In Felix's study, the faint scent of gunpowder and rain, brought by Jones's departure, still lingered in the air.
The invitation, sent by William Tweed, the leader of Tammany Hall, lay quietly on the oak desk, its exquisite gilded patterns forming a strange harmony with the power it represented, a power from the underworld.
At exactly ten o'clock in the morning, a pitch black four-wheeled carriage stopped punctually at the mansion's entrance on Fifth Avenue.
Unlike the ostentatious gilded carriages of other New York City magnates, this vehicle had no superfluous decorations, but the emblem of Tammany Hall's fierce tiger on its door was, in itself, a symbol of status more weighty than any gold.
William Tweed, the true "Underground Mayor" of New York City, was led by Felix's new assistant, Edward Frost, into the study alone.
He was about forty years old, slightly stout, and wore a well-made but conservative black suit.
A kindly smile always hung on his face, yet in his blue eyes, there was the shrewdness and caution of a politician.
"Mr. Argyle," Tweed extended his hand as soon as he entered, his voice loud and affable, "Please forgive my abrupt visit. Since our last meeting at your dinner party, I've been looking forward to an opportunity to have a good chat with a young and accomplished talent like you."
"Mr. Tweed, you're too kind." Felix shook his hand firmly, motioning for him to sit on the sofa by the fireplace. "It's an honor for a prominent figure like you to visit."
Frost poured the finest Irish whiskey for the two, then quietly retreated to the corner of the study, like a true shadow, recording every word that followed with only his ears.
"Mr. Argyle, I won't be too formal with you." Tweed took a sip of his drink, his kindly smile unchanged. "Last night, our city experienced a restless night. Hell's Kitchen, the docklands, and even Manhattan beneath our feet, all saw some... unsettling disturbances."
"Is that so?" A hint of appropriate surprise appeared on Felix's face. "I slept very well last night and knew nothing of it. Are Southern spies causing trouble again?"
"Haha," Tweed let out a low chuckle. "You're quite the joker. Not spies, but rather some... long-standing community conflicts that unfortunately erupted at the same time. The Police Chief had a headache all night because of it."
Then his tone became casual, "I hear you've recently been engaged in a remarkable charity project in Five Points. And you have the full support of Archbishop Hughes. This is a great thing in itself. But it seems you've also had a little... 'friction' with some of the local 'old residents' because of it?"
"Friction is not the word, Mr. Tweed." Felix's reply was watertight. "It's just that some rats who don't understand our good intentions tried to nibble at the bread we prepared for the children. After being taught a lesson, they still didn't listen and became even more excessive, so we had no choice but to use a method they could understand to clean up these rats."
"Ha, cleaned up... very cleanly." Tweed nodded, his blue eyes sharpening. "So cleanly that the entire New York City underworld felt a chill. Mr. Argyle, your people are very capable. But New York is a city that values 'balance'. Any overly drastic action will break this fragile balance, and that... is not good for any of us."
This warning-filled statement instantly cooled the atmosphere in the study.
Felix did not immediately retort. He simply refilled Tweed's glass.
"Mr. Tweed," he began slowly, "I agree with the balance you speak of. However, I'd like to ask, before last night, was that so-called balance fair to us Irish?"
"On my construction sites, Irish workers toiling to feed their families had their legs broken for no reason. And the police turned a blind eye. Is this what you call balance?"
"Those thugs and hooligans entrenched in various communities, who live by oppressing and extorting our compatriots, they exist unharmed, even becoming tools that some can freely use during elections. Is this what you call 'order'?"
Felix's voice was not loud, but it sharply imprinted itself on Tweed's heart.
Tweed's smile vanished from his face. This young man had laid all his cards on the table.
"Then... Mr. Argyle," he said in a deep voice, "What exactly do you want?"
"I don't want anything, Mr. Tweed." Felix regained his calm demeanor. "I merely wish to secure for my compatriots, for those who trust and support me, the basic safety and dignity they deserve."
He looked at the leader of Tammany Hall and stated his conditions.
"I believe that in any district of New York City, there should no longer be any organized violence and extortion against Irish immigrants. If there is, I hope the police department will resolve it as efficiently as they handle Broadway robberies."
"Also, the charity project in Five Points requires an absolutely safe construction environment, free from any interference. I hope the city government can officially express its support for this."
"Third," Felix looked at him, "and most importantly. In the future, on all municipal issues affecting the interests of Irish communities, such as the allocation of job opportunities and the maintenance of community safety, I hope that some voices representing us 'new friends' can be heard in the city council meeting rooms."
The room fell into a long silence.
Tweed already understood that Felix wasn't after money or territory. He wanted a voice. A political voice that could engage in equal dialogue with Tammany Hall.
After a long pause, Tweed nodded, making a concession.
"Mr. Argyle, your demands are reasonable. The peace of New York City indeed requires everyone's collective maintenance. I will have the Police Chief increase patrols in certain communities. As for the Five Points project, the city government will, of course, fully support it. We can even secure a small municipal subsidy for you at the next city council meeting."
"As for that 'voice' you mentioned..." He looked at Felix, the characteristic profound meaning of a politician reappearing on his face. "The doors of the city government are always open to all friends who care about the future of this city."
He stood up and extended his hand to Felix.
"Then, for the peace and prosperity of New York."
"Pleasure working with you."
When Tweed's carriage disappeared at the end of Fifth Avenue, Edward Frost finally let out a long sigh.
"Boss," he said to Felix, sincerely, "It looks like Tammany Hall chose to compromise, and you won."
"No, Edward." Felix shook his head, looking at the golden whiskey in his glass. "This isn't about winning or losing. I merely secured a seat at this enormous card table, a seat that allows me to stay in the game."
Inside Cornelius Vanderbilt's private office at Pier 1, Manhattan.
Unlike Sloan's opulent headquarters, the room's furnishings were simple and practical, imbued with the spirit of the steamboat era. Huge shipping maps hung on the walls, and the air was thick with the scent of cigars and seawater.
Billy Kip, Vanderbilt's most trusted financial manager, placed an unmarked Manila envelope in front of the old man. "This is something someone 'accidentally' left in the cloakroom of a club I frequent a few days ago."
"Oh?" Vanderbilt didn't look up; he was meticulously peeling an apple with a small knife.
"I inspected it on the spot when I got it," Kip said respectfully, a hint of excitement in his eyes. "The contents are quite interesting. It's a detailed record of the financial flow between New York Central Railroad and a timber company in Montreal, Canada."
Vanderbilt's hand, peeling the apple, paused.
"Heh… So, our young Mr. Argyle specifically sent me a gift, didn't he?"
"At this point, we cannot confirm if he had someone drop the information, sir," Kip replied carefully. "The source of this intelligence has been handled very cleanly, with no traceable marks. But the timing… is indeed very coincidental."
"Of course it's him," Vanderbilt let out a low chuckle. "Besides him, who else in all of New York now has the daring and ability to hand a knife directly to me?"
He placed the perfectly peeled apple on a plate. He didn't eat it, just looked at it, as if looking at Sloan's head.
"Has the intelligence been verified? Is it reliable?" he asked.
"The day after I received it, I sent people overnight to verify several key accounts and dates," Kip replied. "The conclusion is that these records are more authentic than the Bible. Sloan is indeed using shareholders' money to transport some… things we don't know about to the South through various channels."
Vanderbilt remained silent for a long time; the only sound in the office was the crackling of wood burning in the fireplace.
"This Argyle is very clever; he knows I desperately want New York Central Railroad," the old man said slowly. "He knows that if he fired this cannonball himself, it would only be a commercial dispute. But if I, if Senator Conkling, fired it, it would be an irrefutable political trial. And it would make me owe him a favor."
"Perhaps he is inviting us to join him," Kip added.
"No." Vanderbilt shook his head, a glint in his weathered eyes. "He's not inviting us. He's just herding a bleeding, fat deer under the muzzles of us old hunters. As for who fires the final shot, perhaps he doesn't care."
He stood up and walked to the window, looking at the busy port that belonged to him in the distance.
"Billy," he instructed, "get Senator Conkling ready. Tell him the ammunition he's been waiting for has arrived."
"Also," he added, "notify all our brokers at the exchange. Continue with the previous plan to buy New York Central Railroad. Before the storm truly arrives, we need more ballast."
...Meanwhile, at New York Central Railroad headquarters.
Sloan was in a torment of internal and external difficulties. After the failure of the Washington hearing, Thomson of Pennsylvania Railroad had refused his meeting invitations for several consecutive days, citing "ill health." Signs of disunity were beginning to appear within the alliance.
And Felix's series of actions in New York made him feel very passive. According to the current news, even Tammany Hall had started cooperating with him, causing many of his "old friends" at City Hall to distance themselves. He felt as if he was slowly being isolated by an invisible net.
"Sir," his deputy, Charles Thorne, placed a report in front of him. "The situation at the exchange is very bad. Our stock price has been continuously falling since the hearing. Although the Amplitude is not large, it's losing value every day. I suspect Argyle's people are maliciously suppressing the market."
"Of course it's him," Sloan's voice was filled with exhaustion. "Besides him, there's that old immortal Vanderbilt. They're like two sharks that have smelled blood, circling our ship relentlessly."
"Then what should we do?"
"Hold steady," Sloan instructed. "Use the reserves to conduct small-scale buybacks in the market to stabilize the stock price. The most crucial thing now is to restore investor confidence. As long as our operations are not problematic, they are just tickling us."
Sloan thought this was just a long financial war of attrition. He had no idea that a storm capable of utterly destroying him was gathering on the other side of the city… A week later, on a seemingly ordinary morning.
When the citizens of New York, as usual, bought the day's The New York Sun and The Tribune at the street corner newsstands, everyone was shocked by the glaring headlines printed in blood-red ink on the front page.
"Betrayal of the Railroad King? — The Mystery of Central Railroad's Huge Funds Flowing to Southern Sympathizers!"
"Capitol Hill's Alarm Bell! — Mr. Sloan's Canadian 'Sleeper' Business Under Investigation!"
The content of the articles was even more lethal than the headlines.
It not only disclosed in detail the name of the Canadian timber company and its financial transactions but also included the conversations between the New Orleans cotton merchant and Sloan after the outbreak of the war.
The entire New York exploded in an instant.