Chapter 209: Looking Ahead
The West Wing corridor was quiet compared to the lively noise echoing from the main foyer. The heavy oak doors muffled the distant strains of the piano and the chatter of seventy guests, leaving only a soft, pleasant hum in the background.
?Ricky pushed open the door to one of the smaller private meeting rooms, stepping inside and holding it open for George Callahan and Don Ricardo Martinez.
?The room was warm and dimly lit by a pair of brass wall sconces and a gentle fire crackling in the stone hearth. A round oak table sat in the center, flanked by deep leather armchairs. Thick velvet curtains drawn across the windows blocked out the freezing Westchester night.
?"This is better," George said, unbuttoning his dark wool coat and tossing it over the back of a chair. "I love a good party, but my ears were starting to ring from all the noise. It’s really challenging when you’re old."
?Ricky chuckled, walking over to a small wooden sideboard against the wall. He pulled out a dark glass bottle of Royal Spades whiskey and three heavy, crystal tumblers.
?"We will all have our turn someday." Ricky said, pouring three fingers of amber liquid into each glass.
?He brought the tumblers over to the table, handing one to George and one to Martinez before taking his own seat.
?Don Martinez took his glass, bringing it up to his nose. He inhaled the rich aroma of charred oak, caramel, and spiced rye, then took a slow, deliberate sip. A subtle, appreciative nod flickered across his face.
?"Smooth," Martinez said, setting the glass down. "Your people also made this?"
?"Yeah." Ricky replied. "Distilled, aged, and bottled under our own labels."
?Martinez reached into his inner coat pocket and pulled out a polished silver cigar case. He opened it, offering one to George, who accepted with a nod. Ricky politely waved his hand in refusal. Martinez selected a long Cuban cigar for himself, clipped the tip with a small silver cutter, and held it between his fingers.
?Ricky reached into his vest, struck a wooden match against his boot, and held the flame out. Martinez leaned in, taking a few gentle puffs until the end glowed bright orange, exhaling a thin, fragrant cloud of blue-gray smoke into the room. George lit his own, and the three men settled back into their leather chairs.
?For a moment, no one spoke. The fire crackled softly, sending golden sparks up the chimney.
?"I must admit, kid." Martinez said, looking through the thin veil of cigar smoke at the young man sitting across from him. "You continue to surprise me."
?Ricky took a sip of his whiskey, feeling the warm burn settle in his chest. "You humble me, Don Martinez. I’ve got a long way to go."
?"Don’t be too modest kid. Not every young man your age can do all of this in just sixteen months," Martinez said softly, tapping a speck of ash into a brass tray on the table. "One year and four months ago, you were just a small merchant moving wagons through Midtown. Now..." He gestured with his cigar toward the hallway outside. "...you sit in a Westchester estate surrounded by loyal associates with large rising businesses and political connections."
?Martinez paused, his dark eyes fixed on Ricky. "And somehow, you’ve managed to wage a full-scale war against Tammany Hall alongside the Fusion reformers without Murphy or Mitchell even knowing your name."
?George leaned forward, resting his forearms on the oak table. "That part still amazes me, kid. Murphy’s sitting in Midtown right now thinking he’s fighting ghosts."
?"The only way an organization like ours survives for the long run is if nobody knows it exists," Ricky said plainly, his voice calm and grounded.
?Martinez raised an eyebrow, a faint smile touching his lips. "Sounds like a contradiction, doesn’t it? Building an empire while pretending you don’t exist."
?"It’s not a contradiction," Ricky replied, meeting Martinez’s gaze. "It’s a necessity. The moment you build a throne and put your name on it, everyone in the city spends every waking hour trying to pull you off it. If they think they’re fighting a scattered group of independent merchants and reform politicians, they fight the merchants and the politicians. They don’t fight us."
?George let out a quiet, appreciative laugh, swirling the amber liquid in his tumbler. "Clean. Real clean."
?Martinez took another puff of his cigar, his expression turning thoughtful. "Which brings us to the real question. What comes next?"
?Ricky looked at him. "Next?"
?"Next year," Martinez stated flatly. "It’s the presidential elections in November. The country is already brewing with political tension."
?George’s posture straightened, his easygoing demeanor sharpening into caution. He leaned over the table, looking at Ricky with serious eyes. "Be careful with that one, Ricky. A national election isn’t like buying off a precinct captain or securing a dock lease in Lower Manhattan. The whole country watches. Every federal agency, every political boss, and every major newspaper editor in the United States gets involved."
?"I know," Ricky said quietly.
?"Word coming out of Washington and Chicago is that Champ Clark has massive backing among the regular Democratic leadership," Martinez noted, tapping his fingers against his knee. "And Judson Harmon has strong support out of Ohio."
?"And Tammany is leaning toward Clark," George added. "Murphy wants a man in the White House who won’t send federal prosecutors to look at his City Hall’s ledgers."
?George looked at Ricky closely. "Are you planning to back someone against Tammany’s man?"
?"I’m not going to interfere with Tammany supporting Clark," Ricky said, taking a quiet drink of his whiskey. "Let Murphy waste his time and money pushing Clark at the convention."
?George frowned slightly. "Then who are you backing?"
?"Woodrow Wilson," Ricky said flatly.
?Silence fell over the room for two full seconds.
?George leaned back in his chair, staring at Ricky in utter disbelief. "Wilson? The Governor of New Jersey?"
?Martinez looked equally surprised, his cigar hovering inches from his lips. "Teddy Roosevelt is gearing up to make a comeback, Ricky. If Roosevelt breaks with the Republicans, he’ll carry millions of votes on pure personality alone. And President Taft still holds the regular Republican machine."
?"Why Wilson?" George pressed, shaking his head. "He’s a college professor turned governor. He doesn’t have a national machine behind him."
?Ricky set his glass down on the table with a soft clink.
?Outwardly, he gave them the clear, practical political logic they could understand. "Roosevelt and Taft are going to tear the Republican Party in half," Ricky explained calmly. "Roosevelt’s pride won’t let him sit on the sidelines while Taft takes the nomination. When they split, the Republican vote fractures right down the middle."
?George listened, his brows furrowing as he processed the math.
?"And Tammany’s support for Clark or Harmon isn’t based on loyalty," Ricky continued. "It’s based on fear and patronage. Murphy wants federal appointments and protection. But Wilson isn’t a machine politician. He’s a reformer who despises political bosses. If Wilson takes the Democratic nomination, Tammany loses its leverage in Washington. By quietly backing Wilson through Marek’s association and Mitchel’s reform connections in New Jersey and New York, we put pressure on Murphy from above and below."
?George looked at Martinez, then back at Ricky. "You sound awful sure about how a national convention is going to play out seven months from now, kid."
?Ricky offered a faint, unreadable smile. "It’s just my own gut feeling."
?Internally, however, Ricky’s mind was moving through a much deeper, more complex calculation.
Earlier this month, he had read a history book on next presidential election. The 1912 election was a landmark moment: Roosevelt would split from the Republicans to form the Progressive Party, Taft would retain the regular party apparatus, and Woodrow Wilson would sweep the Electoral College in a landslide, taking 435 electoral votes.
?It was a historical certainty—or at least, it had been.
?Ricky took a slow, steady breath, staring down at the amber whiskey in his glass. Over the past sixteen months, he had systematically altered the flow of events in New York. He had crushed Tammany’s vice networks, accelerated the rise of the Fusion reformers, eliminated Big Tim Sullivan, built Marek into a commercial powerhouse, and consolidated the city’s street gangs under Larry Mulligan.
?He knew where the river used to flow. But he didn’t know if his own actions had already moved the river’s bank.
?His historical knowledge was no longer a guaranteed blueprint or a cheat code he could blindly rely on. If his interference in New York shifted national political endorsements or pushed Tammany into a different strategy, the timeline could fracture in ways he couldn’t predict. He had to stay sharp, flexible, and grounded in real-world observations rather than assuming history would repeat itself on command.
?"And what if your gut is wrong kid?" Martinez asked, his sharp eyes searching Ricky’s face.
?Ricky raised his glass, meeting Martinez’s gaze without a trace of hesitation. "Then I’m wrong. I’ve been wrong before."
?Martinez chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Not often."
?"Often enough to keep me from getting arrogant," Ricky replied, taking a sip.
?George sat back in his chair, a warm, amused smile spreading across his face as he looked toward the closed oak door. Through the thick wood, the faint sound of violins and distant laughter drifted down the hall.
?"You know what I find strange, kid?" George asked, gesturing toward the house outside. "You sit here surrounded by an estate, your own private army, shipping fleets, railyards, and people who would follow you straight into a fire... and you’re sitting in a dark room worrying about whether the future will go the way you planned."
?Ricky looked at him, his expression calm and steady. "I just can’t help it. I’m afraid of making mistakes that will cost me dearly."
?Don Martinez let out a low, raspy laugh, tapping his mahogany cane lightly against his boot. "A good leader believes he knows he is always in danger."
?A tall grandfather clock standing in the corner of the room chimed eight times, its deep, metallic tone marking the hour.
?Ricky stood up from his chair, buttoning his dark suit jacket. "Gentlemen. If we’re going to plan the political map for next year, we can finish it after Christmas dinner. Evelyn will have my head if we miss the main roast."
?George laughed out loud, finishing the last of his whiskey in one gulp and standing up. "Now that is the most sensible thing you’ve said all night, kid."
?Martinez stubbed out his cigar in the brass tray, leaning on his cane as he rose from his chair. "Tonight, we celebrate. Leave your problems for the next day."
?They walked out of the quiet meeting room together, stepping back into the warm, lit-up West Wing corridor.
?When they reached the archway leading into the grand dining hall, Ricky paused for a moment, taking in the scene before him.
?The long oak table was stacked high with platters of roasted turkey, glazed ham, fresh bread, and decanters of wine. Marek was sitting near the head of the table, laughing alongside his family and the Callahan sisters. Arthur, Tom, and Frank Murphy were sharing stories with the Williams brothers, while Caldwell, Eli, and the young recruits were raising their glasses in a cheerful toast. Even Evelyn stood near the sideboard, a subtle, contented smile on her face as she watched the feast unfold.
?For one night, there were no street fights, no police raids, no political assassinations and no corporate price wars.
?There was only Christmas.
?Ricky stood quietly in the archway, feeling the deep, unbreakable warmth of the institution he had built out of nothing.
?1912 was coming, filled with unknown turns and dangerous shifts. But standing in the light of his new home, surrounded by the people who had stood beside him from the beginning, Ricky knew one thing for certain:
?Whatever came next, they were ready.