Chapter 207: Christmas Eve
Jimmy led the way across the grand central foyer toward the West Wing. The moment they crossed the arched threshold, the atmosphere shifted. Where the East Wing felt lively and relaxed, the West Wing was built for quiet, serious work.
?The central corridor was lined with polished oak doors. Jimmy pushed open the double doors at the end of the hall, revealing a sprawling conference room dominated by a dark mahogany table long enough to seat twenty people. High-backed leather chairs lined both sides, and wide slate boards mounted along the walls were built to hold maps, chalked supply schedules, and district ledgers.
?"Main conference room," Jimmy said, leaning against the edge of the table. "This is where we bring the ones with authority when we need to lay out a campaign."
?Ricky walked around the long table, running his hand over the smooth, polished wood. Off the main corridor, Jimmy showed him several smaller meeting rooms—ideal for department briefings, private interviews, or quiet financial audits.
?Further down the hall were six fully furnished office spaces. In two of them, young women from the second Pound Ridge batch were already at work, quietly sorting administrative ledgers and filing invoices into oak cabinets.
?At the far end of the wing, Jimmy opened a door into a broad, bright corner room that stood completely unfurnished, its clean floorboards smelling of fresh pine. Beside it were three more empty rooms.
?Ricky looked over at Jimmy. "Why are these left bare?"
?"We figured you’d want some space left open," Jimmy replied with a shrug. "Whatever comes next—whether we need a dedicated intelligence archive, an accounting department, or legal offices. We built the rooms; you decide what goes in them when the time comes."
?Ricky nodded slowly. It wasn’t just a house built for the organization they had today; it was designed for the institution they expected to become.
?They took the secondary oak staircase up to the second floor, which housed the estate’s private quarters. A long, carpeted hallway led past a dozen spacious bedrooms, modern tiled bathrooms, linen closets, and quiet sitting nooks overlooking the front gardens.
?At the quiet end of the hall, Jimmy opened a set of carved double doors into the master suite.
?The room was expansive but comfortable, free of unnecessary clutter. A large four-poster oak bed sat against the inner wall, framed by a pair of nightstands with brass oil lamps. Opposite the bed was a dark stone fireplace where a low fire crackled softly, flanked by two leather armchairs, a heavy wardrobe, and a wide oak writing desk equipped with fresh inkwells and leather-bound notebooks.
?Near the corner of the room, a glass-paned door caught Ricky’s eye.
?Jimmy walked over and pulled it open, letting a wave of crisp, cold winter air sweep into the warm bedroom. "Check this out."
?Ricky stepped through the doorway onto a wide, covered wooden veranda that overlooked the rear of the property. Below lay a broad, snow-dusted clearing surrounded by thick stands of white pine and oak. Unlike the manicured lawns at the front of the house, the backyard was open and practical—offering ample space for future construction, vehicle storage, athletic drills, or outdoor gatherings. Near the edge of the woods stood a sturdy timber gazebo overlooking a small frozen pond.
?Ricky rested his hands on the veranda railing, taking a deep breath of the freezing Westchester air. A rare, genuine smile touched his face.
?"Okay," Ricky said softly, looking out over the quiet woods. "This part I like."
?They headed back downstairs, passing through the central service hall toward the main kitchen.
?The moment they opened the door, the rich, savory aroma of roasting pork, baked apples, fresh bread, and seasoned poultry filled the corridor. The kitchen was massive—built around a pair of heavy cast-iron ranges and a central butcher’s block island. Half a dozen women from Pound Ridge were busy at work, chopping vegetables, basting turkeys, and stacking platters of fresh pastries for the evening feast. They looked up and offered warm smiles as Ricky walked through, before returning to their work.
?At the far corner of the pantry, Jimmy unlocked a heavy timber door that led down a set of stone steps into the cellar.
?The wine cellar was cool and dark, its stone walls lined with wooden racks holding dusty bottles of wine, gin, and whiskey, alongside heavy oak barrels stacked three high. It looked entirely ordinary until Jimmy walked past the stacked kegs at the far wall, reached behind an iron support beam, and pulled a hidden lever.
?With a soft, scraping sound, a six-foot section of the stone wall pivoted inward on heavy iron hinges, revealing a dark stone staircase descending further into the earth.
?Ricky raised an eyebrow. "You built a secret passage?"
?"We renovated one," Jimmy corrected with a grin. "The old estate had a deep drainage cellar built under the foundations back in the fifties. We spent three months reinforcing the stonework, laying timber beams, and digging out additional rooms."
?They descended the stairs into a subterranean complex. Electric carbide sconces cast a steady, bright glow over dry stone corridors.
?The underground shelter was divided into functional, reinforced rooms: a dry food storage bunker packed with sacks of grain, flour, and tinned goods; a water storage room housing three massive copper tanks; a fully equipped medical station with cots, bandages, and surgical tools; a secure archive room with locked iron cabinets for sensitive documents; and a central communications room equipped with telegraph lines, map tables, and pigeon coops connected to a hidden roof chute.
?At opposite ends of the underground complex were two concealed escape tunnels. One led three hundred yards south beneath the snow, emerging inside a disguised drainage culvert along Kenilworth Road. The other ran north through a timber-lined trench, coming out inside a hollowed-out barn in the deep woods near the river.
?Ricky walked through the underground rooms, taking in the stone arches, the heavy oak doors, and the sheer foresight built into every wall.
?"You guys really thought of everything," Ricky said, turning to Jimmy.
?Jimmy smiled softly, his usual boisterous humor giving way to quiet pride. "We had eight months, boss and that’s a lot of planning and building to do for the four of us."
?Ricky stood silently in the center of the subterranean hall. For a long moment, the quiet weight of what his people had accomplished washed over him.
?When he had started over a year ago in Greenwich Village, he had been an eighteen-year-old street kid with two creaking wagons, a small warehouse, and a handful of loyal friends trying to survive in the shadow of Tammany Hall. Now, standing beneath this massive fieldstone estate, he realized his organization was no longer just a crew or a street syndicate.
?It was an institution. It had security, trade, intelligence, logistics, and now a physical home—built not by hired contractors, but by the very people who had stood beside him from the beginning.
?By five o’clock in the afternoon, twilight settled over Westchester County. The cold sky turned a deep, clear indigo, and the estate lit up like a beacon in the winter woods. Golden light poured from every window of the main house, reflecting off the white crust of snow on the lawn.
?Vehicles began arriving down the long pine driveway.
?First came three heavy, broad-nosed Mack supply trucks, their heavy chain drives crunching loudly over the gravel, carrying groups of first-batch training veterans and supply workers from White Plains. Behind them came three smaller Junior Mack trucks loaded with wooden crates of food, wine, and wrapped Christmas packages. Following the trucks was a procession of dark Ford Model Ts and private buggies, carrying senior members, and field agents.
?The central compound quickly filled with warmth, laughter, and the sound of clinking glasses.
?In the East Wing’s entertainment hall, a fire blazed in the stone hearth. Four second-batch recruits had taken the stage, playing a lively tune on a piano, two violins, and a guitar, while groups of agents gathered around the bar and card tables, drinking mulled wine and sharing stories.
?Marek arrived wearing a sharp wool coat, carrying a heavy leather-wrapped package containing a pair of imported brass nautical clocks for the main sitting room. Arthur, Tom, and Frank Murphy arrived together from White Plains, stamping the snow from their heavy boots as they entered the foyer.
?Near the Christmas tree in the main hall, Ricky spotted Phil and James McClain standing quietly near the punch bowl, both wearing dark, conservative suits.
?Ricky walked over, a faint smile on his face. "Phil. James. You actually made it out of the workshop."
?James gave a small, dry shrug, taking a sip of his cider. "Well, Phil here, originally planned to stay on the bed but then Jimmy notified us and thought why not come out once in a while."
?"And apparently Evelyn made attendance mandatory for department heads," Phil added with a deadpan expression.
?Ricky laughed, clapping Phil on the shoulder.
?A moment later, the front doors swung open, and the Morgan brothers stepped into the foyer. Caleb Morgan towered over the crowd in his heavy wool overcoat, his stoic, quiet presence drawing respectful nods from the newer field agents and some even senior field agents. Beside him, Eli carried a crooked, easy grin, holding two bottles of dark Irish whiskey he had brought up from Frank Murphy’s pub.
?"Look at this place," Eli said, whistling as he took in the chandelier and the grand staircase. "I thought Frank’s pub in White Plains was fancy, but this looks like something out of a book."
?Caleb glanced around the bustling hall, his dark eyes resting on the fireplace. "We were told there would be food."
?Ricky chuckled, shaking Caleb’s thick hand. "There’s enough roasted pork in the dining room to feed a regiment, Caleb. Help yourself."
?As the Morgan brothers headed toward the dining hall, the crowd near the entrance parted slightly as Evelyn Vance walked through the front doors.
?She wore an elegant, dark navy velvet traveling coat with a fur collar, her dark hair styled with clinical, faultless precision. She stepped into the foyer, her sharp blue eyes scanning the decorated staircase, the high ceilings, and the doorways leading to the East and West wings.
?Ricky walked over to greet her. "What do you think?"
?Evelyn unbuttoned her coat, handing it to a waiting attendant. She looked around the bustling room, taking in the disciplined layout, the discreet service passageways, and the warm atmosphere.
?"They did a good job," Evelyn admitted smoothly, a rare, faint trace of approval in her voice.
?Ricky smiled. "That’s high praise coming from you."
?"Mostly," Evelyn added, casting a cool, calculating glance toward the corridor leading to the strategy rooms. "You realize this place will inevitably become our primary executive headquarters."
?"I figured," Ricky said.
?"Then we are going to need a formal set of estate security protocols and administrative rules," she stated flatly.
?Ricky grinned, shaking his head. "Tomorrow, Evelyn. It’s Christmas."
?Evelyn looked at him, her eyes softening just a fraction, a subtle, dry smile playing on her lips. "Tomorrow, then."
?By seven o’clock, the main dining hall and sitting rooms were overflowing with over eighty members of the Founders Syndicate.
?The long oak table in the formal dining room was stacked high with platters of roasted turkey, glazed ham, fresh bread, bowls of savory stuffing, and decanters of wine. In the East Wing, the music was lively, filled with laughter, singing, and the warm clinking of glasses as old friends and new recruits celebrated side-by-side.
?Ricky stood on the stone portico outside the front entrance, leaning against a stone pillar as he watched another Ford Model T roll up the circular gravel driveway, its headlamps cutting bright yellow beams through the cold evening mist.
?Jimmy Williams walked out onto the porch, carrying two steaming mugs of hot spiced cider. He handed one to Ricky, leaning his elbow against the stone railing beside him.
?"Not bad for a Christmas party, eh, boss?" Jimmy asked, looking out over the lit-up estate and the cars parked along the pine lane.
?Ricky took a slow sip of the hot cider, feeling the warmth spread through his chest. He looked at the fieldstone facade glowing softly in the dark, listened to the sound of music and laughter echoing from the East Wing, and thought back to where they had all started just two short years ago.
?He turned his head, looking at Jimmy with a quiet, genuine smile.
?"You know, Jimmy..." Ricky said softly. "I think you actually won the competition."
?Jimmy grinned ear to ear, raising his mug in a proud toast. "Actually?"
?Ricky looked back at the grand house, at the cars arriving down the driveway, and at the dozens of people inside who had built an empire out of nothing.
?"Fine," Ricky conceded, raising his mug to meet Jimmy’s. "You won."
"I don’t think so boss. Who knows maybe you’ll recieve the best gift yet." Jimmy winked and let out a joyful laugh, clinking his mug against Ricky’s as the sound of music, laughter, and celebration echoed out into the quiet Westchester night.