Over the next two weeks, Vienna's financial and artistic circles were abuzz with a kind of excitement unseen since before the war.
Shane did not cast himself as a leader. Instead, he moved through the chaos like a conductor—subtle, precise, and decisive—binding the ambitions of men far older than himself into a single, elegant network.
Each step he took was deliberate. Each word he spoke, measured.
Late on a Thursday night, within the Rothschild family's private office on Kohlmarkt, the faint ticking of a gilded clock was the only sound breaking the midnight quiet.
Under the soft flicker of candlelight, the final contract was signed.
The scratch of quill pens filled the room. Baron Rothschild himself stood at the head of the polished oak table, sealing what would later be regarded as one of the most audacious cultural ventures of the decade—
the European Film Alliance, uniting Sascha-Film of Vienna, Louis Film of Paris, and UFA of Berlin.
"This," said the Baron, placing a Roman aureus atop the contract, "will be our first line of defense against the cultural invasion of Hollywood—"
his tone firm, "—not with tariffs, but with capital and art."
The gold coin gleamed solemnly in the candlelight.
Almost simultaneously, Pirz Industries and Pioneer Optics signed a patent distribution agreement, paving the way for a continent-wide rollout of advanced film equipment.
Viennese bankers, ever ingenious, introduced a short-term bond system backed by presold cinema tickets, breathing fresh financial life into an industry long dismissed as frivolous entertainment.
Even Count Böser, one of the most conservative figures in Austria's old aristocracy, quietly diverted a fraction of his family's trust into the alliance—
a gesture that sent ripples through the drawing rooms of Vienna and the salons of Berlin.
Castiglioni, ever the visionary, moved first.
After watching a test reel of Hell's Angels, he convened Europe's artistic elite, linking La Scala in Milan with the Vienna State Opera, announcing plans to record a new production of Tosca using three-color film technology.
"This," said WilliamCatterson, sorting through a mountain of contracts in his suite the night before their departure, "is nothing short of alchemy.
Your concept of box office futures, Shane, would make even the sharks of Wall Street blush."
Shane stood by the window, the city's amber lights reflecting faintly in his eyes. Beyond the Ringstrasse, the moon cast a pale glow on the distant Schönbrunn Palace, its silhouette vast and sleeping.
"This isn't alchemy," he said quietly. "It's desperation given form—a European attempt to save itself from being swallowed whole."
A misty dawn hung over Vienna Nordbahnhof as the express train to Calais hissed and steamed beneath a veil of fog.
The first-class carriage gleamed faintly in the half-light, its brass fittings catching the dawn.
Baron Rothschild's private secretary, von Hohenheim, arrived precisely on time, a crocodile-skin briefcase in hand, the Rothschild crest embossed in gold.
"The Baron sends his regards," he said softly, handing the case to Shane.
"Inside are the final contracts—along with last night's supplementary agreement with Louis Films. The clause you'll need is on page seventeen."
Almost at the same moment, Castiglioni's attendant approached, pushing a small gilded cart.
Inside an oak wine chest lay twelve bottles of 1921 Tokaji Essencia, their labels gilded, their contents glowing like captured sunlight.
"My master hopes these remind you of Vienna," the attendant said, offering a gold-embossed card with a single telephone number.
"He looks forward to your visit in New York."
The locomotive released a long, low whistle. Steam curled into the cold morning air, mingling with the drifting fog.
Shane accepted both gifts in silence.
As the train lurched forward, he glanced through the window at the receding station lights, feeling the weight of what he had set in motion.
Each signature, each alliance, was a thread in the web he was spinning across the Atlantic.
The church bells rang faintly in the distance, scattering a flock of white doves into the air.
Vienna faded behind him. New York awaited ahead—
and with it, the storm he had long known would come.
...
When his ship finally reached New York Harbor, the dawn light burned through the mist, revealing the Statue of Liberty standing sentinel against the horizon.
The Atlantic wind carried the salt of homecoming and the promise of reckoning.
Shane stood on the deck, fingertips tracing the sea-scarred railing. Five months in Europe had refined him—his posture steadier, his gaze sharper, his silence more deliberate.
"Sir—look there!"
Catterson, bleary-eyed and ink-stained from a sleepless night of document review, pointed toward the pier.
Through the mist, two black Cadillacs stood by the exit, and beside them, a familiar figure leaned on a cane—
Henry Hill, mentor, partner, and father figure.
Behind him stood Volker, tall and watchful, checking his pocket watch with military precision.
As the ship's horn roared, a flock of seagulls lifted from the water, cutting white arcs through the gray sky.
Old Henry's words from five months ago echoed in Shane's mind: "You'll make enemies faster than friends. Just make sure you're the one still standing."
He descended the gangway, and Henry was there, arms wide, eyes shining.
"My boy!"
The old man's voice cracked with pride and relief. Shane embraced him tightly, breathing in the familiar scent of cigar smoke and cologne.
"God above, the things I've had to listen to from those Wall Street jackals," Henry Hill said, his laugh a mix of amusement and weariness. "Half of them think you've sold Europe to the bankers, and the other half are terrified you'll do the same to them."
Shane smiled faintly. "Then I must be doing something right."
Henry gave a raspy chuckle. "Perhaps. But you've stirred a hornet's nest, lad. The people who used to think films were toys for children now see them as empires waiting to be bought."
He drew back, his hands still gripping Shane's shoulders, studying the boy with proud disbelief. "Seventeen years old," he murmured. "And you've done what most men wouldn't attempt in a lifetime."
Volker stepped forward with his usual quiet efficiency. "Sir, the car is ready. Customs went smoothly—everything arranged in advance."
"Of course it did," Henry said, straightening his hat. "Volker here could smuggle a piano through Ellis Island if he wanted."
The remark drew a rare grin from Volker, though his eyes remained alert, scanning the crowd behind them. "We shouldn't linger," he said under his breath. "There were men on the pier asking questions before your ship arrived. Too curious to be dockhands."
Shane nodded slightly. "Then let's move."
As they walked toward the waiting Cadillacs, flashes from a camera erupted nearby. A voice called out over the murmur of the crowd.
"Mr. Cassidy! Shane Cassidy! A word for the Herald Tribune! Is it true you helped found the European Film Alliance?"
The words cut through the air like a spark. Shane turned instinctively toward the source—a reporter in a dark overcoat, notebook already open, his expression sharp with hunger for a story.
Before Shane could speak, another voice joined in, louder and more pressing. "Jack Sloan, New York Times! Mr. Cassidy, it's said you introduced a new kind of film financing—bond securities backed by presold tickets. Wall Street's buzzing about it. Care to comment?"
Volker stepped between Shane and the reporters, his voice calm but firm. "Gentlemen, Mr. Cassidy has just disembarked after five months abroad. Any statements will be made through official channels."
But the reporters were relentless.
"Is it true Baron Rothschild invested personally? That Count Böser himself broke his family trust to fund your alliance?" one pressed.
Henry's tone snapped like a whip. "Enough questions for one morning, boys. If you're lucky, you'll read the answers before the week is out."
The older man's presence still carried weight, and the reporters hesitated just long enough for Volker to usher Shane into the back seat of the car. The door shut with a heavy click, sealing off the noise of the docks.
For a moment, silence filled the car. Then Henry exhaled, his hand trembling slightly as he reached for his cigar case.
"Reporters sniffing around this early means someone's been whispering," he muttered. "And not just in Vienna. Someone in New York wanted your name in print."
"Let them talk," Shane said quietly, watching the harbor fade behind them. "They'll print what they're told. I'm more interested in who's paying them to ask."
Henry gave him a sideways look, a mix of pride and concern. "You've learned too fast for your own good, boy. Remember, this isn't Europe. Over there, they fight with words and signatures. Here, they fight with knives—and lawyers."
The Cadillac turned off the waterfront, heading north along the East River. The skyline unfolded around them: the jagged thrust of steel and stone, the hum of streetcars, the distant clang of the elevated trains. New York was a city alive with contradictions—prosperity on the surface, unease underneath.
As they crossed onto Broad Street, the car slowed amid the morning rush. Bankers in gray coats hurried into marble lobbies. The smell of roasted chestnuts mixed with coal smoke. A billboard loomed above the intersection, advertising a coming picture from Paramount: "Dreams of Gold – Filmed in Technicolor!"
Henry's gaze lingered on it for a moment before he spoke. "That's what you're up against, Shane. Not one studio—an empire."
Shane followed his mentor's eyes. "Empires fall," he said softly. "They just don't realize it until the walls start to crack."
Henry barked a laugh that dissolved into a cough. "God help me, you sound just like I did thirty years ago. But the difference is—you might actually pull it off."
As they turned onto Wall Street, Volker leaned forward from the front seat. "Sir, there's one more matter. A cable arrived this morning from London. Krause's shipment—the special optical components—is already en route. White Star Line. It'll dock in New York by the twenty-eighth."
Shane's eyes sharpened. "And security?"
"All arranged," Volker said. "Vian Security will handle it from the port to our facility. No names on any manifests."
"Good," Shane murmured. "Once those lenses are here, everything changes."
Henry looked at him curiously. "Still chasing that dream of yours—the perfect image?"
"Not a dream," Shane said. "A vision. Europe gave me the science. Now America will give me the power."
The car rolled to a stop before the Cass & Hill Building, its bronze doors gleaming faintly in the morning light. Shane stepped out, the wind from the harbor still in his hair, and looked up at the towers piercing the pale sky.
He felt the pulse of the city beneath his feet—the restless, dangerous rhythm of ambition. Vienna had been the overture; New York would be the symphony.
Henry followed his gaze and gave a tired, knowing smile. "Well, my boy," he said, lighting his cigar. "Welcome back to the lion's den."
Shane adjusted his coat and met his mentor's eyes.
"Then let's feed the lions."