three different states. And yet, here they were, being offered the keys to a legitimate, hundreds of thousands of dollars corporate and industrial empire by a man who had systematically conquered the world just to keep them breathing.
Before then, breaking the heavy silence, Hosea Matthews finally spoke. The older man let out a long, slow breath, a deep, profound sense of peace settling into his weary bones.
Hosea looked at Caleb, his eyes shining with unshed tears of absolute gratitude. He says, his voice carrying the firm, unyielding conviction of a man who had finally found his home, that they will, of course, accept such work.
"Caleb..." Hosea murmured, shaking his head in sheer, overwhelmed amazement. "It is an honor. A profound, absolute honor. It is honest work or at least, the most honest work men like us could ever hope to find in this brutal world."
Hosea straightened his posture, leaning less heavily on his cane. "And if we can be of use for you... if my tired old mind can help you hold this empire together and keep this family safe... then it is exactly what we should do. After all the incredible, impossible things you have done for us to bring us to this point, it is the least we can offer in return. You have my counsel, Don McLaughlin. For as long as I have breath in my lungs."
Caleb smiled warmly, nodding his head in deep, respectful acknowledgment of the patriarch's pledge. He then turned his gaze to the massive, imposing figure of Arthur Morgan.
Arthur took one final, incredibly deep drag of his Cuban cigar. He slowly blew the smoke out, his green eyes locked onto Caleb's. The heavy, suffocating burden of the outlaw life, the constant running, the killing, the desperate, blind faith in Dutch's failing plans, visibly lifted from his broad shoulders.
Arthur nodded his head, a slow, incredibly genuine, and fiercely loyal grin spreading across his scarred face, and in his classic, gruff, and perfectly self deprecating manner he responded.
"I'll be honest with you, Caleb," Arthur chuckled, his deep voice rumbling with amusement. "I don't know a damn thing about managing corporate security protocols, or guarding massive firearm factories, or dealing with union foremen. I'm just a man who knows how to shoot straight and hit hard."
But then, Arthur's grin hardened into a look of absolute, terrifying competence and unbreakable loyalty. He stepped forward, closing the distance to the mahogany desk.
"But," Arthur declared, his voice ringing with absolute certainty. "I know that you have all the complex rules, the legal terms, and the fancy logistics completely handled. You're the brains of this operation, Caleb. You build the machine."
Arthur reached out, resting his heavy, calloused hand on the polished wood of the desk. "I just need to execute it later, exactly according to your instructions. You point me at the threat, you tell me the parameters, and I will make absolutely sure that nobody, not a single rival gang, not a corrupt cop, and certainly not the Pinkertons, ever takes a single step onto your property without my permission."
The deal was officially, permanently struck. Caleb looked at the two men standing in his study. His advisor and his general. The three of them stood in the quiet, sun drenched room, surrounded by the sweet, heavy scent of Cuban tobacco, completely unified in their purpose.
With the monumental agreement struck, the three of them, the Don, his chief advisor, and his newly appointed general, finally moved to leave the quiet sanctuary of the private study.
Caleb opened the heavy oak door, stepping out into the hallway first, closely followed by Arthur and Hosea. The three men walked shoulder to shoulder down the sprawling corridors of the eastern wing, casually puffing on their premium Cuban cigars.
The rich, earthy aroma of the aged tobacco trailed behind them like a cloud of pure, unadulterated victory. Arthur noticed the terrified respect the mafias along the hallways gave Caleb, and it only cemented the absolute reality of their new circumstances.
They navigated the labyrinth of imported marble and mahogany, eventually pushing open a set of towering glass French doors that led directly out into the estate's massive, sun drenched backyard.
The rear gardens of the mansion were a sprawling paradise of manicured green lawns, blooming magnolia trees, and ornate stone pathways. It was here, amidst the vibrant floral arrangements and the gentle sea breeze rolling in from the distant harbor, that they met with Abigail and little Jack.
The contrast between the ruthless, blood soaked foundation of the mafia empire and the pure, innocent joy currently taking place on the lawn was staggering. Jack Marston was happily playing in the garden, running around a large, tiered marble birdbath with a wooden stick in his hand, entirely convinced he was a brave knight fighting off an invisible dragon. His high pitched, carefree laughter echoed beautifully across the pristine grounds.
Abigail was sitting on a wrought iron bench beneath the shade of a massive oak tree, a soft, immensely relieved smile on her face as she watched her son simply be a child, completely unburdened by the fear of Pinkertons or starvation.
Seeing the three men approaching through the garden path, Abigail quickly stood up and smoothed down her skirts. She greeted them, her tone a mixture of deep, profound gratitude and lingering, respectful awe for the man who had given them this sanctuary.
"Good afternoon, Caleb... I mean, Mr. McLaughlin," Abigail corrected herself quickly, remembering the strict aliases he had outlined. "Arthur. Hosea."
Caleb smiled warmly, removing his cigar from his lips and offering her a gracious, gentlemanly nod. He smoothly returned their greeting. "Good afternoon, Abigail. Please, when we are alone behind these walls, Caleb is just fine. It is wonderful to see him running around like that."
Arthur and Hosea leaned against the stone balustrade, taking slow puffs of their cigars as they watched the young boy swing his wooden stick at the bushes. The two veteran outlaws couldn't help but chuckle softly, their hardened faces softening entirely at the sight.
"Look at him go," Arthur rumbled, a fond, wistful smile touching his lips. "Give him another hour and he'll have the entire topiary garden chopped down to size."
"Let the boy play, Arthur," Hosea laughed quietly. "It's the first time in his life he's had a yard that was very safe for him to play and have many stuffs as well, unlike the one they have back at the homestead."
But right at this perfectly idyllic time, the heavy, demanding machinery of the empire required its King.
The glass doors of the mansion opened again, and Antonio stepped out onto the stone patio. The head butler walked briskly but smoothly toward the group. He came and called for Caleb, stopping a respectful distance away and bowing his head.
"Forgive the interruption, Don McLaughlin," Antonio murmured, his voice urgent but flawlessly controlled. He said to him, holding a silver tray extended, "There is a priority express letter intended for you. It was just delivered by private courier from the central station. It bears the seal of the Thorne-Marlin Firearms Company."
Hearing that specific corporate name, the relaxed, familial warmth in Caleb's eyes instantly crystallized into the sharp, brilliant focus of a billionaire industrialist. He nodded his head sharply, acknowledging the critical importance of the missive.
He turned to the group. Before saying to Arthur, Hosea, and Abigail, "I apologize, but I need to slip out for a moment. Family business."
"Go on, Caleb," Hosea nodded, waving him off with his cigar. "We aren't going anywhere."
Caleb turned on his heel and entered back into the mansion, leaving the idyllic garden behind for the cool, shadowed halls of his fortress. Antonio fell into step perfectly beside him, and as soon as they were out of earshot of the others, Antonio gave the thick, wax sealed parchment to Caleb.
Caleb didn't bother returning to his study, he simply stopped in the middle of the marble hallway and cracked the heavy wax seal with his thumb. He opened it, unfolding the crisp, premium grade paper.
Where he read the content of the letter, his max level Business Skill instantly analyzing every single word, clause, and underlying corporate implication.
It was a direct, highly enthusiastic response written personally by John Marlin, who now acts as the current executive operator of the based manufacturing giant. The letter stated in explicit, glowing terms that John Marlin entirely agreed with Caleb's grand vision to build a massive secondary factory down in the South.
"To Mr. Caleb Thorne (McLaughlin)," the letter read in sharp, aggressive cursive. "Your proposal is not just sound; it is visionary. With you operating as the major shareholder and the primary visionary of this expansion, I am more than assured of its inevitable success. The board has voted unanimously in favor."
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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: -