The afternoon sun cast a warm glow over the East River docks, illuminating every corner of the bustling port district.
The bronze plaque of East Coast United Company, lit by porch spotlights, gleamed with a honeyed shimmer. Below it, the words "Legal, Efficient, Professional" were polished to a bright shine, reflecting the company's growing presence and solemn commitment.
Mikhail stood at the doorway, his usual stern expression softened slightly as he scanned the end of the street, anticipation flickering in his eyes.
At last, a taxi rolled into view.
Seeing Shane Cassidy step out, Mikhail's hardened features relaxed. He strode forward to meet him.
Inside the conference room, sunlight streamed through the blinds, casting golden stripes across the long table like a network of virtual shipping lanes.
Volker was trimming a Cuban cigar, the cut tobacco falling onto a Port Authority approval document.
Linda brought in coffee, and Volker instinctively covered sensitive figures with another file.
"Gentlemen," Shane greeted with a calm smile, accepting his coffee and nodding to Linda. He unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat at the left end of the mahogany table.
The cup clinked crisply against the polished wood, drawing attention.
"Let's review how far East Coast United has come this past month," Shane continued.
Volker stood, loosened his tie, and walked to the whiteboard. He unrolled a detailed map of the harbor, thumbtacks in multiple colors marking key positions.
"Blue indicates our patrol areas," he said, pointing to scattered blue dots. "Red marks the three warehouses acquired through Mr. Hawke, and green shows the newly approved dock berths."
Shane traced the thumbtacks with his finger, the clusters forming delicate threads across the map, hinting at the emerging network yet to be completed.
"Last week, we convinced Brooklyn Freight to withdraw from operating three barges," Mikhail added, casually opening the Shipping Daily and pointing to a brief notice of the company's "strategic operational adjustments."
Next to the paper rested Mikhail's newly acquired gold-rimmed glasses. Once a man who spoke with his fists, he now carefully reviewed every contract clause.
"The company currently employs thirty-seven guards," Vik reported, tapping numbers with his pencil. "All passed Port Authority background checks."
Volker opened the financial report prepared by the company's veteran accountant. Every expense—from equipment and salaries to dock rental and administrative costs—was itemized with precision.
"Based on current operations," Volker said, finger tracing the income and expense curve, "we anticipate turning a profit in two to three months." His eyes gleamed with quiet confidence.
Shane's fingertips tapped the mahogany, his gaze drifting to the busy docks. Uniformed guards inspected containers while a tugboat bearing the company logo eased into the harbor.
"You've all worked hard," Shane said, rotating his coffee cup. "These temporary losses are within expectations."
He pushed a slip of paper toward Volker.
"For the next year, I want freight-rate fluctuation data for every major shipping route. And…" He paused, pen hovering over the words "affiliated enterprises", "…I want information on the companies behind these shipping lines."
A hush fell over the room. Mikhail's pen spun and dropped.
"And Volker," Shane added, voice precise and commanding, "you'll also need to adjust your living arrangements."
The words struck like a scalpel through calm.
"Once the remaining equipment is handled," Shane continued carefully, "rent riverside apartments first. Bring your families here."
Sunlight caught Volker's eyelashes, and he thought of the leaky attic back home in Poland, of his sister's letter dreaming of New York skyscrapers.
Mikhail's voice softened. "Just thinking about my son seeing the Statue of Liberty… my mother planting geraniums on a balcony…"
Vik smiled wistfully. "My sister insists the maple leaves back home are redder than Brooklyn's…"
Shane watched hope light up their faces.
"Remember," he said gently, "standing firm in this city isn't about cash in a safe…"
"It's about the steaming rye bread at breakfast and smiling family faces," Volker finished, caressing a letter from home. In one corner, his daughter's charcoal drawing labeled Daddy's workplace marked the New York Harbor.
Shane's pupils narrowed slightly. "This data will show who truly controls this port."
Volker carefully folded the slip and pocketed it. Outside, dock lights flicked on, casting long reflections over busy workers and cargo ships loaded with both hope and uncertainty.
"That's all for today. Go home and rest."
Shane straightened his suit; the others rose, chairs scraping lightly against the floor.
Volker lingered, hands clenched, nails digging into his palm.
The sunlight reflected off the chandelier, illuminating the port development plan sprawled on the table.
A year ago, such light only came from flashlights on guerrilla raids or fires from a Lithuanian sniper's torch.
From nights fighting with knives in Brooklyn alleys, dawns spent bouncer-ing in Lower East Side bars, to now walking confidently into banks on Wall Street. From sleeping in damp warehouses to riverside apartments.
These changes had come too quickly, and Volker often awoke at night to confirm the Colt under his pillow—proof he had left that world behind.
As Shane disappeared around the corridor corner, his firm, confident gaze remained etched in Volker's mind.
Volker straightened his silk tie. The right to stand in the sunlight again was priceless. If necessary, they would carve out an unyielding business empire in this dog-eat-dog city.
He stepped out of the conference room with purpose, following the others into the golden glow of evening.