If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead, be sure to check out my P-Tang12!!!
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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
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"How is the transition holding up?" Caleb inquired smoothly. "Are the suppliers honoring the new contracts? Is the high society clientele behaving themselves under your watch?"
Ezra, hearing that, straightened his posture, his chest puffing out slightly with well earned pride.
"The transition has been completely seamless, Don McLaughlin," Ezra reported, his voice brimming with absolute confidence. "The suppliers wouldn't dare short us now that they know who holds the deed to this building. And the clientele has been extremely cooperative. Revenue is up by twelve percent this month alone."
Ezra gestured toward the back office. "I can show you the main ledger of the saloon right now, if you wish to review the daily expenditures and the profit margins. I have everything documented down to the last penny."
He paused, wanting to be entirely transparent with his incredibly dangerous boss. "Even though I have made some minor structural changes to the daily operations. I added a couple more workers to the floor staff, two new cocktail waitresses and an extra barback to handle the evening rush, to ensure our service remains the absolute fastest and most attentive in the city. But other than that personnel adjustment, I haven't made any more changes to the fundamental operation of the house."
Caleb, hearing that thorough, highly competent, and perfectly transparent report, nodded his head slowly. His max level Business Skill instantly recognized that Ezra was doing an absolutely spectacular job. The saloon was spotless, the patrons were well served, and the atmosphere was flawlessly maintained.
Saying no, he raised a hand to stop the young manager from fetching the heavy account books. Caleb declared that he doesn't need to see the ledgers for now.
"Leave the books in the safe, Ezra," Caleb instructed, his voice carrying a profound, absolute weight of confidence. He wanted to publicly cement the young man's authority. He trusts that he makes a much better work, a far more efficient and profitable operation, compared to the corrupt, lazy previous manager that Caleb had violently ousted.
"I didn't promote you so I could micromanage you," Caleb stated clearly, ensuring the surrounding patrons heard him. "I promoted you because I trust your judgment. You run this floor exactly as you see fit. If you need more staff, hire them. If a patron disrespects you, throw them out. You speak with my authority in this building."
Ezra's eyes shone with a deep, overwhelming sense of gratitude and absolute, fanatical loyalty. To be given that level of trust by the most powerful man in Lemoyne was life changing. "Thank you, Don McLaughlin. I will not let you down."
"I know you won't," Caleb smirked.
With the corporate check-in flawlessly concluded, Caleb's demeanor shifted from the ruthless CEO back to the charming, highly skilled rogue. And then he says to Ezra, his eyes drifting across the expansive saloon floor toward the velvet roped high stakes gambling area, to give him some wine.
"Now," Caleb requested, tapping his fingers lightly against the mahogany bar. "I would like you to fetch us a bottle of the absolute finest French Bordeaux you have in the reserve cellar. And bring it to the main poker table."
A predatory, highly entertained glint appeared in Caleb's sharp blue eyes. He wanted to play some poker.
"It has been quite some time since I have been playing one," Caleb noted, rolling his shoulders slightly, feeling the familiar, thrilling itch of the cards calling to him. The brutal logistics of seizing the mafia and executing corporate takeovers had consumed his life, he was ready for a different kind of tactical warfare. He was ready to bleed the arrogant aristocrats dry on the green felt.
Hearing that specific request, Ezra nodded his head enthusiastically. "Right away, my Don. I will personally deliver the wine and ensure the table is perfectly prepared for you."
As Ezra turned to bark orders at the bartender, the patrons in the saloon, who had been eavesdropping on the conversation, suddenly realized what was happening.
The quiet, tense atmosphere instantly shattered. The wealthy patrons in the saloon let out huge, genuine cheers. A wave of thrilling, electric excitement swept through the room. It had been a very long time since they saw the legendary 'King of Poker of the Bastille' take his seat.
Months ago, before his meteoric rise to the position of Underboss and eventually the Don, Caleb Thorne had built a terrifying, mythical reputation in this very room.
He had sat at those tables and systematically dismantled the greatest gamblers in the state, utilizing an uncanny, almost supernatural ability to read tells, calculate complex odds, and execute flawless, devastating bluffs. Watching him play was a spectator sport for the elite, a masterclass in psychological warfare.
And so, accompanied by the roaring cheers and the polite applause of the high society, Caleb went to sit at the premier poker table located in the center of the VIP lounge.
The table was massive, covered in pristine green felt and surrounded by heavy, plush leather chairs. Caleb took the dominant seat, pulling out the chair right beside him for Mary-Beth.
He settled her comfortably into the seat, where Mary-Beth sat directly beside him, her dark eyes sparkling with anticipation. She loved watching him work. She loved watching the incredibly wealthy, arrogant men of the city underestimate him, only to be completely destroyed by his terrifying intellect.
As Caleb sat down, three wealthy, highly arrogant patrons bravely took the seats opposite him. One was a sweating, red-faced railroad tycoon; another was a young, incredibly wealthy heir to a massive sugar plantation, and the third was a stoic, calculating riverboat owner.
They were eager to test their luck against the new king, foolishly believing that a man burdened by the stress of running a mafia empire would be distracted and vulnerable at the card table.
They couldn't have been more wrong.
Ezra arrived flawlessly on cue, presenting a dust covered bottle of vintage 1885 Bordeaux. He expertly uncorked it, pouring the rich, blood red wine into two crystal glasses for Caleb and Mary-Beth, before stepping back to give the Don space to operate.
The dealer, a highly skilled professional, nervously shuffled the deck. The crisp, rapid thwack thwack thwack of the cards shuffling cut through the ambient noise of the saloon. The dealer began to pitch the cards, sliding them smoothly across the green felt.
As he then played poker with the wealthy people there, Caleb completely transformed. The affable, romantic man vanished, replaced by an absolute, terrifying machine of calculation.
He was using his Max Level Poker Skill, of course, to continuously, systematically win.
The skill was not magic, but it bordered heavily on the supernatural. As Caleb picked up his cards, shielding them effortlessly, his mind went to work. He didn't just look at the numbers, he looked at the men.
His high perception stats picked up on the microscopic, uncontrollable tells of his opponents. He saw the slight, almost invisible twitch in the railroad tycoon's left eye when he drew a weak hand.
He noticed the sudden, shallow breathing of the plantation heir when he was preparing to execute a massive, foolish bluff. He calculated the exact mathematical probabilities of every single card remaining in the deck with flawless, terrifying precision.
The game was an absolute slaughter masquerading as high society entertainment.
In the first hand, Caleb folded early, lulling them into a false sense of security. But in the second hand, he struck. He pushed a massive stack of clay chips into the center of the table on the river card, his face an impenetrable mask of cold, unyielding stone.
The riverboat owner, completely misreading Caleb's absolute stillness as weakness, called the massive bet with a full house.
Caleb slowly, agonizingly turned over his cards, revealing a flawless, devastating straight flush.
The crowd gathered tightly around the velvet ropes gasped in absolute shock. Mary-Beth took a slow sip of her wine, hiding a brilliant, wicked smile behind the rim of her crystal glass.
The slaughter continued for nearly an hour. Caleb systematically bled them dry. He won with high cards, he won with pairs, and he executed terrifying, massive bluffs that forced the sweaty railroad tycoon to fold incredibly strong hands out of sheer psychological terror.
Caleb manipulated the table's psychology flawlessly, making them bet heavily when he held the winning hand, and making them fold instantly when he held absolute garbage.
He was untouchable. The pile of colorful clay chips sitting in front of him grew into a massive, towering mountain of wealth.
And after the final, climactic last game, where the arrogant plantation heir foolishly pushed the last of his massive inheritance into the center of the table on a pair of kings, only to be crushed by Caleb's trip aces, the table was completely broken.
The three men sat back in their chairs, their faces pale, entirely bankrupted for the evening, staring at the new Don with a mixture of absolute horror and profound, sickening respect.
The crowd erupted into wild, thunderous applause, cheering for the undisputed King of the Bastille.
Caleb calmly gestured for Ezra to bring the chip racks. He got exactly 2,500 dollars from the total winnings of the short, brutal session. It was an astronomical sum of money, enough to buy a fine house, won in less than an hour of mental warfare.
Ezra quickly tallied the chips, handing Caleb a thick, heavy stack of crisp, hundred dollar bills. Caleb didn't even count it. He slipped a hundred dollar bill from the stack and tossed it smoothly onto the green felt as a highly generous tip for the nervous dealer, before sliding the rest of the massive stack securely into his satchel.
"Gentlemen," Caleb said smoothly, standing up from the leather chair and adjusting his cuffs. "It has been an absolute pleasure doing business with you. Better luck next time."
He turned and offered his arm to Mary-Beth, who stood up, her dark eyes sparkling with absolute, giddy thrill. She linked her arm through his, completely invigorated by the display of absolute dominance.
With the evening's entertainment flawlessly concluded, he went to leave the Bastille after that.
"Keep the standards high, Ezra," Caleb called back as they walked away from the table.
"Always, Don McLaughlin!" Ezra bowed deeply.
Caleb walked out alongside Mary-Beth, parting the cheering, awestruck sea of high society patrons one final time.
Silvio and the elite guards immediately fell into step behind them, their heavy repeating rifles a stark reminder of the lethal reality behind the charming gambler.
They stepped back out into the cool, refreshing night air of Saint Denis. The black lacquered carriage was waiting for them at the curb. Silvio pulled the door open, and Caleb helped Mary-Beth inside before climbing in after her.
The doors closed, the guards mounted their horses, and the convoy immediately pulled away from the Bastille Saloon.
As the carriage began heading back to the Garden District mansion, Mary-Beth turned to Caleb, her excitement reaching a fever pitch. The distractions of the day, the tailoring, the slumm tavern, and the poker game, were officially over.
"Two thousand, four hundred dollars in an hour," Mary-Beth laughed, shaking her head in sheer disbelief as the carriage rolled through the gas lit streets. "You are an absolute monster at that table, Caleb Thorne."
"I told you, sweetheart," Caleb smirked, pulling her close against his side in the plush velvet cabin. "I only play games that I know I can win."
He looked down at her, his expression shifting from the roguish gambler to the deeply supportive, infinitely resourced partner she loved.
"Now," Caleb murmured softly, his voice a warm, inspiring promise. "The city is ours, the vault is full, and the night is young. It is time to return to the library. It is time to finalize your masterpieces and build your publishing empire."
Mary-Beth's eyes widened, shining like stars in the dark cabin. She leaned her head against his shoulder, her heart completely full, as the carriage carried the Don and the future legendary author of Saint Denis back to the impenetrable safety of their grand, opulent fortress.
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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: 3,322 dollars and 60 cents
Inventory: 285,392 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 Braithwaites Land Deed, 1 Broken Pirate Sword, 1 Milton's Safety Deposit Key, 1 Senator Pendleton Sealed Envelope, Proof Of Marlin-Thorne Firearms Co., 10 Dynamites, 1 LeMat, 1 M1899, 1 Carcano, 1 Ownership deed of Doyle's Tavern, 3 Diamonds, & Important Documents & Deeds Of Cornwall
Bank: -