Chapter 104: Gilded Gathering
The wooden wheels of the enclosed carriage rattled steadily over the cobblestones of Lower Fifth Avenue, mixing with the clatter of passing horses and the occasional honk of an automobile horn.
Inside, four men sat across from one another on plush velvet seats. Among them was Edwin Mercer, the gray-haired founder of Mercer Trading Company. For over thirty years, Mercer had cultivated tight relationships with Midtown’s top hotel managers, restaurant suppliers, local warehousemen, and freight handlers, dominating the trade routes surrounding Central Park.
Edwin adjusted his bowler hat, looking across at Samuel Hargrove, Patrick O’Rourke, and Frank Donnelly. "So who is this Richard Stevenson anyway?"
"He’s just a kid," Samuel replied, shaking his head with a bitter scowl. "Built his way up from some petty smuggling run, supplying small shopkeepers down in Greenwich Village. Half our regular clients down there switched to him. Now he’s practically monopolized the whole lower district under a legitimate corporate name—the Atlantic & Pacific Trading Company."
Frank adjusted his coat lapels, leaning forward. "All of that in just two months. We’ve been quietly pulling file records on these boys, and now their delivery wagons are creeping right into Midtown."
"We thought they’d expand into SoHo, NoHo, Chelsea, or the Bowery first," Patrick added, resting his hands on his cane. "That’s the usual route for new trade operations."
"They’re too sharp for that," Samuel said grimly. "They know where the real money is. If we sit on our hands, it’s only a matter of time before they push straight into Central Park."
Edwin tapped his chin, his brow furrowed in deep thought. "They’re an aggressive group. But it’s practically impossible for a fledgling company to grow this fast in two months without serious backing. Someone powerful has to be funding them from behind the scenes."
"That’s exactly what we think," Samuel agreed. "Problem is, we haven’t found a single shred of conclusive evidence to prove who’s pulling the strings, nor have we uncovered their original local suppliers."
"Well, we know their primary supplier now," Frank interjected, turning to Edwin. "It’s an import house that’s built a solid reputation across the eastern seaboard over the past decade, though they never established local branches. Harrison & Bell Limited."
Edwin looked up, surprised. "Harrison & Bell? I knew old man Harrison. We signed several wholesale supply contracts with his firm just last year."
"He doesn’t own it anymore," Frank said. "Word on the street is that the company was quietly bought out. The new owner and president on paper is a man named Marek Kowalski."
"Marek Kowalski..." Patrick mused, clicking his tongue. "That name’s been making rounds in high society circles lately. Rumor has it he’s getting engaged to the a well known family."
Frank leaned closer. "His name popped up right around the exact same time those ’Commission Boys’ made their first bold moves on Midtown. You think that’s just a coincidence?"
"Who are these ’Commission Boys’?" Edwin asked.
"An alias," Patrick explained. "That’s what the shopkeepers down in Greenwich call Stevenson’s delivery crews."
Edwin leaned back against the leather seat, analyzing the piece of information. "If this Marek is tied to those Commission Boys, then they aren’t just expanding their commercial footprint into Midtown—they’re building direct connections with high-society elites."
"That’s what makes it dangerous," Samuel warned. "Give them another month or two, and they’ll be completely untouchable."
"Well, we’re headed to the Metropolitan Club right now," Edwin said smoothly, looking out the carriage window as they neared Fifth Avenue and 60th Street. "We can easily find independent business owners who are willing to join our cause. There will be very influential figures attending tonight. We’ve spent decades building our companies and nurturing relationships—we can’t just stand by and let a bunch of young upstarts from god knows where tear down our livelihoods. We need to secure the commercial monopoly in Manhattan, at least for independent merchants like us. We can’t stand alone, but if we unite, people will have to take us seriously. All we need is one heavy-hitting figure to lend us their political weight."
The other three nodded in firm agreement as the carriage pulled to a smooth stop outside the grand stone entrance of the Metropolitan Club.
Outside, the street was lined with polished landau carriages and sleek, shiny Ford Model Ts that drew admiring glances from passing pedestrians. Well-dressed men in tailored dark tuxedos and ladies wrapped in elegant silk gowns stepped onto the pristine sidewalk. The four business owners smoothed their coats and stepped out into the crisp evening air.
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Meanwhile, uptown at the grand Callahan mansion in Carnegie Hill, Marek stood in front of a floor-to-ceiling mirror, nervously adjusting his white necktie.
Kristen Callahan stepped up beside him, wrapping her arms tightly around his left elbow. "Come on, honey, Grandpa’s waiting downstairs."
Marek finished adjusting the knot, put on his crisp white suit jacket, and smoothed down the lapels. Before he could take a step, Elsa, a stunning brunette, slid up to his right side, hugging his other arm. Emma, the eldest sister figure among the triplets, smiled warmly as she took his hand, guiding him toward the sweeping marble staircase.
As they made their way down the steps, Emma looked him up and down with an admiring smile. "Honey, you look absolutely spectacular in that white suit. You’re going to stand out from everyone else tonight."
Marek offered a sheepish, slightly embarrassed smile. "Thank you, Emma... though honestly, I would’ve been perfectly comfortable wearing a standard black suit."
"He’s right, Emma," Kristen teased, squeezing his arm. "Don’t you think making him look this handsome is a terrible idea? Those uptown women at the club are going to try and steal him right away from us!"
Elsa’s eyes flickered with a dark, mischievous glint. "If any of them try, we can just call Grandpa’s boys in Chicago and have them slaughter their entire families."
Emma chuckled softly, shaking her head. "There’s no need for that kind of extreme violence, Elsa. Chicago is far too away, and besides, a subtle little warning would be more than enough to keep the unwanted bugs off him."
Marek let out a heavy breath, looking between the three sisters as they reached the grand foyer. "Calm down, ladies," he said with a quiet laugh. "There are already three of you. I certainly don’t need any other woman in my life."
"Awww... you’re so sweet!" the three sisters chimed in unison, immediately leaning in to hug him tightly against them.
Marek caught his breath slightly under the sudden group hug, patting their shoulders gently. "There, there... come on now, Grandpa’s waiting outside."
The heavy double doors of the mansion swung open, revealing two pristine, black Rolls-Royce Silver Ghosts idling on the cobblestone driveway.
The rear door of the lead automobile clicked open. An elderly man in his sixties with snow-white hair and a matching bushy white mustache—looking remarkably like Colonel Sanders—leaned out.
"I apologize in advance, ladies," old George Callahan called out with a booming chuckle, "but I’m going to need to borrow your fiancé for the ride. You girls huddle in the second car."
The three sisters let go of Marek, crossing their arms and sporting exaggerated pouting expressions.
George gestured to the leather seat beside him. "Come hop in, Mark."
Marek smiled faintly as he walked over. "It’s Marek, Sir George," he corrected gently, stepping inside and taking his seat.
As soon as the door shut, George tapped the driver’s shoulder. "Metropolitan Club, David."
The driver nodded, engaged the engine, and the luxury motorcar glided smoothly onto the street, turning heads as it rolled down Fifth Avenue.