Land Manor.
Callum waited anxiously.
He knew very well that whether he could attach himself to Davey was crucial.
As the head of a small gang, Callum had a bit of spare cash and often gambled at Saint Denis's underground casino. He had recognized early on that Mac was Irish.
At this time, the Irish had not yet gone through generations of intermarriage, making them relatively easy to identify—light hair, pale skin, light-colored eyes. And then there was the unmistakable Irish accent.
The Callander brothers had grown up in an Irish community and naturally spoke Irish.
After a brief exchange, Callum confirmed Mac's background.
As the second-in-command of the Italian Mafia, Martelli was already well known. Davey's reputation was even greater because of his bootlegging.
Mac had little sense of caution. Once he became familiar with Callum, he quickly let slip that Davey was his twin brother.
That was when Callum began to form his plan—though he lacked the right moment to act.
That opportunity came when Bronte disappeared. Every gang in Saint Denis wanted a piece of Bronte's gray-market empire. Callum realized this was his chance.
It wasn't that he didn't want his own gang to grab a share. But through Mac, he learned that Davey had already made arrangements.
So he tipped Mac off about the other gangs' movements. "Betrayal" might not be the right word—there was plenty of noise already—but the meaning was clear.
Still, Mac couldn't make the final decision. Everything depended on Davey.
Callum had said many things to Mac, and their time gambling together had built some trust. That was how he ended up here.
But Davey was not someone easily fooled.
Upstairs, Davey had spoken only briefly with Mac. To Callum, however, it felt like an eternity.
Finally, Davey and Mac came downstairs.
"Mr. Land."
Callum immediately rose to show respect.
Davey gave a small nod. So far, the man understood manners.
"I hear you're from the south, Mr. Callum."
This time, Davey spoke in Irish.
Callum's eyes lit up.
"Yes, Mr. Land. I left the south ten years ago, made my way to the United States by stowing away, drifted through the West, and only came to Saint Denis four years ago."
The first major wave of Irish immigration had come around 1850—nearly fifty years ago.
Davey continued, "I must admit, I never paid much attention to these matters before. Tell me—how are our people faring here in Saint Denis?"
It was an obvious question, but Davey needed an opening.
Callum answered frankly.
"Not well, sir. We take the lowest wages and the most dangerous jobs—hauling freight at the docks, laying railroad tracks, working in slaughterhouses."
"The factory owners treat us like animals. Fourteen hours a day, and we can barely afford proper bread."
"Most of our people live in the slums in South Saint Denis. Ten or more packed into a leaking shack."
"Disease spreads often. Many children don't live past five."
He spoke faster and faster, emotion rising—perhaps remembering his own early days after arriving in the United States.
Davey didn't share the emotion. Such hardship was common across the country.
Still, he waited patiently until Callum finished.
"Apologies, sir," Callum muttered, realizing he had said too much.
Davey waved it off.
"You're right, Mr. Callum."
"I suppose I should do what little I can for our countrymen. Offer some help."
Callum stiffened.
He had hoped to use sympathy as a way into Davey's organization.
But Davey showed no intention of absorbing him. Instead, he shifted the focus entirely toward charity.
That was not what Callum had expected.
"My factories need workers," Davey continued. "I'll offer our people proper employment. Same wages. Same treatment as anyone else."
"They may lack skills, but that's fine. We can train them."
Then he turned to Mac.
"After this, go with Mr. Callum to the Irish neighborhoods. Spread the word."
He paused, reconsidering.
"Five hundred… no. Eight hundred positions. Two hundred of those reserved for women."
"I'd like to help everyone, but I can't."
"Mac, when selecting people, prioritize those in good health, free of disease, and with families."
Mac nodded firmly. "Understood."
Callum felt a twinge of disappointment. Many Irish would celebrate this—but what did it do for him?
Davey, of course, saw straight through him.
After finishing his instructions, he looked at Callum again.
"Callum. How many men do you have?"
Callum straightened at once.
"Three to four hundred, Mr. Land."
That surprised Davey. The O'Sullivan gang wasn't even one he had heard of.
"Can they fight?"
"Of course, sir."
It seemed Davey had underestimated the Irish presence in Saint Denis.
"How many of our people are there in this city?"
Callum hesitated.
"…A great many, sir. They're everywhere. Tens of thousands, perhaps more."
Officially, Saint Denis had just over two hundred thousand residents. In reality, with immigration at its peak and countless stowaways slipping in, the true number was far higher—three hundred thousand, four hundred thousand, maybe more.
And that didn't even count the many African Americans living there.
Davey realized he needed to rethink his approach.
This might be the twilight of the cowboys.
But it was not the end of gangs.
From this point on, gangs would only grow stronger, continuing well into the next century. Across the United States—East and West alike—they would remain powerful forces.
Land Security Company was designed to be elite and specialized. Its numbers would always be limited.
But a gang?
A gang had no such limits.
Thousands. Tens of thousands. Hundreds of thousands.
Perhaps even more.
Davey felt his ambition expanding.
"Elisa. A cigar."
She hurried over and lit one for him.
After a slow drag, his expression steadied.
He looked at Callum and Mac.
"I'm going to establish the Irish Brotherhood."
Both men's eyes lit up instantly.
Mac had long wanted to build a gang of his own. Without Davey's approval, he could do nothing.
Callum was equally thrilled. This was exactly what he had hoped for.
Davey turned to Mac.
"Go. In my name, begin recruiting our countrymen into the Irish Brotherhood."
...
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