Chapter 126: Insurance Policy

The Ninth Avenue Elevated train rattled and swayed along its iron trestle, the cold morning air rushing through the gaps in the wooden window frames. Below, the early morning fog hung thick over the tenement roofs of Manhattan, pierced only by the dark smoke of factory chimneys.

​Inside the passenger car, Evelyn sat near the frosted glass, holding her leather handbag tight against her lap. Across the aisle, Arthur Murphy leaned back on the wooden bench alongside his brother Frank, while Jimmy Williams sat opposite them, adjusting his flat cap. A handful of young tenement men from Minetta sat further down the aisle, talking in low, hushed tones.

​Jimmy looked over at Arthur. "So where’s John?"

​Arthur shifted, resting his elbow against the window sill. "He stayed behind with Eli and Caleb. Said he’d head out later on an afternoon train with Phill and James McClain. Better to split the boys into small groups so we don’t draw eyes at the depot."

​Frank Murphy stared out at the passing iron girders, his brow furrowed. "Is Ricky gonna be alright down there by himself?"

​"Let’s just hope so," Arthur muttered.

​Jimmy rubbed his chin, looking down at his boots. "Can’t help but feel he’s making the right play, though. About Frank Knox, I mean. We’re too light on muscle and too new to go toe-to-toe with Tammany Hall and a precinct full of armed coppers."

​"That Knox bastard is a bloody lunatic," Frank said, shaking his head. "Besides, starting fresh up in White Plains ain’t the worst thing in the world. Just hope we aren’t stepping right into another outfit’s backyard."

​"If White Plains gets crowded, there’s always Armonk or Bedford," Arthur replied, pulling his collar up against the draft. "We’ll be heading right back to Greenwich the second this storm blows over anyway."

​"It’ll be easy enough for us to establish a trading house up there," Jimmy said with a nod. "We’ve got Marek shipping whatever stock we need right down the freight line."

​Frank grined slightly. "I wouldn’t mind running a saloon myself, you know? A decent place where the boys can get a cold pint and play cards without worrying about precinct coppers kicking the front doors in."

​Jimmy smiled back. "Aye, that’s a grand idea. Just like how we started in the ward—start small, lay low, and slowly expand. Main thing is keeping the boys fed while Arthur and John run ’em through their training drills."

​Arthur turned his head toward Jimmy. "So how many wagons are you and your brothers setting up with?"

​"Me, Michael, Sean, and Patrick plan to lease a small storefront in White Plains," Jimmy explained. "Buy four solid wagons, put four of our boys on each route. Along with the liquor Marek sends up, we’ll run common dry goods to the local grocers. Keep a steady income turning over while we’re out of sight."

​Arthur let out a short scoff, a dry chuckle escaping his throat. "You think running grocery supplies to corner shops is where Ricky gets his real coin, Jimmy?"

​Jimmy blinked. "Well... yeah. Isn’t it?"

​Arthur chuckled again, shaking his head. "Marek’s pulling in at least five thousand dollars a week down at the railyards. And his future father-in-law has half the shipping lines in the harbor wrapped around his finger."

​A quick flash of envy crossed Jimmy’s face, though he masked it quickly with a shrug. "Well... you’re right. But I reckon Ricky’s doing that on purpose to control the whole logistics chain. Marek runs the import freight, we handle the wagon delivery to local merchants. Only a matter of time before Ricky buys out a full transport company."

​Frank laughed. "I ain’t ambitious like you lot. Just give me my saloon, a tap, and a back room for gambling."

​Jimmy nudged Arthur with his foot. "What about you, Art? What’s your plan?"

​"I don’t know," Arthur said honestly.

​"Safe to say you’re the best we got at coordinating delivery routes and keeping strict schedules," Jimmy pressed with a smirk. "I think Ricky’s gonna end up making you run a proper haulage firm."

​Arthur groaned, his face tightening with stress. "I’m fine giving orders to the boys, Jimmy, but I can’t sit behind a bloody desk all day."

​Jimmy grinned. "Well, you’ll still technically be giving orders from a desk. Better sitting than standing in the mud."

​Frank chuckled. "Aye, he’s got you there, Art."

​Arthur shook his head, looking away. "Whatever. Our little brother Tom isn’t so little anymore anyway. Running Marek’s front office down at the docks. Guess he’s the most successful out of all us Murphys now, eh Frank?"

​Frank smiled, a touch of genuine pride in his eyes. "Yeah... good on the lad. Never thought he had it in him to handle books and ledgers."

​While the men continued their banter over the clatter of the train wheels, Evelyn sat silently by her window. She stared out at the sprawling tenements of the East Side slipping past in the morning haze. A tight, dull ache throbbed in her chest as she pressed her hand over her midsection.

​Please, she thought silently, watching the grey skyline fade into the distance. Just come back to us alive.

​Back on the Hudson Street, Ricky stood quietly in front of the second-story window of his private office, looking down at the empty street.

​Hours earlier, before the sun had even cleared the horizon, he had been down in the secluded warehouse Marek rented near the tracks. Systematically, Ricky had spent the early morning purchasing crates, sacks, and barrels from the System interface, filling the floor space to the rafters with stock.

​As he had completed his last purchase, a glowing blue panel had materialized in his vision:

​[Total System Purchases Reached: $100,000]

​Immediately following it, a second notification had popped up:

​[Shop Node Unlocked: Authorized personnel will be able to access the System Shop through a bounded physical terminal. Manage permissions and restrictions. Cost: $10,000]

[Purchase] | [Cancel]

​Ricky had stared at the text for a long moment. Ten thousand dollars was a steep sum, but for a feature that allowed someone else to order goods directly without him having to physically spawn every barrel, it was remarkably cheap.

​He had selected [Purchase].

​A dark blue leather-bound notebook had appeared directly in his hands. Opening it, he found a neatly printed table of contents listing various trade categories, bounded within Tier 1: 1900–1914.

​When he had touched the entry for Grains, the ink on the page shifted fluidly, transforming into an interactive menu with a horizontal slider bar. Sliding his finger left or right adjusted the quantity, calculating the total price instantly at the bottom above two options: [Confirm Purchase] and [Cancel]. Flipping to the final page revealed customizable security restrictions, permission settings, and access ranks for designated users.

​Late last night, Ricky had taken the blue notebook straight to Marek’s private office at the freight yards. Marek had been hunched over his desk under an oil lamp, documenting incoming goods Ricky has added, so they would pass customs inspections without raising suspicion.

​When Ricky presented the terminal and demonstrated how it worked, Marek had been completely dumbfounded. But what stunned him even more was the wholesale pricing. Sacks of flour, grain, and sugar cost mere copper pennies. Liquor cases and dry goods ranged from a few cents to two dollars at most.

​"Why in God’s name didn’t you tell me the profit margins were this high?!" Marek had gasped, staring at the notebook page.

​"If I told you we were paying pennies on the dollar, you wouldn’t have believed me," Ricky had replied calmly.

​Ricky had explained that with this terminal, Marek could supply the syndicate’s operations in White Plains, Bedford, and Armonk directly. All Marek had to do was blend the goods into his legal freight manifests. Ricky had also assured him that the notebook could never be lost or stolen—if mislaid, it would automatically return to his possession. Marek had marveled at the magic of it, spending the rest of the night learning how to navigate the pages and place orders.

​In the present, he’s standing in his office in the present light of morning, Ricky watched as four NYPD patrol wagons and a squad of mounted officers came trotting down the street. Horses neighed, wagon wheels ground against the stone, and uniformed coppers shouted orders as they surrounded the Atlantic & Pacific building.

​Ricky watched them with a calm, unbothered expression. With Marek holding the Shop Node terminal, his business empire was completely decentralized and secure. He couldn’t manage everything alone anyway.

​The terminal was his saving grace. If he could acquire more nodes in the future, he could establish branches across the country and around the globe, turning his syndicate into a self-sustaining economic engine.

​He knew that reaching $1,000,000 in total system purchases would unlock Tier 2, opening up items and technology from 1915 to 1930.

​Below, heavy leather boots began pounding up the wooden staircase of the building.

​Ricky smoothed his waistcoat, adjusted his necktie, and turned away from the window to face the door.