1860s American Tycoon

When walking out of the Empire State Building, the cold wind of Manhattan, carrying fine snow, poured directly into people's necks.

Jones, President of the Argyle Food Company, exhaled heavily, the white mist instantly scattered by the wind.

Without lingering too long on the roadside, he dove directly into the carriage that had been waiting there.

The wheels rolled over the icy gravel road, making a crunching sound, and sped toward New York Central Station.

He had to catch the next train to Chicago; the slaughterhouses and cold storage facilities there were waiting for him to perform major surgery on them.

Two days later in Chicago, the cold wind by Lake Michigan was even more piercing than in New York.

Inside the Food Company's Midwest headquarters building, the oak in the fireplace crackled.

Jones sat behind the large desk, summoning his core executives without even having time to change his coat.

"Close the door, Barnaby."

Jones unbuttoned his collar and looked at the Chicago slaughterhouse director, Barnaby Vance, in front of him.

"And you, Elias, move those blueprints over here."

Mechanical technician Elias Thorne hurriedly spread out the blueprints covered in lines on the table.

"President, how did the meeting in New York go?"

Barnaby was a stout man, formerly Bill's apprentice, who had spent years dealing with slaughterhouses and livestock traders; his voice was as loud as a broken drum.

"I heard there's quite a stir in Washington; the company's dividends weren't affected, right?"

"The dividends are not a penny less, but if next year's affairs are botched, in the year after, everyone will have to gnaw on black bread."

Jones tapped on the table with his fingers.

"At the meeting, I presented the five-year plan we made earlier. The core of our Food Company's future consists of only four words: complete monopoly. Barnaby, I think you can burn those ledgers for long-distance live cattle transport starting tomorrow."

Barnaby froze for a moment.

"Burn them? No more shipping live cattle? Then what will those picky gentlemen on the East Coast eat? Rotten meat in cans?"

"They will eat fresh beef, slaughtered directly in Texas and Kansas, and shipped to New York while still cold."

Jones pointed to Elias's blueprints.

"Elias, that carriage with ventilation and insulation I asked you to have people make earlier, does it actually work now?"

Elias wiped his hands somewhat nervously.

"Mr. Jones, we filled the four walls of the carriage with double-layered sawdust and horsehair as insulation, and designed a huge ice trough on the top that can hold two tons of natural ice harvested from Lake Michigan. Through a simple fan driven by the wheels, cold air can circulate in the carriage. But there is a problem with this thing."

"Stop—don't tell me about the problem, I want the solution." Jones frowned deeply.

"It's time, sir."

Elias pointed to the railway route map.

"From Chicago to New York, a regular freight train takes four days. If we encounter heavy snow blocking the road or scheduling errors, and it drags on for more than five days, the ice will melt completely, and that carriage of fresh meat will turn into a pile of maggot-ridden garbage. No one can afford that loss."

"Then have Charles Reeves's side grant us a special train." Jones snorted coldly.

"The boss already said at the meeting that all resources are to be tilted toward the five-year plan. Barnaby, take people to Abilene, Kansas, and Austin, Texas, tomorrow, and establish modern slaughter centers there that belong directly to us. Stop stuffing those live cattle into boxcars like sardines and shipping them to Chicago; slaughter, skin, and gut them locally, then hang them directly in refrigerated carriages."

Barnaby gasped several times.

"Build large slaughterhouses in the South? Those places don't even have a decent steam engine room right now; they are all just Southerners who just put down their guns and cowboys. Building a factory there, just the money to hire security teams is a huge expense."

"Then spend more money. The boss said he's not afraid of spending money, only afraid of not seeing the effects of a monopoly. Besides, the Southern Development Company is over there; if it really doesn't work, just find Silas."

Jones stood up and paced around the room.

"Anyway, we need to lock down all the livestock procurement lines in the South before those small workshops in the Midwest can react. As long as our refrigerated carriages run on the Mississippi and Eastern Railroad, those traders who rely on transporting live cattle to make a fortune will go bankrupt within a year. Because their shipping costs are three times ours, and their losses are five times ours."

"I understand."

Barnaby grinned, a fierce glint flashing in his eyes.

"I'll take the train to Texas tomorrow. Whoever dares not to sell us cattle, I'll have the local sheriff check their ranches every day for cattle plague."

"Hmm, but don't overdo it. We need to be respectable on the surface; we are upstanding businessmen."

Jones instructed, then looked at Elias.

"This winter, the ice harvesting volume from Lake Michigan must triple. Build double-walled brick ice storage facilities for me at all major stations along the way. I want to ensure that for every two hundred miles the train runs, it can replenish fresh ice. If anything goes wrong with this, you can prepare to scrub floors at the slaughterhouse."

"Yes, Mr. President. I'll go sign exclusive contracts with those ice harvesting owners tonight." After speaking, Elias hurriedly put away the blueprints.

Just as the Food Company was laying out its ice network in Chicago, in the Ohio Standard Oil branch in Pennsylvania.

General Manager Peter Jenkins sat by the fireplace.

Opposite him sat Raymond Potts, who was in charge of engineering and construction, and Wallace Gent, who was in charge of on-site extraction in the Pennsylvania oil region.

And the branch manager, Junior D. Rockefeller.

The light from the kerosene lamp in the room was a bit dim, emitting a faint smell of kerosene.

"The boss was a bit unhappy at the annual meeting."

"Silas of the Southern Development Company had his entire annual dividend deducted and lost his position as a director because he concealed the loss of firearms. Gentlemen, I do not want Standard Oil to become the next negative example."

Raymond Potts was a dark-skinned engineer who tugged at his beard.

"General Manager Jenkins, our share in crude oil refining has already reached sixty percent in Ohio; those independent oil producers now have no choice but to send their crude oil to our refineries. How else can we expand?"

"Sixty percent? The boss wants eighty percent, or even all of it." Peter Jenkins's eyes were gloomy.

"The bottleneck now is not refining capacity, but transportation. Wallace, are those teamsters of yours in the oil region causing trouble again recently?"

Wallace Gent sighed.

"Those rough teamsters are just a bunch of bandits. They complain that the shipping fees we pay are too low; last week in Titusville, they even smashed two of our oil transport wagons. Those independent barrel merchants also joined in the clamor, saying we monopolized the supply of wooden barrels, making it impossible for them to transport crude oil to the train station."

"Then get rid of them completely."

Peter Jenkins took a pencil sketch out of the drawer; it was a diagram of an iron pipeline connecting the oil field to the train station.

When Raymond Potts saw that drawing, his eyes almost popped out.

"Iron pipes buried underground? Transporting crude oil directly? Mr. Jenkins, this is simply insane. If those teamsters find out we smashed their rice bowls, they will use shotguns to blast these pipes full of holes."

"It's not like we haven't used pipes before; they can try." Peter Jenkins sneered.

"Timmy's Intelligence Department has three operational groups in Pennsylvania. If those teamsters want to become fertilizer in the oil fields, they are welcome to touch those pipes. Raymond, I want you to lay all the underground oil pipelines from the main oil fields to our refineries, and then to the Reeves railway station within five years. Use steam pumps as power to pump the crude oil underground like water."

"This requires a massive amount of seamless iron pipes; can Lex Steel's production capacity keep up?" Raymond asked, somewhat skeptical.

"The boss has already spoken to William Coleman; Lex Steel will open three more production lines specifically for rolling oil pipes next year."

Peter Jenkins stood up and walked to Wallace.

"Wallace, your task is to take the money and buy land from those independent oil producers. As long as they agree to let our pipelines pass through their farms, give them a little stock. If they don't agree..."

The dull thudding of the steam hammer kept the office's wooden floorboards vibrating continuously. The kerosene lamp on the wall swayed with every impact, casting three shadows on the wall that stretched and shrank.

William Coleman pushed open the window, which had coal dust embedded even in its wood grain, and cold air mixed with the pungent smell of sulfur dioxide surged into the room. He turned to look at Andrew Carnegie, who was sitting behind the desk, and then glanced at Henry Phipps standing nearby.

"The air in New York is much cleaner than here, Andrew."

Coleman strode back to the center of the room and threw his leather briefcase onto the table.

"But New York doesn't smell this, the boss only looks at the numbers in the ledger. And now, there are new requirements for the numbers in Pittsburgh."

Carnegie put down his pen and clasped his fingers together under his chin. This businessman of Scotland descent had the shrewdness of a fox.

"President Coleman, the monthly output of the Lex Steel plant at the New Jersey headquarters has already broken records. Our Braddock-Carnegie Bessemer Converter hasn't stopped firing for twenty-four hours a day. Isn't last month's net profit enough to satisfy that person in New York?"

"Not enough, far from enough."

Coleman pulled out a chair and sat down, leaning forward.

"I just came down from the conference table at the Empire State Building, and the boss personally set a five-year plan. Listen clearly, Andrew, this is not a suggestion; it is the iron law of the Executive Committee."

Phipps pushed up his glasses; he was Carnegie's partner and an extremely cautious accountant.

"What kind of five-year plan? President Coleman, our expansion speed here in Pittsburgh is already very dangerous. The debt ratio is continuously rising."

"Damn the debt ratio! Isn't this caused by your unwillingness to let Lex Steel continue to inject capital?" Coleman rudely interrupted Phipps.

"You should know that the thing the Argyle Family lacks the least is greenbacks. The boss's meaning is very simple: that is, to fully introduce the open-hearth steelmaking method here in Pittsburgh and push costs to the lowest possible level. Then, dump steel rails into the market at prices below cost."

Carnegie sat up straight abruptly, his brows furrowed tightly.

"Below cost? Are you kidding me? We at Carnegie Steel worked hard to improve our processes to earn higher margins! If we sell at a loss, we are cutting our own flesh! When I joined, Mr. Argyle didn't say it like this."

"Don't get excited, OK? This is just to cut the throats of our opponents."

Coleman leaned back in his chair, his eyes cold.

"Listen, Andrew. You hold shares in the branch company here in Pittsburgh and are a shareholder of the branch. But don't forget, the majority stake in this factory is in the hands of Lex Steel. You have always wanted to maintain independence and wanted to slowly annex those small workshops at your own pace. But that won't work now."

Coleman held up three fingers.

"Three years. The boss only gives Lex three years. Within three years, I want all the blast furnaces of independent steel mills around Pennsylvania to be extinguished. Either sell the factories to Lex at scrap iron prices, or go line up at the bankruptcy court. To achieve this goal, the Imperial Bank and the Patriot Investment Company will provide financial support to Lex."

Carnegie stood up and paced back and forth in the narrow office.

He was a proud man and a business genius. He very keenly sensed the madness and terror behind this plan.

"This is a monopoly, an absolute monopoly," Carnegie muttered to himself.

"But President Coleman, the open-hearth steelmaking technology is not yet fully mature. The scrap rate is a problem. If we switch production completely, the initial losses will drain our cash flow."

"That is Phipps's concern. If there's no money, go to the Imperial Bank to make a withdrawal."

Coleman stared at Carnegie unyieldingly.

"Andrew, I am not sitting here today to discuss this with you, but to deliver the headquarters' instructions. The shares you hold can get you an extremely generous share of the scraps in this empire, but if you want to become a stumbling block..."

Coleman paused, his tone carrying undisguised threats.

"There are countless managers in New York willing to take your place. The boss wouldn't mind spending some money to forcibly dilute your shares into waste paper."

The office fell into a dead silence, with only the roaring of the steam hammer outside the window continuing.

Phipps looked at Carnegie nervously, fearing that this stubborn Scotsman would flip out on the spot.

Carnegie stopped pacing and turned to look at Coleman.

The anger on his face slowly faded; after leaving Old Morgan and joining Argyle, no one else could accept him anymore.

"Are you going to make your move on Wall Street?" Carnegie asked.

"Tom Hayes is already preparing," Coleman did not hide it.

"As soon as your low-priced steel starts to hit the market, he will heavily short the stocks of those independent steel mills on the exchange. The Imperial Bank will simultaneously tighten their loan quotas. Industry plus finance, a two-pronged approach."

Carnegie took a deep breath, sat back in his chair, and picked up the pen.

"I understand. Mr. Argyle is a true tyrant, but he is a tyrant who can win," Carnegie wrote a few lines on the paper quickly.

"I will immediately order a stop to the expansion of the Bessemer Converter and shift entirely to open-hearth construction. But Coleman, I have a condition."

"Speak."

"If we are to fight a price war, I need cheaper iron ore," Carnegie stared into Coleman's eyes.

"The iron ore from Saineng Mining Company at Lake Superior must be supplied to Braddock-Carnegie Steel first at the lowest internal settlement price. Also, I want the Mississippi and Eastern Railroad Company to provide us with exclusive freight discounts. Without these two points, I cannot push costs down to the point of forcing competitors to their deaths."

Coleman laughed.

That was right; this was the greedy and clear-headed Andrew Carnegie he knew.

"I will send telegrams to Charles and Mr. Miller. As long as you can boost production in Pittsburgh, the railroad and ore will not be a problem."

Coleman stood up and picked up his leather briefcase.

"Now tell me, who is the first target to be operated on?"

Carnegie pushed the written note to the edge of the table.

"I have investigated before, the Jones & Laughlin steel plant on the other side of the river."

Carnegie's eyes became as cruel as a wolf's.

"Their capital chain has always been very tight. As long as we have the support of headquarters to lower the price of steel rails by twenty percent, they won't last until next spring, and their workers will riot because they can't be paid."

Coleman picked up the note, took a look, and put it in his pocket.

"Very good, then let's start with them. Let them see how the Argyle Family crushes bones."

The hammering noises at the Argyle's Building construction site were incessant.

Massive steam cranes billowed thick black smoke, hoisting heavy rolled steel beams high into the air.

Masons, ironworkers, and laborers shuttled back and forth across the muddy construction site, and the air was filled with a mixed odor of wet cement, soot, and sweat.

Felix stood on a temporary observation platform built of planks, his hands resting on the rough wooden railing.

Arthur Hamilton, general manager of the Federal Real Estate Company, stood beside him, holding a rolled-up set of architectural construction blueprints.

"Mr. Argyle, this is the seventh batch of load-bearing steel columns just shipped from New Jersey. Look, we have already completed the construction of the sixth floor." Gavin, the construction director on site, shouted loudly, practically roaring to cover the surrounding noise.

"And for the building, Lex Steel used almost the best quality steel to make I-beams, and the rivet holes of every steel beam fit together seamlessly! I think as long as the weather does not deteriorate further, the subsequent steel framework can be locked in this month!"

Gavin was a bulky man in his forties who had previously served in the military, with a scar on his face and a crisp, decisive way of speaking.

Looking at the black steel columns towering in the mud, Felix couldn't help asking: "Hmm, it looks like you guys are indeed doing a good job. Hamilton, have the wages and winter allowances for the construction workers under the company been paid on time? I heard that someone in the construction union in Lower Manhattan was organizing last week, demanding to raise the bricklayers' daily wage from two dollars and fifty cents to three dollars."

Hamilton immediately leaned over to reply.

"Rest assured, Boss. The salary we offer is 15% higher than the industry average. Bricklayers get two dollars and seventy-five cents a day, and handymen get one dollar and eighty cents. Also, as you instructed, hot beef soup and dark bread are served at noon every day at the construction site. People working on this site are not willing to mess around with those instigating guys from the union."

"Don't save on that soup money, Hamilton."

Felix looked at several Irish workers squatting in a wooden shed not far away drinking soup.

"After all, these are all our Irish compatriots. Since we brought them out, we should try our best to give them the best treatment in the industry. Moreover, this fifty-meter building is going to be ten stories high, making it the tallest building in the whole of America. Safety and progress completely depend on these compatriots risking their lives, and if an accident happens, the company had better arrange some compensation. By the way, how is the construction of the Otis Company's steam elevator shaft going?"

"Good, Boss, I understand." Alexander immediately made his attitude clear, indicating there was absolutely no problem.

Meanwhile, Gavin wiped the muddy water from his face and pointed to the deep pit in the core area of the building.

"The pipes for the elevator shaft are being pre-embedded, and technicians sent by Otis guard the wellhead every day. Those guys are so arrogant, complaining that our lime mortar dries too slowly, and insisting on using the newest Portland cement. Although it's a bit expensive, it really is as hard as stone."

"Use the best materials; I am not short of those dollars." Felix withdrew his gaze, "Has General Electric sent over the blueprints for the concealed wiring conduits?"

"They were delivered yesterday."

Hamilton patted the blueprints in his hand.

"Following your arrangement, the entire building has reserved thousands of electric light interfaces and hundreds of dedicated pipelines for telegraphs and telephones. Once this building is completed, it will not only be the tallest building, but also the most sensitive information hub in all of New York."

Just as Gavin was about to accompany Felix toward the deep pit of the elevator shaft to inspect, the wooden fence door on the periphery of the construction site was suddenly knocked open.

A twelve or thirteen-year-old newsboy covered in black mud ran in all the way.

The on-site security personnel wanted to stop him, but the little boy shouted at the top of his lungs.

"Mr. Argyle! Mr. Argyle! I have news from Lower Manhattan here!"

Mark, the security director standing behind Felix, frowned, walked quickly down the wooden platform, and pulled the panting child aside.

The little boy took a crumpled note from his shabby pocket, sniffing and saying hurriedly: "Mrs. Gable gave it to me and gave me five cents, telling me to hand it to Mr. Argyle personally! She said Mrs. Hudson... Mrs. Hudson left this morning!"

Mark's expression changed slightly.

He took the note, glanced at it, immediately turned around and walked back to the wooden platform, and whispered in Felix's ear.

"Boss, news from Lower Manhattan. Mrs. Hudson... passed away at home this morning. Mrs. Gable sent word over, saying the old lady left quietly in her rocking chair."

Felix's raised hand hung suspended in mid-air.

The surrounding roaring sound of hammering steel and the whistling of the steam engine seemed to be stripped from his world in an instant.

Arthur Hamilton was pointing at the blueprints to explain the layout of the fourth floor, but noticing Felix's abnormality, he quickly stopped.

"Boss? What happened?"

"Today's inspection ends here."

"Hamilton, you and Gavin continue to keep an eye on the construction. Remember what I said, safety first."

"Okay, Boss... Do you need me to send a car to take you?"

Hamilton was somewhat baffled, but sensibly didn't ask much further.

"No need, Mark will arrange it."

Felix didn't look at the steel behemoth rising from the ground anymore, turned around, and strode down the wooden platform.

Eleven years ago, when he fled the slums with only seventy-five dollars on him, it was Mrs. Hudson who took him into that two-story brick house, gave him a basement room on the top floor for two dollars a week in rent, and even served him a bowl of steaming hot food.

Today, he controlled industries worth hundreds of millions of dollars, and a command from him could make the entire America tremble.

But the old woman who once gave him warmth remained forever in the cold morning.

"Boss, the carriage is ready." Mark opened the carriage door.

"Hmm, go directly to Mulberry Street in Lower Manhattan."

Felix instructed after sitting into the carriage.

"Have the security team behind follow slowly, and don't make too much noise."

Four black horses pulled the pitch-black box carriage, slowly driving away from the bustling Wall Street construction site, heading towards the noisy, crowded, and reeking Lower Manhattan.

The carriage passed through the bustling commercial district, and the buildings on both sides gradually became shorter and dilapidated.

The smell of soot in the air grew heavier, mixed with the odor of uncleared horse manure and rotten vegetable leaves.

Some idling immigrants squatted on both sides of the street, watching the group with curiosity.

The carriage stopped at the alley entrance of Mulberry Street.

Felix pushed open the carriage door, stepped down onto the slippery and viscous snow accumulation and muddy water.

He looked up at the old two-story tenement apartment in front of him with somewhat peeling wall paint and blackened window frames, with icicles hanging under the eaves, and several crows cawing on the utility pole opposite.

"Boss, should I let the brothers go in and clear the area first?" Mark asked in a low voice.

"No need." Felix waved his hand.

"This is Mrs. Hudson's home. I am here to see her off, not to arrest people."

With that, Felix stepped up the creaking wooden stairs and reached out to push open the front door.

The hallway was filled with the scent of fried bacon, tobacco, and wool.

Several neighbors were gathered in the corridor.

Mrs. Gable, wearing a coarse cloth apron, was holding a basin of hot water, her eyes red as she spoke with a limping cobbler nearby.

Seeing Felix and several tall security guards in black walking up the stairway, the hallway instantly fell silent.

The neighbors all recognized Felix.

Although he had moved away after living here for just a few months,

his name and portrait were printed in the newspapers every day, calling him the biggest tycoon in New York. Yet in the eyes of these ordinary working-class people, the man before them was no longer the Irish boy who pushed a cart to sell canned goods eleven years ago.

At this moment, he carried a formidable majesty about him.

"Mr. Argyle..."

Mrs. Gable wiped her hands and took two nervous steps forward.

"You really came. I thought... I thought a busy man like you wouldn't come."

"Hello, Mrs. Gable."

Felix stopped and bowed slightly.

"I received the news, thank you for having someone send word to me. Where is Mrs. Hudson now?"

"In her room, same as always, lying on that wooden bed of hers," Mrs. Gable wiped away her tears.

"This morning I went to deliver her washed quilt covers, but nobody answered when I knocked.

When I went in to check, the old lady was wearing her cleanest clothes, clutching tightly in her hand the discharge medal her husband left behind from fighting in Mexico... and her body had already grown stiff.

The doctor came and said her heart stopped, she didn't suffer much."

Clement, the limping cobbler, spoke up from the side.

"Mrs. Hudson is such a good person.

Back then when I couldn't afford the rent, she stubbornly made me fix her shoes for three years to pay off the debt.

She has lived on this street for nearly thirty years."

Felix gently pushed open that familiar wooden door.

The room was not large, and the furniture was old but wiped spotlessly clean.

In the old sheet-iron stove in the corner of the room, faint coal blocks were burning, radiating a feeble warmth.

A thin, frail elderly woman lay on the bed, her expression serene as if she were merely asleep.

Felix walked to the bedside, looking at this wrinkled face.

In his memory, Mrs. Hudson always wore her hair in a bun, holding a broom as she loudly scolded the children who stole candy in the hallway, yet turn right around and shove half a piece of dark bread into the hands of a homeless child.

"Does she have any other relatives?"

Felix asked Mrs. Gable, who was standing behind him.

Mrs. Gable shook her head.

"What relatives could she have?

Her husband, Patrick Hudson, died on the battlefield of Buena Vista in Mexico in 1847, and even his remains were never recovered.

They left no descendants.

Over the years, she got by by doing some housework for others and on the gifts you sent people to deliver every year.

Mr. Argyle, as you also know, she had a hard life."

"I know," Felix said softly.

He turned around and glanced at Mark.

"Go find the best undertaker in the Lower East Side; I want to hold a decent funeral for Mrs. Hudson."

Hearing this, Mark hesitated a bit.

"Boss, the undertakers might not dare take this... This is the Lower East Side. Usually, elderly people without kin like this are just dragged directly to the public cemetery and buried by the police department."

"Do you not understand my words?"

Felix frowned and gave Mark a cold look.

"Go invite the boss of Barnaby Funeral over here.

Have him bring the best nanmu coffin and hearse.

If he refuses to come, buy his shop."

"Understood, I'll go right now."

Not daring to delay, Mark immediately turned and went downstairs.

In less than half an hour, Mr. Barnaby, the director of Barnaby Funeral, jogged all the way to Mulberry Street.

He was wearing a black woolen coat, his forehead covered in cold sweat, clearly badly frightened by Mark's coercive tactics.

"Hello, Mr. Argyle. It's a great honor to meet you."

Barnaby bent his waist, his tone extremely respectful.

"Mr. Mark has already told me the situation.

Rest assured, Barnaby Funeral is the most reputable, we guarantee everything will be arranged according to the highest standards!"

Felix pointed at Mrs. Hudson on the bed.

"Pick the best coffin, lined with soft satin.

Contact Father Thomas of St. Bartholomew's Church, and have him come lead the prayer ceremony."

Barnaby was stunned for a moment.

"Father Thomas?

Sir, that is a wealthy church in Uptown; Father Thomas generally doesn't take outside services..."

Felix pulled a thick envelope from his pocket and threw it directly onto the table with a heavy thud.

"Here is one thousand dollars in cash.

It is enough to cover your fees, the priest's donation, and the money to buy a quiet plot in St. Patrick's Cemetery.

Take the rest to buy the best black crape and wreaths, and decorate this street for me."

Barnaby looked at the envelope, his eyes going straight.

One thousand dollars!

On this street, one thousand dollars was enough to buy a small building!

"Guaranteed to complete the mission, sir! I'll go take care of it right away.

Within an hour, everything will be in place!"

Holding the envelope, Barnaby rushed out.

For the rest of the entire day, Mulberry Street became thoroughly lively.

The usually desolate and dreary alleyway was hung all over with black ribbons and fresh flowers.

Several luxurious black ceremonial carriages stopped at the end of the alley, and neatly dressed attendants shuttled through the dilapidated corridors.

Felix did not leave.

He moved a chair and sat quietly in Mrs. Hudson's room, watching Barnaby's people arrange the old lady's appearance for viewing and change her into exquisite funeral attire.

The neighborhood residents were invited downstairs.

Felix had Mark order dozens of tables of sumptuous dinner at the restaurant at the street corner, with endless beer, beef, and fresh bread.

The residents of the entire Lower East Side shared in the privilege, gathering together to bid farewell to this elderly woman in such a lively manner.

Mrs. Gable sat opposite Felix, holding a cup of hot mulled wine, and said with emotion:

"Mr. Argyle, if Mrs. Hudson knew you went to such lengths to arrange this for her, she would wake up laughing in heaven.

During her lifetime, she often gossiped with us, saying that you were a person destined for great success.

She even kept the slip of your rental agreement from back then tucked inside her Bible."

The hand holding the teacup paused slightly.

"A slip of paper?"

Mrs. Gable pulled a yellowed little slip of paper from the old Bible on the table and handed it to Felix.

Felix looked at the agreement and remained silent for a long time.

Never did he expect that seeing this slip of paper again would find everything changed and people gone.

Early the next morning, tiny snowflakes began to fall from the sky.

Father Thomas of St. Bartholomew's Church, wearing solemn vestments, came personally to this narrow alleyway.

Under his officiating, a brief and sacred memorial service was held downstairs.

The old coffin was slowly lifted onto the carriage.

Holding a black umbrella, Felix walked personally at the very front of the funeral procession.

Behind him followed dozens of neatly dressed neighbors and a full squad of solemn-faced security personnel.

The funeral procession slowly crossed the muddy streets of Manhattan, heading toward the cemetery in the north.

Pedestrians on both sides of the street cast sideways glances, none daring to believe that this super tycoon who controlled the economic lifeline of the United States would actually walk on foot to escort a lonely elderly woman from the Lower East Side to her grave.

On a scenic lawn in St. Patrick's Cemetery, the nanmu coffin was slowly lowered into the grave.

After finishing the prayer, Father Thomas sprinkled a handful of yellow earth over the coffin: "May her soul find eternal rest in the bosom of the Lord, Amen."

Felix stepped forward, took the shovel, and shoveled a spade of soil himself, tossing it into the grave.

The heavy thud of the earth striking the wooden board sounded exceptionally clear in the cold air.

"Goodbye, Mrs. Hudson."

Felix muttered silently in his heart.

As the final shovel of dirt filled the grave, an exquisite granite tombstone was erected, carved with: Wife of Patrick Hudson, Mary Hudson (1805-1871).

Felix stood quietly before the tombstone for a long time, until the snowflakes dampened his shoulders.

Mark walked up behind him and handed over a towel.

"Boss, matters in the Lower East Side have all been handled properly.

People have already been arranged to take over the property, and no one will harass Mrs. Gable and the others.

You should go back; Assistant Frost said there are documents to be submitted."

Felix withdrew his gaze and turned around.

In those dormant eyes, a cold and rational light flickered once more.

"Let's go."

"The old story has ended. It's time to go see what those who are still alive are stirring up again."