With the advance payment for the new order from Mr. Gable, Allen's pockets felt heavy for the first time.
This money was enough for him to double the size of his workshop, with even some left over.
The joy of success, like fine wine, made his steps feel light.
However, as he walked down the street returning to his lodging, a sudden, inexplicable chill rose from his back.
He slowed his pace, pretending to casually look into the display window of a roadside shop.
In the blurry reflection, a medium-built man wearing an old felt hat was following him, about twenty paces behind.
The man walked casually, looking around, appearing like an ordinary loiterer.
But Allen's intuition told him something was wrong.
The risk awareness brought from his previous life gave him an animalistic sensitivity to danger.
He continued to walk, and at the next intersection, without warning, he sharply turned right into a narrower alley.
Then he immediately pressed himself against the wall and held his breath.
A few seconds later, the figure in the felt hat also appeared at the alley entrance.
He peeked in, and upon seeing no one in the alley, a hint of confusion appeared on his face before he quickly followed.
It was him!
Allen's heart sank.
Clearly, this was no coincidence; it was a deliberate tail.
Moreover, the other party's methods were quite seasoned; if not for his keen intuition, it would have been difficult to spot him.
The money in his pocket had made him a moving target.
What to do? Fight here?
The alley was narrow, and his body, still recovering from a serious illness, might not be a match for this seemingly capable man.
Shout for help?
Unfortunately, in this area, shouting for help would only attract more jackals.
Several thoughts flashed through Allen's mind in an instant, and then he made a decision.
He chose not to run, but instead walked out of the alley's shadows and approached the man.
The tracker clearly didn't expect his prey to appear voluntarily; he paused, instinctively reaching for his chest.
"Don't be nervous, friend."
Allen stopped five paces away from him, raising his hands to show he had no weapons.
"I just wanted to ask for directions."
"Directions?" A clear confusion appeared in the tracker's eyes.
Wasn't he trying to eliminate him after being discovered?
"Of course," Allen's expression was as natural as if he were genuinely asking for directions, "I'm looking for a tavern called 'Cripple Dog.' I heard their whiskey is strong, and the gambling is fair. Do you know where it is?"
"Cripple Dog" was the most notorious den in the area, a stronghold of the local Irish gang, the Viper Gang. Allen had heard about it from street vagrants while gathering information previously.
He gambled that the other party was connected to this gang.
Indeed, upon hearing the name, the tracker's expression subtly changed, and the wariness in his eyes relaxed a bit.
In his opinion, someone who knew "Cripple Dog" and dared to mention it was definitely not some ordinary pushover.
"Go straight, turn left at the third intersection."
He pointed in a direction, somewhat bewildered.
"Thanks."
Allen smiled, as if genuinely just asking for directions, then walked past him without looking back.
The tracker stood still, watching Allen's retreating back, his gaze shifting uncertainly.
He hesitated, but ultimately did not follow again.
His task today was only to investigate the background of this "Can Boy"; there was no need to do anything else.
And after Allen walked out of the alley, his back was already drenched in cold sweat.
He didn't go to any Cripple Dog; instead, he took a long detour, and after confirming he wasn't being followed, he quickly returned to his basement.
After locking the door, he leaned against it, panting heavily.
This encounter poured a bucket of cold water on his fiery ambition.
He realized he had made a fatal mistake: he had only considered commercial success, but overlooked the violent risks that success brought.
In this chaotic era with no rule of law, a rapidly rising businessman without a background was like a piece of fatty meat dripping with oil among hungry wolves, everyone wanting a bite.
"Viper Gang..." Allen murmured the name.
The other party was probably just scouting today, but next time, it would likely be a direct visit to "collect taxes."
For local gangs like the Viper Gang, their logic was simple.
Any profitable business within their gang's territory must give them a share.
Resist? They had a hundred ways to prevent him from opening for business, or even from living.
Compromise and pay protection fees?
Allen immediately rejected this idea.
Because one compromise would lead to countless more.
Their appetite would grow larger and larger; he dared not bet on the mercy of a gang, and his pride as a transmigrator would not allow him to bow to such street scum.
"It seems the security plan must be moved up."
After finishing the canned goods, Allen lay on his bed, closing his eyes and silently contemplating his subsequent plans.
First, he needed weapons. Not for active attack, but for self-preservation. A revolver was essential.
Second, he needed manpower. He couldn't do it alone. Retired soldiers were the best candidates; they had discipline and combat experience, and many were struggling financially now because the war hadn't started yet.
Third, and most importantly, he needed a permanent solution. He had to completely kill or scare this 'viper' so that they knew his 'meat' was highly poisonous.
Allen looked at the plan on the paper, his eyes becoming cold and resolute.
The schemes of intrigue and undermining he had learned in the business world in his previous life churned in his mind.
To deal with thugs, sometimes one needed methods harsher and more insidious than theirs.
The money in his pocket was no longer just capital for expanding production; it had become life-saving money to purchase force and security.
He extinguished the oil lamp, and in the darkness, Allen quietly thought about the details of each step.
Outside, New York was still noisy, but Allen's heart was unusually calm.
A war beyond business was about to begin.
And he was ready to temporarily transform from a businessman into a warrior.