Kingston Bank of California, Los Angeles
The morning sun filtered through the high, arched windows of the Kingston Bank's Los Angeles branch, illuminating the polished mahogany desk where Michael Kingston sat. The air smelled of ink and old paper, a stark contrast to the oil and dust of the oil fields, but the stakes here were just as high.
Jack Copper stood by the desk, a leather ledger open in his hands. "The final numbers came in for the first month of release, sir," he said, his tone professional but laced with satisfaction. "In the 320 theaters where the film is playing—ranging from the high-capacity movie palaces to the converted storefront nickelodeons—the returns are unprecedented."
Michael leaned forward, scanning the columns of figures. "Give me the total."
"From April 15th to May 15th, The Count of Monte Cristo has generated a gross box office revenue of $540,000," Jack read. "We have cleared half a million dollars in just thirty days."
"Good," Michael said. "How does this compare to the rest of the films we released this year?"
"The average for those films this year is grossing around $200,000 for its entire run," Jack replied. "The last ten films released by Kingston Studios, combining The Crimson Glory and The Count of Monte Cristo, have grossed a combined $3.4 million. Because we demand a fifty-five percent share of the gross instead of a flat rental fee, and because we own nearly two hundred of the venues outright, Kingston Studios has cleared over $2 million in direct profit."
"It is good business," Michael remarked.
"Yes, vertical integration is yielding great returns on the investment," Jack agreed.
Jack closed the small notepad and finally voiced the question he had wanted to ask for a long time. "Are you going to act again, sir?" A hint of curiosity broke his usual reserve.
Michael leaned back in the heavy leather chair, considering the question. "It was an interesting experience. Perhaps I'll try it again in the future, but not now. I don't have the time, as too many matters require my attention."
Jack agreed silently. It was not practical, given Michael's position, to continue acting.
The heavy oak door creaked open, and the branch manager, Howard Green, bustled in. He was a man who wore his ambition like cheap cologne, his smile wide and eager. "Mr. Kingston! It is a true honor to have you in our branch. Your presence here is like a sunbeam over the San Joaquin! The way you acted in Monte Cristo—pure genius, sir, absolute genius!"
Michael felt a wave of goosebumps ripple across his skin, a physical reaction to the flattery. He held up a hand, cutting the man off. "Stop it, Howard. Let's get on to business."
Though Howard possessed ambition and greed, he kept them in check, and he was sincere and capable enough. Michael knew that not everyone could be honest and down-to-earth.
Michael had come to the branch not for praise, but to review the financial details and approve several large-scale commercial loans that required authorization from the head office. As he scanned the applications, he utilized his "Gift." He could sense the "weight" of the debts, an instinctive understanding of risk and intent.
For banks, small loans were generally safe. The average middle-class worker possessed a deep-seated fear of debt and a profound sense of responsibility to repay what they owed. However, the big loans—the massive corporate expansions requested by wealthy speculators—carried the real rot. Once a loan reached a certain size, the bank found itself held hostage by the debtor's potential failure.
As he worked, the sound of a heated argument erupted in the hallway outside, shattering the quiet atmosphere of the bank.
"What is that noise?" Michael asked, looking toward the door.
"Oh, pay it no mind, Mr. Kingston," Howard Green said dismissively. "It's just a debtor giving us absurd reasons and tearful stories. He wants his loan time extended again. We see these types of people all the time; it's a waste of your time."
"Let him come in," Michael said.
Howard stammered, "But sir, he's quite agitated, and—"
Jack stepped forward, his voice cold. "Howard, just do what Mr. Kingston says."
The manager's words died in his throat. He nodded and went outside. He returned a moment later with a man in tow.
The man appeared to be in his late twenties. He looked haggard, his clothes worn, and his eyes rimmed with red. He stopped when he saw Michael—tall, imposing, and sitting behind the desk.
"Mr. Michael Kingston," the man whispered, recognizing him instantly.
"You recognize me?" Michael asked, his brows furrowing.
"Yeah... my wife and I have seen you in The Count of Monte Cristo ," the man said, his voice trembling.
Michael nodded in understanding. Though he was used to being recognized in rich and elite circles, with The Crimson Glory and The Count of Monte Cristo, he was beginning to be recognized by the general public.
"What's the problem?" Michael asked.
The man told his story. His name was Joe Maxwell. He was an Irish immigrant who had come to America in his teens, fleeing the poverty of his homeland only to find that the "Land of Opportunity" often posted signs saying No Irish Need Apply. He had worked the docks, laid bricks, and saved every penny for a decade to build a life. He was twenty-nine now, with a wife who was seven months pregnant.
With a loan from the Kingston Bank, Joe had finally realized his dream: a small bakery located in the heart of The Plaza district. It was his piece of the American dream, hard-won and cherished.
"The gangs," Joe said, his voice breaking as the shame of his helplessness took over. "They came around asking for protection money. I paid them for a year, Mr. Kingston, I swear I did. But with the baby coming and the cost of flour going up... I couldn't pay the last two months."
Joe looked down at his hands, which were scarred from burns. "So they burned it. They burned my bakery to the ground two nights ago. I have no money to repair it, the loan payment is due, and the baby is coming. I don't know what to do."
Michael sighed, a heavy, tired sound. It was the same story everywhere he looked. There were always parasites who fed on the hard work of men like Joe.
"What is this gang's name?" Michael questioned.
"The Matranga gang," Joe replied.
"Matranga," Michael repeated, the name tasting like ash. He looked at Jack.
Jack nodded once, understanding the silent command.
Michael looked back at the baker. "Go home to your wife, Joe. The bank will extend your loan term, and we will advance another loan for the repairs."
Joe stood frozen. He looked at Michael, at Jack, then at the manager, unable to comprehend that his life had just been saved. Tears began to spill down his soot-stained cheeks, his shoulders shaking.
"Don't spill tears," Michael said, his voice soft but firm. "Tears hold too much value in my opinion. Don't spend them that freely."
Joe wiped his eyes frantically, nodding. "Thank you, sir. Thank you." He turned and hurried out, carrying a lighter burden than he had walked in with.
Howard spoke up hesitantly. "Sir, it is highly unreasonable to give a loan again that may not be repaid given the circumstances."
Michael looked at Howard. "I opened this bank not just for profits, though that is part of the reason."
"Meaning?" Howard asked.
Jack stepped in to explain. "Mr. Michael means that Joe will repay the loan. He will be a loyal customer from now on. Not just to the bank, but to the Kingston family and its businesses."
Howard suddenly understood. The gratitude the man felt would make him prefer Kingston businesses for life. "And what if he just told lies?" Howard asked.
Michael didn't answer.
"Believe me," Jack said, "nobody has ever told a lie to Mr. Kingston and got away with it without him knowing."
Howard just nodded and left, not fully understanding, though even Jack didn't fully understand the true nature of Michael's "Gift."
As Howard left, Jack turned to his boss. "Why do we have to intervene, sir?" he asked quietly once the door clicked shut.
"Because he is our client," Michael replied, his expression hardening into stone. "And I hate bullies. Very, very much."
He stood up and walked to the window. "Contact the Kingston Security Services Los Angeles branch. I want everything they can find on this Matranga family. How many men do we have available in the city?"
"Around 120 staff in the local security branch," Jack answered.
"Put ten of them in that neighborhood immediately," Michael commanded. "Find out who else is suffering. If they burned one bakery, they've burned others."
Jack nodded.
Within forty-eight hours, Jack had compiled a complete dossier on the Matranga family, mapping out their stranglehold on the Plaza.
The Plaza was the historic birthplace of Los Angeles, a dusty square surrounded by old adobe structures and brick tenements. By 1910, the city's wealthy elite had moved south and west, leaving the Plaza as a chaotic, densely packed intersection of cultures. It was a place where Mexican laborers, Chinese merchants, and a growing population of Italian immigrants lived shoulder to shoulder. Neglected by city services, it was a neighborhood where the streetlights were often broken and the trash piled high—a perfect breeding ground for predation.
It was here that the Matranga family had established their stronghold. Led by Salvatore "Sam" Matranga, a ruthless patriarch of Sicilian descent, they were one of the earliest organized "Black Hand" groups to infect Southern California. Originally gaining power in the fruit and produce markets of New Orleans, the Sicilian clan had migrated west to exploit the rapidly growing sprawl of Los Angeles.
They operated through the tactics of La Mano Nera—The Black Hand. They sent extortion letters decorated with crude drawings of daggers and skulls to immigrant business owners like Joe Maxwell, demanding "protection" fees. If the money wasn't paid, they resorted to arson, bombings, and public beatings.
By 1910, Sam Matranga had consolidated his power, surrounding himself with a tight circle of blood relatives who served as his lieutenants. Beneath them was a network of roughly forty to fifty "soldiers"—hardened enforcers and desperate men recruited from the docks and rail yards. They controlled the Plaza area, the heart of the city's Italian community, and were aggressively moving to monopolize the labor unions and wholesale produce markets. They walked the streets with impunity, believing themselves to be the undisputed shadows of the city, untouchable by the law and feared by the public.
But their confidence wasn't just built on violence; it was built on the utter failure of the city's institutions.
The law failed in the Plaza because the police force of Los Angeles treated the immigrant district like a foreign country. To the predominantly Anglo police force, the Plaza was a tangled web of dialects and customs they didn't care to understand. The beat cops were often corrupt, happy to look the other way for a small bribe from a Matranga lieutenant. Even the honest officers were useless because the community was paralyzed by omertà—the code of silence. Witnesses who spoke to the police tended to disappear or wake up to find their businesses in ashes. The Matrangas filled the vacuum left by the state; they became the judge, jury, and tax collector of the district. They thrived because the city didn't care enough to stop them
They had no idea that a more dangerous predator had set his sights on them.