1860s American Tycoon

At 10 Downing Street, the Foreign Secretary handed a document, just stamped with the top-secret seal of the Department of the Interior, to Prime Minister Gladstone.

"He is dead."

It was impossible to tell from the Foreign Secretary's tone whether he felt regret or relief.

"The forensic examiner from Scotland Yard has confirmed the body; it was a self-inflicted gunshot wound. It happened just as the people from the Department of the Interior were preparing to go up and take him into custody."

Prime Minister Gladstone stopped the quill he was using to review documents and looked up.

"It can be considered a decent ending; at least he preserved the final dignity of the British Empire and the government of America."

Gladstone pushed the document aside.

"Draft a formal diplomatic note and deliver it to Hamilton Fish through the embassy in Washington. State that during the extradition process, the suspect committed suicide out of fear of punishment. Attach the forensic report."

"What about the mess that Morgan left behind in London?"

"That is a matter for Lloyd's and those vampires at the exchange to worry about; the government will not intervene."

Gladstone waved his hand impatiently.

"I only hope those trashy newspapers on Fleet Street can find a new topic tomorrow; this matter ends here."

The British government wanted it to end there, but some people had no intention of stopping.

In a dirty, chaotic alley near Whitechapel in the East End of London.

Oliver, the butler, wrapped in a large trench coat, walked hurriedly along the cobblestone street covered in sewage.

He had just paid a high price on the black market for a fake passport to Buenos Aires, Argentina.

As long as he survived tonight and boarded the train to Liverpool early tomorrow morning, he could completely escape this nightmare.

He turned into a dead-end alley without streetlights, intending to cut through it to return to the safe house he had rented temporarily.

Suddenly, a spark of light ignited in the darkness.

It was someone striking a match to light a cigarette.

Oliver stopped abruptly, instinctively wanting to turn and run back. But as soon as he turned his head, he saw two tall men standing at the entrance of the alley, blocking his retreat completely.

The man lighting the cigarette stepped out of the shadows.

He had a full beard, and his eyes were as cold as an ice cellar.

He was Gareth, the operations director for the Argyle Family's European intelligence network.

"Tickets to Argentina aren't easy to buy, Mr. Oliver." Gareth exhaled a puff of smoke, his voice sounding low in the narrow alley.

Oliver was trembling all over, clutching the kraft paper envelope in his arms tightly.

"I have nothing left, Mr. Morgan is already dead! What more do you want?"

"Old Morgan is dead. But in our boss's rules, weeds must be pulled out by the roots."

Gareth carelessly flicked the cigarette butt, which he had only taken one puff of, into a puddle.

"You followed Old Morgan for over thirty years; you know too many of his connections and too many secret accounts hidden in the dark. The boss doesn't like keeping these ticking time bombs around."

"I swear I won't say anything, and I can give you all two thousand pounds!" Oliver pleaded desperately.

Gareth didn't speak again, just tilted his head slightly.

The two men standing at the alley entrance walked over silently. One of them held a tough, thin steel wire with a noose at the end.

Oliver couldn't even let out a cry for help.

The steel wire tightened around his neck with extreme precision, and the tremendous force instantly severed his windpipe.

He struggled a few times in the mud and then completely stopped moving.

Gareth stepped forward, fished the envelope containing the money out of Oliver's arms, and shoved it into his own pocket without even looking at it.

"Dispose of the body cleanly. And those cronies of Old Morgan we identified earlier, eliminate them all tonight."

Gareth ordered in a flat tone.

"Also, go to the Kensington district; isn't that house blocked off by Scotland Yard? Set a couple of fires. Since Old Morgan died inside, let that house serve as his crematorium. Burn it clean."

A few hours later, a massive fire erupted in the wealthy Kensington district. The last traces of the Morgan Family in Britain were completely reduced to ashes in the flames.

Washington D.C., a secret interrogation room of the Secret Service.

The room was enclosed, with several blindingly bright gas lamps hanging on the walls, casting light directly onto the face of David Burke, who was secured to an iron chair.

Burke had been interrogated for a full four hours.

The gunshot wound on his left shoulder had only been simply bandaged, and blood had already seeped through the gauze, dripping down his arm.

Higgins stood before Burke, holding the telegram that had just arrived.

"Burke. What are you still holding out for? Do you think that by not speaking, you can protect your master far away in London?"

Burke looked up, his exhausted face still bearing a trace of a mocking sneer.

"You government lackeys have no idea how formidable Mr. Morgan is. As long as he is alive for one more day, Argyle will never know peace. So what if you caught me? That money has already been spread out; half of the politicians in Washington are on his list."

"Is that so?"

Higgins sneered and threw the telegram in his hand directly onto Burke's face.

The telegram paper drifted lightly onto Burke's lap.

"Read the words on it; this is a British diplomatic note just received by the Cabinet. Junius Morgan, in his Kensington villa in London, shot a hole through his own head with a revolver. He is dead, and his body was burned by a massive fire until only bones remained."

Burke's eyes widened instantly.

He stared fixedly at the words on the telegram, as if trying to see through them.

"Impossible… This is impossible! How could Mr. Morgan commit suicide? He still had so many plans…"

Burke's voice began to tremble; his long-standing pillar of support had collapsed instantly.

"There is nothing impossible about it."

Higgins pressed his hands onto the tabletop, looking at him with immense oppressiveness.

"Your master has already been driven to despair and shot himself, so who are you still keeping secrets for? For those congressmen who took the money but played dumb in Congress?"

Saying this, he drew his service pistol and slammed it onto the table with a "click."

"I will ask you one last time. The five million dollars in operating funds that Old Morgan gave you—besides hiring those hitmen, who in Washington did you give the rest of the money to? I want the full list."

Burke looked at the gun, then at the telegram on the floor.

When an employer dies, the loyalty of a mercenary becomes a joke.

"I will give… I will give you the list."

Burke breathed heavily, sweat and blood mixing together and flowing into his eyes.

"That money, the largest portion was not given to members of Congress."

"Who was it given to?"

Higgins keenly sensed that something was wrong.

Burke took a deep breath and reported a name.

"The White House Chief of Staff, the President's personal assistant. Mr. Marshall. I gave him a full five hundred thousand dollars in bearer bonds."

Even a senior agent like Higgins, who had seen it all, couldn't help but gasp.

The President's personal aide had been bought off?

What did this mean?

It meant that the assassination of President Grant might not have been some peripheral security lapse at all, but a total internal betrayal!

"Do you know what you are saying?"

Higgins grabbed Burke by the collar.

"Five hundred thousand. When he was arranging the President's itinerary in Indiana, he gave us the general outline. And also matters regarding the Argyle Family."

Burke closed his eyes, as if shedding a heavy burden.

"The list is all in my head; give me paper and a pen to write it down."

Washington D.C., Army General Hospital.

Grant, whose condition had been stabilized but who remained in a coma, had been transferred back here.

The corridor outside the intensive care unit was filled with the pungent smell of carbolic acid disinfectant, and several fully armed federal soldiers stood straight at the door of the ward.

Chief of Staff Marshall was pacing back and forth in the corridor, feeling restless and anxious.

He kept taking out his pocket watch to check the time, his forehead covered in a fine layer of sweat.

Inside the ward, several top surgeons were performing a second debridement on President Ulysses S. Grant.

The bullet produced by the Argyle factory had grazed President Ulysses S. Grant's lung; although it was not fatal on the spot, the risk of infection was extremely high.

Marshall glanced at the soldiers at the door, calculating in his mind how he could maintain his political position in front of those congressmen if the president really didn't make it.

After all, while five hundred thousand dollars was a lot, the risk was too great if he had to bet on a dead man.

Just then, the elevator door at the end of the corridor suddenly opened.

A chaotic and rapid sound of leather boots broke the hospital's silence.

Agent Higgins, leading a dozen Secret Service agents carrying rifles, walked over quickly with a murderous look on his face.

Marshall frowned and stepped forward, putting on the dignified posture of the president's chief of staff.

"Agent Higgins, what are you doing running to the intensive care unit with so many people? The doctors are inside treating the president again, and it needs to be quiet!" Marshall scolded sternly.

Higgins did not stop; he walked straight up to Marshall, his eyes cold.

"Quiet? Mr. Marshall, I think the last thing you need right now is quiet. What you need is a good lawyer."

Marshall's heart skipped a beat, but he forced himself to remain calm on the surface.

"What are you talking about? I am the president's chief of staff; what right do you have to question me here?"

"The Secret Service does not have the power to question you."

Higgins sneered and suddenly pulled an arrest warrant stamped with the Department of Justice seal from his pocket, slapping it directly onto Marshall's chest.

"But this bears the signature of the Attorney General and the authorization of the Congressional Special Investigation Committee."

Marshall looked down at the paper, the color draining from his face instantly.

"Five hundred thousand dollars in bearer bonds, Mr. Marshall. David Burke has confessed every detail of your transaction in the interrogation room. You leaked the president's itinerary, leading to the president being seriously injured and in a coma. This charge is enough for you to rot in Leavenworth Military Prison for the rest of your life."

"This is a frame-up! This is a complete and total frame-up!"

Marshall panicked completely, screaming and trying to grab Higgins' collar.

"I am innocent! I am the person the president trusts the most!"

"Trust? You sold the person who trusted you most for five hundred thousand." Higgins waved his hand sharply.

Two burly agents immediately stepped forward, pinning Marshall's shoulders firmly from left and right, and unceremoniously flipped him over, pressing him face-down onto the cold hospital floor.

"You can't do this to me, I want to see the vice president! I want to see Thomas Clark!"

Marshall struggled frantically on the ground like a fish out of water.

"vice president Clark is very busy right now; I'm afraid he doesn't have time to see a traitor."

Higgins grabbed him by the hair and yanked him up.

"Take him away and escort him directly to the temporary detention center of the military tribunal. No one is allowed to visit."

In the shocked gazes of the surrounding soldiers, this presidential favorite, who once wielded immense power in The White House, was dragged into the elevator like a stray dog.

With Marshall's arrest, the remaining domestic forces of the shocking conspiracy orchestrated by Old Morgan were uprooted.

The few congressmen who had taken the dirty money were also secretly detained at the same time.

The situation in Washington was completely turned around overnight.

Two days later.

New York, Manhattan, Fifth Avenue, top floor office of the Empire State Building.

The morning sun shone through the huge floor-to-ceiling windows onto Felix's spacious desk.

Chief Secretary Frost pushed open the door, holding two cardboard folders of different colors in his hand. His steps were much lighter than usual.

"Boss, the final reports from Washington and London have arrived." Frost placed the folders on the desk.

Felix put down the cigar in his hand and picked up the red folder first.

This was a secret telegram from the European branch of the Intelligence Department.

The content was brief: Junius Morgan had committed suicide by gunshot; the butler, Oliver, and the remaining party had been completely eliminated; the Kensington villa had been burned down. Mission accomplished.

Felix looked at those few short lines, his fingers gently rubbing the edge of the paper.

Four whole years.

Old Morgan, that veteran financial giant entrenched in London, was like a hidden viper, ready to deliver a fatal blow to him at any time.

Trade wars, stock market sniping, assassinations, political framing.

They had experienced almost every cruel confrontation imaginable.

And now, it had all come to an end with that gunshot.

Felix closed his eyes and took a deep breath of the cold morning air.

In that moment, he felt his breathing become smoother than ever before, as if every pore on his body were relaxing.

"That feels good."

Felix opened his eyes, a relaxed smile curling the corners of his mouth.

He tossed the red folder into the shredder bin beside him. This meant that from today on, this name would be completely erased from the Argyle Family archives.

Then he picked up the blue folder; it was the news sent from Washington.

Marshall was arrested, and the internal purge of Congress was complete.

Thomas Clark had fully taken over the daily affairs of the government.

Although President Ulysses S. Grant was out of danger, he was still in a coma, and the doctors could not give a specific time for him to wake up.

Washington had now become an absolute safe zone for the Argyle Family.

"The old ghost is dead, and the mole is behind bars."

Felix stood up and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, overlooking the bustling city beneath his feet.

The streets of New York were filled with traffic, and the factory chimneys were spewing thick smoke that represented industrial power.

"Frost."

Felix turned around, his eyes reigniting with a fanaticism for expanding his territory.

"The smell of blood has dissipated; it's time to talk business."

Frost immediately took out his pen and notepad.

"It's the end of November now; send out the notice."

"Prepare to convene the year-end supreme Executive Committee of the Argyle Family and call back all core executives who are away."

"Everyone." Felix rested his hands on the desk.

"No matter who they are, tell them to drop everything they are working on and get to New York within two weeks."

"Old Morgan's death is just the beginning; those bankers in Europe will surely start to be very careful now. This is the perfect opportunity for us to integrate domestic resources and expand outward completely. At this annual meeting, I want to set our imperial map for the next five years!"

At the top of the Empire State Building in Manhattan, in front of an oval walnut conference table that could seat fifty people, smoke from burning tobacco rose slowly toward the vents.

There were ten minutes left before the meeting officially began, but the core members of the Argyle Family Executive Committee had already arrived in full.

Together, these people controlled over one-third of the United States' industrial lifelines, financial networks, and transportation hubs.

If someone were to throw a stick of dynamite into this room right now, the entire economy of America could potentially regress back to the Revolutionary War era within three days.

"Heh... hehe, listen, Miller."

Bill, President of the Metropolitan Trading Company, leaned back in his chair, toying with a cigar in his hand.

"The shipping speed of Cygnus Mining over in Colorado is too slow. My fleet has been waiting empty at the docks for two days. You have to understand, every day of docking fees is burning through my profits."

Miller, the dual President of Vanguard Military Industry and Cygnus Mining, picked up the black coffee in front of him, took a sip, and huffed in annoyance.

"Stop complaining, pal. It snowed heavily in Colorado last month, and the tracks for hauling ore froze and cracked for three miles. Do you think I'm God? Can I make those workers fly to fix the railroad in sub-zero temperatures? I've already sent in more manpower; by next Tuesday at the latest, the ore will be loaded into your cargo hold on time."

Jones, President of the Argyle Food Company, who was sitting across from them, was chatting with Catherine.

"Catherine, I have already had the slaughterhouse in Chicago set up a separate production line for the animal and plant extracts needed by the pharmaceutical factory. However, the price of beef and mutton has risen quite a bit."

Catherine opened the notebook in her hand without even looking up.

"I know, Miller. As long as the quality meets my laboratory standards, the price can follow the market rate. The pharmaceutical company isn't short on that kind of money anyway. You just need to ensure that those damn parasites aren't mixed into the extracts."

Near the head of the long table were the seats of George Templeton, President of the Argyle Empire Bank, and Tom Hayes, President of the Patriot Investment Company.

As the family's purse strings, the two of them were checking the final data accounts.

Meanwhile, William Coleman, President of the Lex Steel Company, and Charles Reeves, President of the Mississippi and Eastern Railroad, were discussing the bidding for the new railroad construction in Pennsylvania next year on the other side.

In the latter half of the long table sat the committee members, who were also general managers of other companies.

Peter Jenkins of Standard Oil, MacGregor of Atlantic Steam Power, Frank Cole of United Ammunition, and Sylvester Laughlin of the Lafflin-Smith Powder Company.

As well as Anna Clark, Vice Chair of the Argyle Charitable Foundation.

Timmy, head of the Intelligence Department, sat in the shadows in the far corner.

Silas, General Manager of the Southern Development Company, sat near the door with his hands on his knees, his knuckles turning white from the excessive force.

He looked at the wall clock nervously.

Ten o'clock sharp.

The double doors of the conference room were pushed open.

Edward Frost, Secretary-General of the Executive Committee, walked in first, carrying a thick stack of documents.

Immediately following him, Felix stepped into the room.

The originally noisy conference room quieted down.

All conversation ceased instantly, leaving only the sound of Felix's leather boots stepping on the Persian carpet.

Felix walked to the head of the long table and pulled out the chair to sit down.

"Gentlemen, and ladies."

"Over the past year, we have experienced expansion, competition, and even assassination attempts. But everyone in this room has survived safely, and lived well. This is something worth celebrating."

He paused for a moment and swept his gaze across the room.

"But before we start sharing the fruits of victory—that is, reporting the annual profits—some messes must be cleaned up first. Frost, read it."

Frost stood to Felix's right and opened the top black folder.

"According to the highest instructions of the family, the Executive Committee Secretariat, in conjunction with the Intelligence Department, has conducted a review of major internal errors within the family for the year 1871. I will now announce the first disciplinary decision."

Frost's voice was like a machine without emotion.

"Silas, General Manager of the Southern Development Company. In October of this year, the Southern plantation was attacked by unknown militants. This attack resulted in the plantation security team losing fourteen internal model rifles produced by Vanguard Military Industry."

Frost looked up, his gaze piercing directly at Silas, who was sitting at the end.

"After learning that the rifles were lost, in order to cover up the security failure, Silas did not report it to the New York headquarters or the Intelligence Department immediately. Instead, he chose to conceal it. And it was these fourteen rifles that, ten days later, appeared in the hands of the assassin who attempted to kill President Ulysses S. Grant!"

A sound of gasping echoed in the conference room.

Several uninformed presidents turned their heads one after another, looking at Silas with dissatisfied gazes.

"If the boss hadn't personally sent a telegram afterward to inquire about the whereabouts of these rifles, and if the boss hadn't personally turned the situation around in Washington, do you all know what the consequences would have been?" Frost's tone became stern.

"Those politicians in Congress would have used this as an excuse to accuse the Argyle Family of participating in the assassination of the President. The family's banks would have been seized, and the factories would have been taken over!"

Silas stood up, his forehead covered in sweat, his face deathly pale.

"Boss... I really didn't know that those who stole the rifles were desperados hired by Old Morgan. I thought it was just the remnants of the Ku Klux Klan from the South coming to cause trouble at the plantation. I also sent people to track down those guns, thinking I could get them back..."

Silas's voice was trembling.

Felix leaned back in his chair and pulled a cigar from the cigar box. Frost, beside him, immediately struck a match to light it for him.

He took a deep puff and exhaled a thick cloud of smoke.

"You thought." Felix looked at Silas.

"Silas, you haven't been with me for just a day or two. Have I ever told you that in the Argyle Family, we don't fear you making mistakes, and we don't fear you causing losses? Even if the plantation were burned to the ground, as long as the people are still here, I can use dollars to build ten more. But what do I hate the most?"

Silas lowered his head.

"Concealment."

"Correct, concealment."

Felix held the cigar between his fingers and pointed at Silas.

"In order to preserve your pathetic performance record and not affect your assessment for promotion to director at the end of the year, you buried a fatal hidden danger at the foundation of the family. This is called stupidity."

"I admit my fault, Boss. I accept any punishment."

Silas gritted his teeth tightly, knowing that making excuses was meaningless.

"Read the disciplinary decision, Frost."

Frost turned a page of the document.

"Given that Silas was able to actively cooperate with the Intelligence Department's investigation after the fact, and has indeed generated stable profits in the daily operations of the Southern Development Company. Approved by the chairman and the Board of Directors: Deduct all of Silas's dividends for 1871. Suspend his assessment for promotion to Director of the Executive Committee. Retain his position as General Manager of the Southern Development Company."

Silas breathed a sigh of relief.

It seemed the boss still acknowledged his achievements.

Not being kicked out of the committee, or even demoted, meant the boss had shown mercy.

He felt that the shirt on his back had been completely soaked through with cold sweat.

"Thank you, Boss. There will never be a next time."

Silas bowed deeply and sat back in his chair.

Felix flicked the ash off his cigar and swept his gaze over Jones, Miller, and the others.

"Everyone here, engrave this matter in your minds. No matter if the companies you manage earn millions or tens of millions, rules are rules. Whoever dares to conceal fatal information, next time, the disciplinary result will not be as simple as deducting dividends. Do you understand?"

"Understood."

The uniform response echoed in the conference room.

Felix nodded with satisfaction.

"Alright, let's end this unpleasant topic here."

Felix placed his cigar on the edge of the crystal ashtray.

"Frost, proceed to the next agenda item. Regarding the adjustments to the personnel structure."

The atmosphere in the conference room visibly heated up.

Everyone knew that the personnel adjustments at the annual year-end meeting meant a redistribution of power and wealth.

Frost picked up another document with a red stamp.

"First, regarding the personnel appointments for Vanguard Military Industry."

Miller straightened up slightly in his seat.

As the only person in the Argyle Family currently serving as president of two core heavy industrial companies simultaneously, he had actually felt overwhelmed for a long time.

"Over the past few years, Director Miller has managed both Cygnus Mining and Vanguard Military Industry simultaneously, making indelible contributions to the expansion of the Argyle Family," Frost read out in a businesslike manner.

"However, with the explosive growth of military orders and the unfolding of the family's western mining acquisitions, fighting on two fronts no longer adheres to the principle of maximizing efficiency."

Frost looked toward Frank Cole, who was sitting in the middle section.

"Mr. Frank Cole, during your tenure as General Manager acting in charge of the daily affairs of Vanguard Military Industry, you successfully secured the new rifle re-equipment order for the Federal Army and established two brand-new production lines in Chicago. Your performance is evident to all."

"Upon the nomination of the chairman and the resolution of the committee: Frank Cole is officially appointed as president of Vanguard Military Industry. At the same time, Frank Cole is promoted to Director of the Executive Committee."

"Clap, clap, clap..."

Applause rang out in the conference room.

Miller led the applause and looked at Frank, his eyes filled with relief.

Finally, he could let go and expand properly in the West.

"Well done, Frank," Miller said loudly.

"God is my witness, those blueprints and artillery specifications almost turned my brain into mush. Now that Vanguard Military Industry is completely handed over to you, I can finally rest easy and go dig my mines in Colorado."

Frank stood up and bowed to Felix and everyone present.

"Thank you for your trust, Boss, and thank you to Director Miller for your leadership over these past few years. Next year, Vanguard Military Industry will show those old fogeys in Congress what a true military-industrial monster is."

Frank stood up from his seat in the back, picked up his notebook, strode to the front of the long table, pulled out a chair belonging to the director level, and sat down.

"In addition to Frank's promotion, we have several new faces joining the committee."

Felix tapped the table, signaling everyone to be quiet.

The conference room door was pushed open again.

Four men in formal attire walked into this room, which represented the highest power of the Argyle Family.

Although they tried their best to suppress their inner excitement, the muscles around their eyes were still twitching uncontrollably.

Felix pointed at them.

"These four, over the past year, have made great contributions to the family's territory in the retail, media, real estate, and technology sectors. Because the scale of the businesses they each manage has exceeded the original structure, I have decided to make the departments they are responsible for independent and expand them."

Frost began to read the appointments.

"The former manager of Universal Department Store, Gable, is officially promoted to General Manager of Universal Department Store and will join the Executive Committee as a member. Not only did he successfully build the largest luxury retail center in New York, but next year he will also be responsible for opening branches in Chicago and Boston."

Gable stepped forward and greeted everyone.

"The former manager of News Media Company, Victor Fowler, is promoted to General Manager and will join the committee. Victor, you performed exceptionally well in this year's public opinion war."

Felix offered a rare word of praise.

Victor pushed up the glasses on the bridge of his nose, masking his inner joy.

"Boss, News Media Company will follow your steps and commands to occupy the high ground of public opinion."

"The former manager of Federal Real Estate Company, Arthur Hamilton, is promoted to General Manager and will join the committee. The land we own on Fifth Avenue and Wall Street, as well as the high-end apartments currently under construction, are all handled by him."

Arthur nodded in acknowledgement.

Frost's gaze fell on the last person, who was also the youngest of the four.

"Finally, regarding the reorganization appointments for General Electric Company," Frost raised his voice slightly.

"Mr. Heinrich White is officially promoted to General Manager of General Electric Company and will join the committee. At the same time, according to the Boss's strategic deployment, Standard Commercial Company will be merged into General Electric as a whole. The former General Manager of Standard Commercial Company, Christopher Latham Sholes, will no longer serve as General Manager and will transfer to the position of Chief Technical Officer of General Electric, with full responsibility for the R&D of Typewriters, telephones, and future electrical equipment."

This decision surprised some of the veterans present.

Standard Commercial Company was established before General Electric, and the cash flow brought by stock tickers and Typewriters was very considerable.

Now it was actually being merged directly into General Electric, which hadn't even built many factory buildings yet?

George Templeton couldn't help but speak up.

"Boss, the profits from stock tickers and Typewriters are very stable. Merging it into a new company like General Electric that is in a cash-burning phase—wouldn't that make the accounts too chaotic?"

"George, your vision is still stuck in the mechanical age," Felix waved his hand.

"I placed Sholes in the position of Chief Technical Officer because General Electric is not as simple as selling a few light bulbs and telephones. What we are going to build is an entire electrical and communication network for America. Typewriters and stock tickers are just nodes on this vast network. Heinrich understands business operations, and Sholes understands technical R&D. I think the two of them are a very suitable partnership. I want General Electric to become a monster that earns more money than the railroads within ten years."

Hearing this, Heinrich stood straight.

"Boss, regarding the municipal power grid renovation for Washington D.C., I have already prepared the complete plan. As long as the congressional funding arrives, we will start construction immediately."

"Okay, sit down, Gentlemen. Your designated seats are in the back half of the long table."

Felix pointed to those empty chairs.

The four newly promoted General Managers took their seats.

Thus, the final structure of the Argyle Family Executive Committee was completely established.

It was like a fleet armed to the teeth.

There was food and medicine responsible for logistics, military industry and gunpowder providing ammunition, railroads and steamships responsible for clearing the way, and banks and investment companies serving as the engines of the fleet.

"Everyone, I have arranged the power and positions for you all."

Felix took a sip of water, his gaze burning like a torch.

"Now, it is time to verify how much real money you have actually earned for the family over the past year. The rules remain the same. Cast aside all that useless nonsense. I want to hear the most direct data. Revenue, expenses, net profit."

Felix leaned back in his chair like a king waiting for tribute.

"Jones, as per tradition, we will start with the Argyle Food Company. Don't let me down."