Chapter 620 - 620: 592. New Foods For Mary-Beth

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He unfolded the first page. Sheriff Curtis Malloy had proven his worth. The document listed the names of four massive cattle ranchers in the Heartlands who were currently defaulting on their bank loans, completely desperate for a buyout before the bank foreclosed. It listed the name of the primary auction yard manager in Valentine, accompanied by the exact sum of his illicit gambling debts to a Saint Denis bookie. It listed the property deeds for three prime parcels of land situated directly on the railroad spur, currently owned by a corrupt county clerk who had a known penchant for accepting bribes.

Attached to the back of the ledger by a brass pin was a smaller, separate piece of paper. It was a personal note from the Sheriff.

'Mr. Thorne. The information enclosed is accurate and highly actionable. The Heartlands are bleeding, and the men on this list are desperate enough to sell their souls, let alone their land, for a fraction of its worth. I await your men. — Sheriff Malloy.'

Caleb read the names carefully, his mind instantly mapping the hostile takeover of the entire New Hanover beef industry. He wasn't going to negotiate with these men. He was going to walk into their failing ranches with a mountain of cash and huge leverage, as he was going to buy their legacies out from under them.

A slow, chilling smile spread across Caleb's face. He folded the ledger and slipped it into the breast pocket of his suit.

"Vincenzo," Caleb said, looking up at his underboss, the ruthless corporate titan fully engaged.

"Yes, Boss?"

"Tell Pierre to draft a dozen blank, ironclad acquisition contracts," Caleb commanded, picking up his glass of bourbon. "And have Antonio pack my bags. The war in Lemoyne is over. Tomorrow morning, we return to the Heartlands, and we buy the meat industry in the frontier."

Vincenzo listened to the order, his eyes scanning the aggressive, unwavering determination etched into Caleb's features. The underboss gave a sharp, definitive nod. "I'll have the Leviathan fired up and the men assembled at the station by dawn, Boss. Pierre will have the blank contracts drafted before midnight."

With that, Vincenzo turned and exited the study, his footsteps echoing rapidly down the hallway as he moved to mobilize the corporate arm of the syndicate.

Caleb remained in the quiet study for a moment longer, allowing the relentless, forward driving energy of the industrial titan to settle. He folded the ledger, slipping it into the inner pocket of his coat.

He stepped out of the study and ascended the grand, sweeping staircase, his footsteps muffled by the thick Persian runners. When he reached the master suite, he opened the heavy mahogany door softly.

The room was bathed in the warm, ambient glow of the gas sconces. Mary-Beth was sitting on the edge of the massive feather down bed, a heavy, leather bound novel resting in her lap, though her eyes were unfocused, staring out the window toward the darkening gardens. The sheer emotional toll of the past few daysz the terror of his departure, the deep relief of his return, and the lingering tension of the empire, was visible in the slight slump of her shoulders.

Caleb walked across the room, shedding his suit jacket and draping it over the back of an armchair. He sat down beside her on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight, and Mary-Beth naturally leaned into him, resting her head against his shoulder. He wrapped his arm around her, pressing a soft kiss to her temple.

"Vincenzo tells me the runner arrived from Valentine," Mary-Beth said quietly, not looking up from the pages of her closed book. She knew the rhythms of his business too well to assume a runner brought idle news.

"He did," Caleb confirmed, his voice a low, comforting rumble in the quiet room. "Sheriff Malloy delivered the intelligence I requested. The cattle industry in the Heartlands is fracturing. The banks are closing in on the primary ranches, and the auction yards are crumbling under internal debt."

He paused, his hand gently stroking her arm. "I have to return to Valentine tomorrow morning, Mary-Beth. It is an urgent matter of acquisition. If I don't buy those deeds now, the eastern banks will foreclose on them, and we will lose the opportunity to control the northern supply lines."

Mary-Beth let out a long, heavy sigh, her eyes fluttering shut. She had known the peace would be brief, but having him leave again so soon after the bloodshed in Lemoyne stung.

"How long?" she asked softly.

"I will return by tomorrow evening if the negotiations are swift," Caleb promised, turning slightly to look at her. "If the ranchers prove stubborn, the next day. The absolute latest I will stay in that mud is the day after tomorrow. I am not taking an army this time, my love. Just Pierre, Vincenzo, Silvio, and enough men to secure the train. It is a financial excursion, not a violent one."

Mary-Beth lifted her head, looking into his eyes. She saw the absolute sincerity there. She offered a small, resigned smile, nodding her head. "You may go, Caleb. But as always... you be careful. A desperate man with a failing ranch can be just as dangerous as an outlaw in the swamp."

"I am always careful," Caleb smiled, his heart swelling with affection for her pragmatic, enduring strength. He leaned in, kissing her deeply on the forehead. "Now, put the book away. I have been neglecting my duties as a husband, and I intend to make it up to you tonight."

Mary-Beth raised an eyebrow, a playful spark returning to her dark eyes. "Oh? And how do you plan to do that?"

"By preparing you the most magnificent and unconventional dinner this city has ever seen," Caleb declared, standing up and offering her his hand.

Mary-Beth chuckled, a bright, musical sound that chased the lingering gloom from the room. "You are going to cook? Caleb, we have a head chef who previously worked at the finest restaurant in Paris. He might have a nervous breakdown if you step into his kitchen."

"Let him," Caleb grinned. "I have a few recipes that Paris isn't ready for."

Caleb left Mary-Beth to rest and made his way down to the sprawling, immaculate kitchens at the rear of the mansion.

The kitchen was a masterpiece of modern culinary architecture, outfitted with massive, cast iron wood burning stoves, polished copper pots hanging from the ceiling, and pristine white tile. The head chef, a temperamental but brilliantly talented Frenchman named Henri, was currently directing three prep cooks as they chopped vegetables for the evening's planned roast.

Henri looked up as Caleb walked through the swinging doors, his eyes widening in surprise. The master of the house rarely, if ever, entered the kitchen.

"Monsieur Thorne!" Henri gasped, wiping his hands on his apron. "Is everything satisfactory? Did you require something specific for dinner?"

"Everything is perfect, Henri," Caleb said, walking over to the massive central cutting block and rolling up the sleeves of his white shirt. "But I will be taking over the kitchen for the next two hours. You and your staff may take the evening off."

Henri blinked, entirely caught off guard. "Taking over, Monsieur? But... but the roast? If you require a special dish, please, allow me to prepare it. It is my duty."

"I appreciate the dedication, Henri, but the dishes I am about to prepare require a very specific methodology," Caleb smiled, his tone leaving absolutely no room for debate. "You may stay and watch if you like. You might learn something."

Henri, deeply offended but utterly terrified to contradict the billionaire syndicate boss, stepped back, gesturing to the prep cooks to clear the stations.

Caleb approached the pantry. His Past Life Memory and his Max Level Cooking skill engaged simultaneously, bridging the gap between a modern fast food empire and a 1900s kitchen. He was not going to make a delicate French consommé. He was going to make the ultimate comfort food. He wanted to finalize the menu he planned to introduce to the new, massive flagship restaurant he was building in Saint Denis.

First, the fried chicken.

He gathered fresh, butchered chicken pieces, dropping them into a massive ceramic bowl. He poured rich, heavy buttermilk over the meat, letting the lactic acid begin its work to tenderize the poultry. Then, he moved to the spice rack. Henri watched in bewildered fascination as Caleb bypassed the traditional French herbs, instead pulling out paprika, garlic powder, onion powder, heavy white pepper, celery salt, dried mustard, and several other distinct, pungent spices.

Caleb didn't measure with spoons, his hands moved with precision, dumping the exact, mathematically perfect ratios of eleven distinct herbs and spices into a massive bowl of finely milled wheat flour. He whisked the dry ingredients together, the air instantly filling with a sharp, savory, entirely alien aroma.

"What is that scent, Monsieur?" Henri asked, unable to contain his culinary curiosity, leaning closer to the flour bowl.

"The future, Henri," Caleb smirked.

Next, he pulled a massive block of high grade beef from the cold storage. Moving with a terrifying, rhythmic speed that made Henri's jaw drop, Caleb used a heavy cleaver to finely mince the beef until it was a smooth, cohesive paste. He formed them into small, bite sized nuggets, double breading them in a secondary, slightly sweeter batter.

For the chili dogs, he set a heavy cast iron skillet over the open flame. He didn't make a chunky, traditional stew. He created a finely ground, deeply spiced, thick meat sauce, heavy with cumin, chili powder, and a touch of dark molasses, designed specifically to be poured over the smoked sausages currently boiling in a nearby pot.

Finally, the pizza.

Caleb gathered high protein flour, warm water, salt, and a dash of sugar to activate the fresh yeast. He poured the ingredients directly onto the marble counter. His hands moved in a blur, kneading the dough with flawless, mechanical perfection, developing the gluten network in a fraction of the time it would take a normal baker. He tossed the dough high into the air, the centrifugal force stretching it into a perfect, uniform circle, catching it on his fists with the grace of an acrobat.

Henri actually gasped. "Magnifique!"

Caleb ladled a rich, heavily reduced tomato sauce over the dough, tearing chunks of fresh mozzarella and scattering them across the surface, finishing it with a drizzle of olive oil and fresh basil from the conservatory gardens.

He slid the pizza onto the floor of the hottest wood fired oven, while simultaneously dropping the buttermilk soaked, heavily spiced chicken into a massive cast iron vat of roaring, bubbling beef tallow.

The kitchen exploded into a symphony of sizzling oil, rising dough, and the most profoundly intoxicating, savory aromas Henri had ever experienced. The French chef was practically vibrating with awe, scribbling frantic notes in a small journal, realizing the man who built airplanes was also a culinary savant.

Forty five minutes later, the feast was complete.

Caleb arranged the massive spread on a silver serving cart. The fried chicken was a deep, flawless golden brown, the crust jagged and impossibly crispy. The pizza was bubbling, the crust charred perfectly on the edges. The chili dogs were smothered in the rich meat sauce, and the beef nuggets rested beside a small bowl of a tangy, mustard based dipping sauce Caleb had whipped up on the fly.

He pushed the cart out of the kitchen, down the hallway, and into the private, intimate dining parlor where Mary-Beth was waiting.

She looked up from her seat at the mahogany table, her eyes widening as the aroma hit her. "Caleb... what on earth is all of this? It smells absolutely incredible, but I have never seen food look quite like this."

Caleb parked the cart, serving the plates himself. "This, my love, is the menu for the working class. It is comfort, speed, and flavor."

He placed a slice of the hot, bubbling pizza on her plate. "Start with this. It's an Italian concept. A pizza pie."

Mary-Beth tentatively picked up the slice, the melted mozzarella stretching beautifully. She took a bite. Her eyes instantly fluttered shut, a soft, involuntary moan of pure culinary delight escaping her lips. The rich, acidic bite of the tomato sauce, the creamy pull of the cheese, and the perfectly chewy, charred crust was a revelation.

"Caleb..." she breathed, taking another eager bite. "This is phenomenal. The bread... the sauce..."

"Try the chicken," Caleb urged, placing a golden, crispy drumstick on her plate.

Mary-Beth picked it up, the crust shattering perfectly beneath her teeth. The complex, peppery heat of the eleven herbs and spices hit her palate, followed by the impossibly juicy, buttermilk brined meat beneath.

For the next twenty minutes, all aristocratic decorum was entirely abandoned. They ate the chili dogs, dipping the crispy beef nuggets into the tangy sauce, laughing together in the quiet parlor. Mary-Beth, whose appetite had been finicky for weeks due to her pregnancy, ate with an absolute, unbridled relish.

"You cooked this?" Mary-Beth asked, wiping her fingers on a linen napkin, looking at her husband in sheer amazement. "You didn't let Henri touch it?"

"Henri is currently having an existential crisis in the kitchen trying to decipher my spice ratios," Caleb chuckled, leaning back in his chair, a cold glass of sarsaparilla in his hand.

"Caleb, if you put this food in all of the restaurant branches... you will have lines stretching down the street," Mary-Beth declared, looking at the remaining slices of pizza. "It is heavy, yes, but it is so deeply satisfying. Will this be the menu for the new flagship?"

"It will," Caleb confirmed, a satisfied gleam in his eye. "We will have it high quality, mass produced, and addictive. But tonight, it was just for you."

Mary-Beth smiled warmly, reaching across the table to take his hand. The tension of the empire was forgotten. For the rest of the evening, they simply enjoyed the quiet sanctuary of their home, eventually retiring to the master suite, falling asleep wrapped securely in each other's arms, the heavy burdens of the world locked outside their door.

The peace of the night was fleeting. By the time the sun breached the horizon the following morning, the industrial titan had reawakened.

The Saint Denis rail yard was shrouded in a thick, early morning fog as Caleb arrived. The Leviathan was fully pressurized, hissing aggressively on the primary track.

This was not a military excursion, but the entourage was no less formidable. Caleb was dressed in an immaculate, razor sharp charcoal suit. He was flanked by Vincenzo, Silvio, and Pierre, the legal counsel looking slightly nervous but fiercely determined, carrying a heavy leather briefcase packed with the blank acquisition contracts. A contingent of twenty elite capos, dressed in matching suits and carrying concealed weapons, formed a tight perimeter around the boarding platform.

Caleb boarded the luxurious parlor car, taking his seat at the heavy mahogany conference table. The underbosses and the lawyer took their seats around him as the train lurched forward, beginning its powerful climb toward New Hanover.

"Alright, Pierre," Caleb said, signaling for the steward to pour the coffee. "Let's review the battlefield."

Pierre opened his briefcase, pulling out Sheriff Malloy's ledger and spreading the documents across the polished wood.

"We have three primary targets, Boss," Pierre began, adjusting his spectacles. "First, the Valentine Auction Yard. The manager, a man named Silas Reed, has been embezzling operational funds for a year to cover his gambling debts. He owes roughly eight thousand dollars to a bookie down in the Saint Denis slums. If the yard owners find out, Silas goes to federal prison. He is the most vulnerable point of entry to control the transit of the cattle."

Caleb nodded, sipping his black coffee. "A coward is always the easiest to fold. We hit him first. Who is next?"

"Ben Hugh," Pierre pointed to a property deed. "He owns the largest, most fertile grazing ranch in the Heartlands. But he lost half his herd to disease last winter. He leveraged his land against a massive bank loan to restock, and he has missed three consecutive payments. The bank is preparing to foreclose by the end of the month. Hugh is a proud man, a true frontier rancher. He won't go down easy."

"Pride is expensive," Caleb noted coldly. "I will buy his pride. And the last?"

"Jack Higgins. The county clerk," Pierre said, a note of genuine distaste in his voice. "He holds the direct administrative rights to the land flanking the railroad spur, the exact land you need to build the modernized slaughterhouse. Higgins is notoriously corrupt. He stalls land developments until the buyers bribe him. He thinks he is the gatekeeper of New Hanover."

"Then we will remove the gate," Caleb smiled a dark, chilling smile.

Pierre hesitated for a moment, looking down at the ledger, then looked up at Caleb, the cautious nature of the lawyer taking over.

"Boss... I must advise caution moving forward," Pierre warned softly. "We are moving incredibly fast. In the last three months, you have secured military firearms contracts, launched a national radio network, begun manufacturing automobiles, and recruited the top medical minds in the country. Now, you are actively moving to monopolize the Midwest beef and railroad supply lines. You are making a massive amount of noise."

Vincenzo frowned, leaning forward. "Who cares about the noise? We have the capital to back it up."

"It's not about the capital, Vincenzo, it's about the attention," Pierre explained, looking back at Caleb. "The old titans, Carnegie, Rockefeller, Harriman, they built their empires over decades. They controlled the narrative. You are exploding onto the national stage overnight. The federal government, the monopolies, the markets... they are all starting to look south. If they realize a single man controls this much infrastructure, they might try to use the laws or taxes to break us apart."

...

Name: Caleb Thorne

Age: 23

Body Attributes:

- Strength: 8/10

- Agility: 8/10

- Perception: 9/10

- Stamina: 8/10

- Charm: 8/10

- Luck: 9/10

Skills:

- Handgun (Lvl MAX)

- Rifle (Lvl MAX)

- Firearms Knowledge (Lvl MAX)

- Past Life Memory (Lvl MAX)

- Knife (Lvl MAX)

- Blunt Weapon (Lvl MAX)

- Sneaking (Lvl MAX)

- Horse Mastery (Lvl MAX)

- Poker (Lvl MAX)

- Hand to Hand Combat (Lvl MAX)

- Eagle Eye (Lvl MAX)

- Dead Eye (Lvl MAX)

- Bow (Lvl MAX)

- Pain Nullifier (Lvl MAX)

- Physical Regeneration (Lvl MAX)

- Crafting (Lvl MAX)

- Persuasion (Lvl MAX)

- Mental Fortitude (Lvl MAX)

- Cooking (Lvl MAX)

- Teaching (Lvl MAX)

- Trilingual Language Proficiency - G, I, & C (Lvl MAX)

- Inventory System (Permanent - 100x100x100)

- Acting (Lvl MAX)

- Alcohol Resistance (Lvl MAX)

- Treasure Hunter (Lvl MAX)

- Drugs Resistance (Lvl MAX)

- Business (Lvl MAX)

- Leadership (Lvl MAX)

Money: 2,772 dollars and 60 cents

Inventory: 283,392 dollars and 61 cents, 11 gold nuggets, 74 gold bars, 1 Double Action, 1 Schofield, 2 Colm's Schofields, 1 land deed (Parcel), 1 Mauser, 1 Semi Auto Pistol, 1 Lancaster Repeater, 1 Old Wood Jewelry Box, 1 F.F Mausoleum small brass key, 1 Ruby, 1 Broken Pirate Sword, 1 Milton's Safety Deposit Key, Proof Of Marlin-Thorne Firearms Co., 10 Dynamites, 1 LeMat, 1 M1899, 1 Carcano, 1 Ownership deed of Doyle's Tavern, & 3 Diamonds

Bank: -