If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead and more, 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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"I am perfectly fine, sweetheart," Caleb assured her, his voice a low, comforting hum. "I told you I would come back to you without a scratch, didn't I? Not a single bullet touched me." Mary-Beth let out a long, shuddering sigh, the unbearable tension of the last twenty four hours finally leaving her body. She rested her forehead against his chest, listening to the steady, calm rhythm of his heartbeat.
After a moment of quiet comfort, she looked up at him, her expression turning serious. She knew he had ridden out to exact a terrible vengeance for the ambush at the docks.
"Is it over?" Mary-Beth asked softly. "Is the Grays matter entirely done?"
Caleb nodded his head, his blue eyes flashing with a cold, absolute certainty. "The Grays will never be a problem for this family ever again. Caliga Hall is ours. The mercenaries are dead, and Tavish and Leigh are completely removed from the board. Vincenzo is occupying the town as we speak."
He gently tucked a stray lock of dark hair behind her ear. "We just need time to wait. Pierre is handling the legal paperwork. Once the deeds are officially in our name, the war will finally conclude in their victory."
Mary-Beth nodded, accepting the brutal, necessary reality of the world they lived in. She didn't press for the violent details. She only cared that he was safe, and that their future was secure.
After that, Caleb spent the rest of the afternoon spending quiet, uninterrupted time with Mary-Beth. He washed the dirt and gunpowder from his skin, changed into comfortable, tailored evening clothes, and sat with her in the drawing room. They drank hot tea, discussed the plot of her upcoming novel, and enjoyed the profound, absolute domestic peace that his violence had successfully bought for them.
The hours melted away, and soon, the sun fully set over Saint Denis, plunging the city into the cold, gas lit darkness of the winter evening.
It was exactly at eight o'clock in the evening when the heavy brass knocker on the front doors echoed through the mansion.
Antonio, the impeccably dressed head butler, opened the doors to reveal Pierre, the ruthless corporate attorney, and his exhausted, entirely disheveled legal team. They were carrying heavy leather briefcases bulging with official state documents, their eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep, but their faces were plastered with manic, victorious grins.
Antonio escorted the legal team into the mansion, and they met with Caleb.
Caleb, knowing exactly how hard these men had worked to secure his empire's legitimacy, welcomed them not in the cold study, but in the sprawling, opulent dining room. The massive mahogany table had been completely cleared of its usual centerpieces.
"Gentlemen, please, take a seat," Caleb offered smoothly, gesturing to the high backed velvet chairs.
He had instructed Antonio's kitchen staff to prepare a magnificent feast. The table was quickly laden with some incredibly fancy but deeply fulfilling food, massive platters of perfectly roasted prime rib, buttered root vegetables, rich, dark gravies, and freshly baked artisan breads. Alongside the food, Antonio poured generous glasses of the absolute finest, most expensive imported French wines the family vault had to offer.
The lawyer and his team, who had been surviving on stale coffee and sheer adrenaline for two days, practically fell into the chairs, looking at the food with sheer reverence.
Caleb sat at the head of the table, a crystal glass of deep red wine resting in his hand. He let the men eat for a few minutes, allowing them to regain their strength, before he finally addressed the elephant in the room.
"So, Pierre," Caleb asked, his voice calm but heavily laced with anticipation. He took a slow sip of his wine. "How is it? Have the legal changeovers been successfully done? Do I own the entire richness of the State of Lemoyne now?"
Pierre swallowed a mouthful of prime rib, wiping his mouth with a crisp linen napkin. He didn't just smile, he beamed. He reached down into his heavy leather briefcase and pulled out a massive, incredibly thick stack of official, state stamped parchment documents, laying them directly onto the center of the mahogany dining table.
Pierre hearing that question, nodded his head enthusiastically.
"We have finished all of the documents needed, Don McLaughlin," Pierre announced, his voice ringing with absolute, corporate triumph. "Every single deed, every zoning permit, and every property transfer contract. We have officially submitted it all to the highest levels of the state government this afternoon."
Pierre tapped the heavy stack of papers with his index finger.
"And do not worry for a single second, Don," Pierre assured him, his eyes gleaming with the cunning intellect of a master manipulator. "They will comply. The government has absolutely no choice but to comply, because all of the documents and the supporting evidence we provided are flawlessly, undeniably valid."
Pierre leaned forward, explaining the legal masterpiece he had just orchestrated.
"Using the hidden ledger you provided us, we completely decimated the state's claim on the Braithwaite properties. We proved their seizure was legally fraudulent. And as for the Grays..." Pierre chuckled darkly. "The deeds your men brought me this morning were perfectly intact. We drafted a flawless bill of sale, transferring the entirety of Caliga Hall, the tobacco fields, and the Rhodes commercial properties directly into the Thorne Corporate Holding Company."
Pierre took a long, deeply satisfied sip of his wine.
"Knowing that these sprawling, incredibly valuable properties are now officially under your name," Pierre continued, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper, "the State of Lemoyne would definitely, unquestionably pass it. The politicians in this state are terrified of you, Don McLaughlin. They know that rejecting these valid documents would mean a direct war with your syndicate, and they simply do not have the stomach or the resources to fight you."
Pierre set his glass down, a sly, knowing wink crossing his face. "And, of course... a substantial amount of our liquid capital, some incredibly heavy briefcases filled with unmarked moneys delivered directly to the private residences of the state judges and the municipal clerks, have also helped 'grease the wheels' of the bureaucratic process as well. The paperwork was expedited with unprecedented speed."
Hearing that his combination of overwhelming violence, flawless legal maneuvering, and massive financial bribery had achieved absolute perfection, Caleb smiled.
"You have done spectacular work, Pierre," Caleb praised him, raising his glass of wine in a toast to the attorney. "Your bonuses this month will be astronomical."
"It is a pleasure doing your work for you, Don McLaughlin," Pierre grinned, raising his own glass in return.
Caleb took a slow, victorious drink. The guns had gone silent, the ink was dry, and the enemies were dead. Caleb did not just control the criminal underworld of Saint Denis anymore. In matter of time, he will legally owned the entire southern state of Lemoyne.
After that the sprawling, opulent dining room of the Garden District mansion was filled with the sounds of clinking silverware and the low, exhausted sighs of profound relief.
Caleb, sitting at the head of the massive mahogany table, watching with quiet, predatory satisfaction as Pierre and his disheveled team of legal clerks devoured the feast set before them. The prime rib, roasted to absolute perfection by Antonio's elite kitchen staff, practically melted on the bone, accompanied by rich, dark gravies and heavily buttered root vegetables.
Caleb continued to eat alongside them, his demeanor calm and entirely composed, a stark, terrifying contrast to the absolute bloodbath he had orchestrated in Scarlett Meadows just twenty four hours prior. He let the lawyers eat their fill, knowing that men worked best when they were well compensated, well fed, and entirely reliant on his boundless generosity.
Finally, as the last of the artisan breads were consumed and the silver platters were effectively cleared, Caleb set his linen napkin down on the table, signaling that the meal, and their brief respite, had officially ended. The legal clerks immediately sat up straighter, wiping their mouths and reaching for their notebooks.
"You have secured the land, Pierre, and for that, you have my gratitude," Caleb began, his rich, authoritative voice cutting through the warm, gas lit air of the dining room. "But the acquisition of Caliga Hall and the Braithwaite properties is only the foundation. Now that the government has sent the agreement and everything is legally binding, I need you to build a fortress around it. A fortress made of paper, ink, and impenetrable corporate law."
Pierre pushed his empty plate aside and pulled a fresh, leather bound legal pad toward him, clicking his expensive fountain pen open. "Name your request, Don McLaughlin. What exactly do you require?"
"I want a foolproof, airtight legal contract constructed for the Thorne Corporate Holding Company," Caleb commanded, leaning forward, his blue eyes flashing with the visionary intellect of a man who was bringing twentieth century corporate monopolies into the Gilded Age. "This holding company will act as the absolute, untouchable umbrella for every single enterprise we operate. Nothing traces back to me personally. It all funnels into the corporation."
Caleb began to list his demands with the rapid, exacting precision of a military general outlining a campaign.
"First, the luxury hotel currently finishing construction up in Strawberry. I want liability waivers, operational permits, and absolute, exclusive territorial rights filed with the state of West Elizabeth. I want it so heavily legally fortified that a federal judge couldn't order a health inspection without my explicit, written permission."
Pierre nodded frantically, his pen flying across the page. "Consider it done, sir. We will bury the local municipalities in red tape."
"Second," Caleb continued, shifting his focus to the highly lucrative hospitality sector he was establishing. "My restaurants. I am not just opening dining rooms, I am creating an exclusive brand. I want a strict, binding legal claim placed on the very recipes of my restaurants' foods."
The junior clerks at the table paused, exchanging confused glances. In 1899, the concept of intellectual property regarding culinary arts was practically nonexistent. Recipes were freely stolen and shared.
"You heard me," Caleb said, his voice turning incredibly dark and uncompromising. "I want patents and legal protections filed for the exact taste, the specific texture, and precisely how the food looks when it is presented on the plate. If there is a single chef, a rival restaurateur, or a street vendor anywhere in this country who produces a dish with the same taste, texture, and look as mine... they will immediately need to pay me heavy royalties. And if they refuse, I want you to sue them into absolute oblivion for claim infringement. Bankrupt them. Seize their establishments. Make an example of them."
Pierre's eyes widened with sheer, unadulterated awe at the sheer ruthlessness of the concept. It was legal warfare on a microscopic scale. "That is... brilliant, sir. Completely unprecedented, but with the right framing and the right bribes to the patent clerks, entirely enforceable."
"Make it enforceable," Caleb demanded. "And lastly, and most importantly, the factory. I want comprehensive, interlocking patents filed for every single internal and external component of the weapons currently being produced by the Thorne-Marlin facility. The polygonal rifling of the Vanguard, the long recoil spring of the Auto-5, and the drum feed mechanism of the Sweeper submachine gun. Lock it all down. If a rival gunsmith so much as attempts to machine a firing pin that looks like mine, I want them crushed."
Hearing the sheer, overwhelming scope of the legal work required, Pierre didn't balk. Instead, he thrived on the challenge. He nodded his head vigorously at that, a manic, ambitious grin spreading across his face.
"I will go to do it right away, Don McLaughlin," Pierre promised, already standing up from the table and gesturing for his clerks to gather their heavy briefcases. "We will draft the intellectual property claims tonight and have them filed in the capital by tomorrow morning. Your corporate empire will be legally impenetrable."
"See that it is. Goodnight, Pierre," Caleb said smoothly, dismissing them.
The lawyers practically sprinted out of the dining room, their minds buzzing with the revolutionary legal mandates they had just been given. As the heavy mahogany doors clicked shut behind them, Caleb was left entirely alone in the sprawling, quiet dining room. The only sound was the crackle of the massive stone fireplace and the distant, muted ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway.
Caleb reached out, his long fingers wrapping around the stem of his crystal wine glass. He gently stirred the deep, dark red vintage Bordeaux, watching the crimson liquid swirl in a mesmerizing vortex.
He raised the glass to his lips and, breaking his usual composed sipping, drank the heavy, expensive wine in one single, continuous gulp. The alcohol burned pleasantly down his throat, a fiery confirmation of the absolute power he now wielded.
As he set the empty crystal glass down onto the mahogany table, a profound realization settled over his hyper-intelligent mind. He stared at his own reflection in the polished wood.
It was time. He felt it in his bones. It was time that he officially announced his real name.
When he had first arrived in this brutal, unforgiving world, adopting the moniker "McLaughlin" was a vital, necessary shield. It was a ghost's name, a fabricated identity designed to navigate the treacherous waters of the Saint Denis underworld without drawing the immediate, lethal attention of the Pinkertons or the federal government.
But the landscape had entirely changed. He was no longer a rogue gunslinger hiding in the shadows. He was a rich industrialist. He was a Don.
Furthermore, Caleb was absolutely sure that the entirety of his inner circle, his lieutenants, and his most trusted men had already realized by now that "McLaughlin" wasn't his real name. The clues were simply too massive to ignore.
The sprawling, revolutionary firearms factory that armed their syndicate was officially registered as the "Thorne-Marlin" company. On top of that, the core members of the Van der Linde gang, Arthur, John, Sadie, and Mary-Beth, had accidentally slipped up in private conversations or moments of high adrenaline, referring to him as Caleb Thorne where the Italian capos could hear.
Vincenzo, Silvio, Antonio, and the elite capos were not stupid men. They were hardened, highly observant killers who noticed every single detail. They undoubtedly knew he was operating under an alias.
But the beautiful, undeniable truth of the matter was that they simply didn't care.
So now, it was time for them to know the absolute truth, seeing as their loyalty to him was unquestionable. They hadn't bled for "McLaughlin", they had bled for the man who had elevated them from street level enforcers to the lords of the American South.
They had executed his orders flawlessly, slaughtered his enemies without hesitation, and secured his empire. They had earned the right to know exactly who they were fighting for.
With his mind made up, Caleb pushed his chair back from the table. The transition would be seamless, and the unveiling would be grand.
After that evening, the days passed by in a blur of intense, highly coordinated logistical activity. The syndicate was operating at absolute peak efficiency.
For maybe around three days, Caleb remained largely confined to the Garden District estate, orchestrating the massive transfer of wealth from Caliga Hall down into his subterranean vaults, overseeing the factory's production quotas via letters, and spending quiet, stolen moments with Mary-Beth in the study.
The tension of waiting for the government's final bureaucratic stamp of approval hung heavy in the air, but the streets of Saint Denis remained incredibly peaceful, firmly choked by the iron grip of the mafia's occupation.
Before finally, on the afternoon of the third day, the heavy brass knocker of the mansion sounded once again.
Pierre came back to the mansion, practically vibrating with triumphant energy. He was immediately ushered into Caleb's private study, where Caleb was standing by the massive windows looking out over the pristine lawns. "It is done, sir," Pierre announced breathlessly, stepping into the room and opening his pristine leather briefcase.
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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: 2,772 dollars and 60 cents
Inventory: 283,392 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 Broken Pirate Sword, 1 Milton's Safety Deposit Key, 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: -