Chapter 110: Allies In The Sky
The butler bowed slightly, gesturing down a side corridor lined with oil paintings. Behind them, Emma, Kristen, and Elsa had already formed a tight cordon around Marek, giggles and overlapping voices echoing down the hallway as they led him off toward the parlor.
Ricky followed the butler down the quiet hallway to a pair of heavy mahogany double doors. The butler gave two soft knocks, pushed one door open, and stepped aside with a low bow.
Inside, the study was quiet and warm, lit by a pair of brass electric lamps and the soft glow of a dying fire in the hearth. The scent of polished wood, tobacco smoke, and old leather filled the air.
Seated in a high-backed armchair by the window was George Callahan, holding a folded copy of the afternoon newspaper He squinted over the top of the page, sliding his reading glasses down to the bridge of his nose as the door opened.
Setting the newspaper on a small side table, George stood up, his white mustache twitching slightly as he offered a wide, welcoming hand. "Welcome, Mr. Stevenson."
Ricky stepped forward and took the old man’s hand, feeling a firm, weathered grip. "It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Callahan. Marek has told me a great deal about you."
"Has he now?" George chuckled softly, gesturing toward the leather armchair across from his own. "Please, take a seat. I’ve heard quite a bit about you from the boy as well."
Ricky sat down, resting his hands casually on his knees. "Are you two close friends?" George asked, settling back into his chair.
"I treat him like a brother," Ricky replied with a quiet smile. "To be honest, I’m just grateful your granddaughters see him for who he is."
George let out a low rumble of laughter. "Well, I can’t blame the girls. The lad’s quite a young man. He’s sharper than he gives himself credit for, and he doesn’t scare easily when you drop him into a crowded room. I was thoroughly impressed by how he handled himself when I brought him around my associates at the Metropolitan Club four days ago."
"He mentioned that to me," Ricky said. "Most people would stumble getting tossed into a room full of uptown titans like that, but Marek’s got a natural talent for talking to people."
"That he does," George agreed, nodding fondly. "I suppose that’s why the sisters fell for him so hard. I’ll admit, when I first realized all three of them were chasing the same man, I thought we were heading for a disaster. I was laughing my head off last week when they were screaming at each other over which room he ought to sleep in, only for the boy to solve the whole argument by just sleeping in the same room with all three of them."
George shook his head, a genuine smirk on his face. "He’s usually the one stepping between them whenever a heated argument starts, and I couldn’t be more relieved. I came to New York to expand my family’s logistics reach across the East Coast. This city is at its absolute peak right now, and I don’t see that changing anytime soon."
The old man leaned forward, his expression turning thoughtful. "I wanted to make sure I built enough of a foundation to leave my granddaughters comfortable before I leave this earth. My biggest worry was finding them husbands who’d tear the family apart fighting over property and trade lines. But then Marek showed up. A lad willing to take care of all three of them, keeping them together instead of letting them split up. I couldn’t be more grateful. All my businesses will eventually pass to someone they truly love."
Ricky listened quietly before speaking up. "Well, regarding business, I’m not sure if you’ll find what I’m working on interesting, Mr. Callahan. We’re still developing, after all. But I’d love to hear what you have in mind."
George stood up from his chair and walked over to a polished wooden sideboard where several glass decanters and bottles rested. He reached for a sleek, dark glass bottle with a familiar, bold label—Royal Spades whiskey.
Ricky caught the label instantly, a subtle smirk touching his lips as he watched the old man uncap his own supply.
George poured two heavy fingers into two short glasses, walked back over, and handed one to Ricky before taking his seat again.
"My family wasn’t always sitting in mansions like this, Mr. Stevenson," George began, holding his glass up to the light. "Me and my brothers grew up on a dirt-poor farmhouse out in Illinois. We used to distill our own liquor on the side just for personal drinking because our father wouldn’t stand for it. As we got older, we decided to make a real run at it. Selling homemade whiskey back then wasn’t exactly legal, but we already had a dozen local saloons buying every drop we could brew."
He took a slow sip, letting the liquor settle. "So I did what I had to do. I smuggled the barrels into the city at night. Turns out, I had a knack for logistics. People saw how clean my supply runs were, and soon enough, half the outfit bosses in town were asking me to move their cargo too. So I set up my own legitimate transport firm—a damn fine cover for moving contraband."
George looked into the amber liquid in his glass, his voice softening. "Before I knew it, my eldest brother turned completely legal, setting up one of the largest distilleries in Chicago. My other brother married into an allied crew, and the Callahan Outfit became one of the dominant names in the city. And even after my eldest brother tried to wash his hands of the criminal side of things, believe it or not, I was still the one shipping his legal liquor across state lines."
The old man sighed, the lines around his eyes deepening. "But when you live that kind of life, the people you love end up paying the price for your ambition. Delilah, my lovely wife... she died thirty years ago in the middle of a gang war. I was careless, arrogant, thinking the smaller crews wouldn’t dare strike at my home. I was wrong."
Ricky stayed silent, giving the old man space to talk.
"After that, the only thing that kept me breathing was my daughter, and an absolute thirst for vengeance against the rival syndicate that took my wife," George continued gently. "And ten years later, at the very moment we finally broke that rival family, I lost my daughter and the brave young lad who sacrificed everything to protect her. But out of that tragedy, I was left with three newborn girls."
George looked up, his sharp eyes locking onto Ricky. "I vowed right then and there that I would give those girls everything. Before my time comes, I want them and Marek to live a comfortable life where they’ll never know poverty or fear. So when I began looking into the people surrounding my future grandson-in-law... I found you."
A faint, knowing smile appeared on the old man’s face. "A young man practically radiating ambition and momentum. I could have looked for someone with a high-society pedigree, but fate brought Marek to my granddaughters, and fate brought you to Marek. In just two months, you built a trade operation from absolute scratch, dominated Greenwich, and bought out an import house right under the noses of Midtown’s oldest merchants. I want to work with you, Mr. Stevenson."
Ricky smiled, taking a small sip of his whiskey before setting the glass on the side table. "You humble me, Mr. Callahan. And honestly, I believe fate brought us together tonight as well. I came here to present a proposal for a highly profitable business venture of my own."
George raised an eyebrow, leaning back into his armchair with a look of genuine intrigue. "Is that so? Tell me what’s on your mind, Mr. Stevenson. It seems fate has plans for us after all."
Ricky met his gaze directly, his tone cool and confident. "The automobile industry. With vehicle manufacturers popping up across the country, motor transport is going to completely displace horse-drawn freight over the next decade. There is no better time to build our own manufacturing footprint than right now."
George sat in silence, his sharp eyes weighing the eighteen-year-old sitting across from him as he quietly digested the proposal.