Chapter 125: Packing Up

Later on that night, the heavy oak door of Atlantic & Pacific’s private lounge swung shut, cutting off the muted sounds of the night street below. Blue tobacco smoke hung in thin layers beneath the brass chandelier, catching the warm glow of electric bulbs.

​Around the long mahogany table, every core member of the enterprise had taken a seat or found a spot against the paneled walls. Even Phill and James McClain, who rarely bothered with formal sit-downs, stood near the sideboard with their arms crossed over their waistcoats.

​Ricky stood at the head of the table, his hand resting lightly on the dark wood. Beside him, Evelyn sat with a ledger open, her fountain pen uncorked and ready.

​"Gentlemen. Lady," Ricky began, his voice low and steady. He paused, letting his gaze pass over the Murphy brothers, Marek, Caleb, Eli, Danny, and the Williams brothers. "As most of you have likely heard by now, Barney Knox is dead."

​A brief wave of murmurs rippled through the room. Jimmy Williams let out a short, quiet breath that sounded almost like a laugh, while Arthur Murphy merely tilted his head, his face unreadable.

​"Barney’s passing clears out a deal of immediate trouble," Ricky continued, leaning forward slightly. "But it brings a far bigger problem straight to our doorstep. His brother, Frank, is back in Greenwich. And Frank doesn’t just command a crew of remaining loyalist gang members—he has connections to Tammany Hall and precinct officers on his leash."

​Ricky looked around the table, ensuring every eye was on him. "Frank doesn’t need evidence or witnesses. He has already decided that this company is responsible for his brother’s demise. It won’t be long before he uses the police department to raid these premises, seize our records, and lock up anyone associated with Atlantic & Pacific."

​Evelyn’s fingers tightened slightly around her pen, though she kept her posture straight.

​"Because of this," Ricky said, "the company is announcing an immediate paid vacation for all members and employees. One month, minimum. Effective tonight, everyone lays low and stays clear of Greenwich."

​Arthur Murphy slammed his hand flat on the table, the heavy thud rattling the crystal whiskey glasses. "Hell no, Rick! We aren’t packing our bags and running off like scared shopkeepers while you sit here alone!"

​"He’s right, boss," John chimed in from the corner, his rough voice cutting through the rising chatter. "We’ve got forty rifles tucked under the floorboards downstairs. We mount a defense right here, or we set an ambush for Frank on his way down from the precinct and settle it once and for all."

​"Aye!" Caleb agreed, nodding sharply alongside Eli and the Williams brothers. "We take Frank out before he even gets across Fourteenth Street!"

​"No," Ricky said firmly, raising his hand to quiet the room. "The absolute last thing this syndicate will do is murder a police officer or a Tammany representative in broad daylight. If we kill Frank Knox now, we aren’t just fighting Dusters—we’re fighting the entire municipal government of New York City. They would hunt every single one of us down, one by one, until there isn’t a man left breathing."

​He looked at John. "We survive this by gathering strength, securing our money, and finding out exactly how deep Frank’s political backing goes. But to do that, you all need to be as far away from Greenwich as possible."

​Marek leaned forward from his armchair, his dark eyes narrowing. "And what about you, Ricky? What do you plan to do while we’re hiding in the countryside?"

​"I’m staying," Ricky said calmly. "I’ll offer myself up as the target. If Frank finds me here, his attention stays on me while the rest of the operation moves north."

​A chorus of sharp protests erupted around the table.

​"Boss, that’s suicide!" Danny blurted out, taking a step forward from the wall. "We built this family together—we aren’t leaving you behind to get dragged off to the Tombs!"

​"You’re underestimate us, boss." John calmly chimed.

​"No, John," Ricky said quietly, his voice carrying an edge of iron that silenced the room. "You are underestimating Frank Knox. We don’t know the full extent of who or what we’re facing yet. Give me time to feel him out."

​Tom Williams leaned against his brother Jimmy’s chair. "So... you’re saying you’ll rejoin us?"

​Ricky’s expression softened, a faint, confident smile touching his lips. "Yes. Give me a week or two, and I’ll catch up with you. I have no intention of rotting in a cell."

​Arthur let out a long, heavy sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. "Alright, Rick... suppose we play it your way. Where are we taking the boys?"

​"We considered Owney Madden and the Gophers down in Hell’s Kitchen," Ricky explained, "but Madden is too shrewd. We can’t trust him not to sell us out if Frank presses him. And if Frank comes looking for us there, it risks bringing the coppers down on our heads too."

​"What about northeast of Pound Ridge?" John suggested. "Deep in the timber, like you suggested."

​"Too far from civilization," Evelyn said smoothly, checking her notes. "We need access to rail lines and buyers if we intend to keep the books in the green."

​"That was the point," John muttered.

​"Bedford is a solid choice," Ricky said, pointing to a map laid out beside Evelyn’s ledger. "White Plains is just south of it, and Armonk sits right between them. Westchester County is quiet, prosperous, and well outside the NYPD’s jurisdiction."

​Marek tilted his head. "And what about my end? Am I packing up the freight lines, or do I stay put?"

​"You proceed as usual, Marek," Ricky instructed. "Your railyard permits are legitimate. Frank has no cause to impound trains. Just ask George for a bit of extra uniformed protection around the yards so Frank’s street captains don’t try anything dirty."

​"Oh, don’t worry about me," Marek said with a short, dry chuckle. "I’m already well looked after."

​"Good," Ricky said. "So White Plains, Bedford, and Armonk will serve as our temporary headquarters. We regroup at White Plains first. Secure a foothold, get acquainted with the local business owners, and establish a fresh distribution network. As for stock—don’t worry. I’ve already made the necessary preparations. Marek will deliver our crates directly to the White Plains freight depot by train."

​The men murmured in low, appreciative agreement, the initial panic fading into practical focus.

​Ricky reached down beside his chair and lifted three heavy leather suitcases onto the table, setting them down with a loud thud.

​"Evelyn," Ricky said, "I trust you to manage this as our initial capital for a new trading firm uptown."

​Evelyn unclasped the brass latches of the nearest suitcase, revealing neatly stacked rows of hundred-dollar banknotes. She didn’t flinch, merely running a practiced finger along the paper edges. "Who do you want managing the new storefront, sir?"

​"The Williams brothers," Ricky said, looking over at Jimmy, Michael, Sean and Patrick. "They should know enough about marketing strategies. They’ll need your oversight on the ledgers for a week or two."

​Jimmy Williams grinned, nudging his brother. "A legal trading house in White Plains? Sounds like real soft living, Tom."

​"How much is in here, boss?" Evelyn asked, snapping the case shut.

​"Seventy-five thousand dollars," Ricky replied.

​Evelyn nodded crisply. "That is more than enough to finance our new trading firm in Westchester, Mr. Stevenson."

​Ricky turned his attention to Danny. "What about the men down in the tenements, Dan? How many can pack up and leave on short notice?"

​"We’ve got about eighty boys who are orphans or single—no family tying ’em to the ward," Danny replied instantly. "They can move tomorrow morning without leaving a trace. But we’ve got around forty men under our wing who have wives, children, and rented rooms in Minetta and Manatee."

​"Right," Ricky said. "Have them pack their kit tonight. They catch the morning train north for White Plains."

​Danny nodded. "Consider it done."

​"And the training regime continues under John and Arthur," Ricky added, looking at the two senior enforcers. "I want those boys disciplined, sharp, and ready for action."

​"Understood, boss," John said.

​Ricky tapped the smallest leather bag on the table. "If anyone needs extra travel funds or pocket money for the road, see Evelyn before you step out. She’ll handle the distribution."

​A general wave of agreement passed through the room as the men began standing up, gathering their coats, and talking quietly among themselves about the move north.

​Half an hour later, the lounge had cleared out, leaving only the faint scent of stale tobacco and polished mahogany.

​Marek lingered by the window, watching the rain start to drizzle against the glass before turning back toward the table where Ricky sat quietly finishing his glass of water.

​Marek walked over and pulled out a chair across from him. "Must you really do this alone, Rick? Handing yourself over to the coppers doesn’t sound like much of a plan."

​"Frank doesn’t want the crew, Marek," Ricky said softly. "He wants the man who took his brother’s authority away. It has to be me."

​"And if he doesn’t bother taking you to the Tombs?" Marek asked, his voice dropping into a serious whisper. "What if he just puts a bullet through your heart the second he steps through that door?"

​Ricky looked at Marek for a long moment. Without saying a word, he pulled a silver pocket knife from his vest, unclasped the thin steel blade, and calmly dragged it across the palm of his left hand.

​Blood welled up instantly along the slice.

​Marek gasped, jerking back in his chair and reaching frantically for his handkerchief. "What in God’s name are you doing?!"

​"Watch," Ricky murmured.

​Before the blood could even drip down his wrist, the red line on Ricky’s palm began to pulse. The flesh stitched itself together in a silent, fluid motion. Within a second, the cut sealed shut, the blood dried into a thin crust, and smooth, unblemished skin reappeared beneath it.

​Marek froze, his handkerchief halfway to his face, his eyes wide with absolute disbelief. "How... how did you..."

​"You’ve already seen me pull crates of whiskey and stacks of cash out of thin air when we needed them," Ricky said quietly, wiping the dried blood off his hand with a napkin. "I didn’t explain it then, and I can’t explain it now. Just know that I don’t die as easily as ordinary men."

​Internally, Ricky checked his focus. Earlier that evening, he had allocated fifty available attribute points straight into his Vitality stat, driving the number up to a staggering 120, while keeping 54 points safely banked for unexpected emergencies. He could feel the results beneath his ribs—a heavy, dense vitality that made his muscles feel like solid iron and his heart beat with slow, unshakeable power.

​Marek swallowed hard, his face pale as he stared at Ricky’s clean palm. He leaned in close, keeping his voice barely audible. "You... you can do that too?"

​"I won’t die easily, Marek," Ricky repeated, tossing the napkin onto the table. "My plan is simple. If Frank tries to arrest me, I’ll find a way to escape once you all are safely established in White Plains. But if he tries to shoot me on the spot... I’ll let him. I’ll fake my death right there on the floor."

​Marek stared at him, stunned. "Fake your death?"

​"If Frank Knox thinks I’m six feet under," Ricky said with a dark, calm glimmer in his eyes, "he’ll let his guard down. He’ll think the threat is gone. And while he’s celebrating his victory in Greenwich, we can systematically tear down his political connections, his police protection, and his entire empire from the shadows."

​Marek took a slow breath, rubbing his temples. "It’s a terrifying gamble, Rick. What if he aims for your head?"

​"Then we’ll see just how tough I really am," Ricky said with a faint smirk, drinking the rest of his water.

​As Ricky stood up to check the locks on the lounge doors, he spotted Danny standing near the hallway archway. The young man was staring down at his cap, his brow furrowed with deep concern.

​Ricky walked over, clapping a hand gently on Danny’s shoulder. "What’s on your mind, Dan?"

​Danny looked up, sighing heavily. "I’m still worried, boss. We all are. But... we respect your decision. I’ll be praying for your safety every night you’re out here alone."

​Ricky smiled, giving his shoulder a firm pat. "Appreciate it, Dan. Truly." He shifted his tone slightly. "What about you? Are you catching the morning train up to White Plains with the rest of the boys?"

​Danny shook his head slowly. "I’d love to go with ’em, boss, I really would... but someone’s got to stay behind and look after the rest and their families staying in Greenwich. Minetta block has been my home since I was a kid. I know every vendor, every widow, and every orphan on those streets. I can’t just pack my bags and turn my back on ’em while Frank’s men are roaming around."

​Ricky looked at the young man, his eyes full of genuine warmth. "That’s what I’ve always admired about you, Danny. Your loyalty to your people isn’t just talk—it’s real. I respect that."

​He leaned in slightly. "If you or the folks in Minetta ever run short on coal, bread, or coin while I’m away, go straight to Marek. He’ll have access to the company’s local funds and freight supplies. Just because I’m laying low doesn’t mean this family gets divided."

​Danny’s face relaxed into a wide, relieved smile. "Thanks, boss. That means a lot."

​"Get some sleep, Dan," Ricky said, handing him his coat. "Tomorrow’s going to be a long day for everyone."