As Felix listened, the look of appreciation in his eyes grew stronger and stronger.
This young man didn't just understand business; he understood politics. More importantly, he saw the inherent power dynamic behind real estate.
This was exactly what Felix wanted.
"Hayes told me about that monastery matter," Felix said, suddenly changing the subject. "You took advantage of their illegal construction."
"Yes."
"And what if they hadn't built illegally? What if that abbot was a saint with no dirt to dig up?"
Felix stared into his eyes.
Hamilton fell silent for a second before answering immediately.
"In this world, there are no absolute saints. If there were no illegal construction, I might have checked if the cemetery's sanitary conditions met epidemic prevention standards. Or checked if their charitable accounts were clear."
"As long as you want to look, you can always find a fulcrum for your lever."
"Hahahaha!" Felix burst into laughter.
"Brilliant. Arthur, you're a natural-born scoundrel, and a natural-born talent."
Felix stood up, walked over to Hamilton, and extended his hand.
"Congratulations on convincing me. Welcome to the Argyle Family; the position of manager at Federal Real Estate Company is yours."
Hamilton stood up quickly and gripped that hand firmly with both of his.
It seemed he had secured his ticket to the top tier of New York.
"Thank you, sir. I won't disappoint you."
"Good. Then prepare to start your first mission."
Felix walked to the window and pointed toward Long Island.
"Argyle Manor. Hunt is an excellent architect, but he's an artist; he doesn't understand controlling costs and schedules. I want you to keep an eye on him. I also want you to take control of those construction workers and bring them all into the company."
"Give him all the support he needs, whether legal or financial. But also put a muzzle on him. I want that manor finished in two years, not ten."
"Understood, Boss," Hamilton nodded.
"I will draw up a detailed schedule, and any delays will have penalty clauses."
"Second mission."
Felix turned around, his gaze casting over Manhattan beneath his feet.
"Go buy land, while no one else has reacted yet. Use every means at your disposal to spread those shell companies out. By this time next year, I want to see the deeds to one-tenth of Manhattan's land locked in my vault."
"That will require a massive amount of capital," Hamilton reminded him.
"Money is not an issue; my cash reserves are plentiful," Felix smiled.
"Furthermore, Argyle Bank will give you sufficient loans; you can take the land you buy and use it directly for mortgage loans. Meanwhile, Militech will help you deal with those 'unreasonable' holdouts. The Foundation will also help you secure planning permits from City Hall."
"You have the entire Argyle business system standing behind you, Arthur. Go and help me conquer this city."
Hamilton felt his blood boiling with excitement.
He packed up the map, gave a deep bow to Felix, and exited the office.
Watching Hamilton's departing back, Felix said to Frost, who had been standing by the side the whole time:
"Hayes has done a great service this time. This young man is even sharper than I imagined."
"Yes, Boss," Frost noted it down. "Then the other nominated candidates..."
"Give them some compensation and send them away," Felix waved his hand. "In this position, I don't want mediocrity; I want a wolf that can guard the house."
...January 20, 1867
350 Fifth Avenue, the residence of Mrs. Caroline Astor.
Though the cold wind howled outside, inside the drawing room of this brownstone building, it was as warm as spring.
This was the hub of New York high society and the fortress of the so-called 'Old Money' families.
If you hadn't received an invitation to Mrs. Astor's afternoon tea, you weren't truly part of New York's high society, even if you had hundreds of thousands of dollars in your bank account.
At this moment, several elegantly dressed noble ladies were seated around a Louis XV-style round table.
On the table sat bone china tea sets imported from England, and silver platters held delicate scones and cucumber sandwiches.
The fragrance of Darjeeling tea wafted through the air, along with a subtle and slightly sour tone of gossip.
"Have you all heard?"
The speaker was Mrs. Van Rensselaer, a widow from an ancient Dutch-descended family. She held a folding fan in her hand; though it was winter, she seemed to need it to fan away the irritation in her heart.
"That Argyle... that barbarian from the Lower East Side, he bought up the entire Sands Point on Long Island."
"Oh, I've heard, of course."
Mrs. Astor set down her teacup, her movements so elegant they seemed like a religious ritual. She wore a deep purple silk gown, and every pearl on the necklace around her neck was as large as a thumb.
"Yesterday my butler told me that the ferries to the North Shore of Long Island were all booked solid by that man's freight wagons. For three whole days, no one else could buy a ticket to Long Island. It's said the wagons were filled with explosives and stone."
"Not only that."
Another lady named Livingston lowered her voice, as if speaking of some vulgar scandal.
"I heard he hired Richard Hunt. That madman who designed the arches for Central Park."
"Hunt?" Mrs. Astor frowned. "That arrogant fellow back from France?"
"Yes. And this time Hunt is bragging everywhere that he's going to build an 'American Versailles.' It's said the main building alone will have hundreds of rooms, and they're even digging a moat."
"Absurd!"
Mrs. Van Rensselaer tapped the table with her folding fan, letting out a sharp clack.
"Versailles? Who does he think he is? Louis XIV? He's nothing but a nouveau riche who started by selling canned goods. A few years ago, he was still mixing with those Irish laborers. Now that he has a little money, he wants to build a castle like a nobleman?"
"That is exactly the problem."
Mrs. Astor sighed, a deep sense of worry flickering in her eyes.
"The rules of New York are broken now. Before, we valued bloodline, upbringing, and family history. Now? As long as you have money, you can buy land on Fifth Avenue and build a palace on Long Island."
"That Argyle... he's too loud," Mrs. Astor remarked.
"True wealth should be quiet, like deep water. But he is like a pot of boiling oil, splattering everywhere and burning others."
Mrs. Livingston added:
"I also heard he's building some 'power center' in that manor. He wants to burn gas in the house and install some steam engines. Good heavens, is that a home or a factory? Isn't he afraid of suffocating his guests?"
"I suppose that is the taste of the nouveau riche," Mrs. Van Rensselaer sneered.
"They like things big, they like them bright, they like everything that makes noise. They don't understand the concept of elegant restraint."
Just then, a commotion came from the foyer.
A footman walked in, carrying a gold-embossed invitation on a tray.
"Madam, a gentleman just delivered this. He said it is for you."
Mrs. Astor picked up the invitation. The paper was exceptionally heavy, with gilded edges, and printed on it was a complex family crest she had never seen before—an eagle clutching lightning bolts and ears of wheat, with the letter 'W' written below it.
She opened the invitation; the font inside was a beautiful script:
"Respected Mrs. Caroline Astor:
The Universal Department Store, under the Argyle umbrella, will hold its opening ceremony next month on Fifth Avenue. Jewelry used by the French Royal Family and silks from the East will be on display.
We sincerely invite you to grace us with your presence and guidance.
— Charlie Gable, Manager of Universal Department Store."
"Universal Department Store?"
Mrs. Astor read the name, her brow furrowing even tighter.
"Opening a shop on Fifth Avenue? They want to bring a place that sells groceries right to our doorstep?"
"This is also one of that Argyle' properties," Mrs. Livingston said.
"He bought the building there a few days ago and is currently renovating it. I heard he plans to bring in things from all over the world to sell. I really don't know what to say."
Mrs. Astor was silent for a few seconds, then she held a corner of the invitation between two fingers, as if holding a dead cockroach, and tossed it into the nearby wastepaper basket.
She said to the footman, "Tell the person who delivered the invitation that I am very busy that day and have no time to attend any opening ceremony. Furthermore, members of the Astor Family never go to shops to buy things in person. That is a task for the butler."
The footman bowed and withdrew.
"You see."
Mrs. Astor picked up her teacup, her haughty expression returning.
"This is our attitude. That Argyle can buy Long Island, build castles, and even lay railroads all the way to the Pacific. But in New York's social circles, as long as I do not nod my head, he will always be an outsider in high society."
The other ladies nodded in agreement one after another, as if this single toss had defended the last dignity of the old world.
They had no idea that their so-called high society was already beginning to crumble... Meanwhile, in a private gentlemen's club in Manhattan.
This was a man's world, the air thick with the scent of cigars and brandy.
Cornelius Vanderbilt, the seventy-three-year-old railroad tycoon, was sitting on a leather sofa by the window, holding a newly published copy of The New York Tribune.
Sitting opposite him was Peter Cooper, a highly respected industrialist.
"Mr. Commodore, have you seen this report?"
Cooper pointed to a news item in the paper: 'The Rise of Long Island: Argyle Family Launches Project of the Century'.
"Ha... Of course I've seen it."
Vanderbilt put down the newspaper, a complex emotion flashing in his eagle-like eyes.
He felt a mixture of love and hate toward Felix.
"That boy Hunt came to see me the day before yesterday, wanting to quit the design work for my villa."
"Oh? The one you mentioned before? Why?"
"He said it's because the manor design Argyle described to him is too beautiful and magnificent, and he wants to use that manor as his claim to fame. Are these artists' brains broken? Personally, I think it's because Argyle is paying too much."
Vanderbilt snorted with some displeasure.
"Aren't you angry?" Cooper asked curiously. "Argyle stole your man."
"Angry? No, no, no."
Vanderbilt pulled a cigar from his pocket and bit off one end.
"It's not that serious. He's just a designer; there's no need to go after him for such a small thing. Besides, why should I be angry? That kid is also making me money."
"What do you mean?"
"Think about it, Cooper." Vanderbilt lit the cigar. "How much stone is needed to build that manor? How much wood? How much steel? How will those things get there? Won't they have to go through my railroads and use my ships?"
"And..." The Commodore exhaled a cloud of smoke.
"That young man... Felix, he's not like those Astor women who only know how to throw balls. He's doing real work. He knows that if wealth isn't converted into physical assets, it's just scrap paper."
"Heh... Mr. Commodore, why does it sound like you greatly admire Argyle?"
"Admire? I wouldn't say that. After all, if I'm not mistaken, his current capital and net worth are no weaker than mine." Vanderbilt narrowed his eyes.
"Furthermore, he is very much like I was in my youth. Equally ruthless, precise, and greedy. Only..."
The Commodore paused, speaking with some sentiment.
"He is more dangerous than I am. Back then, I only wanted to control ships and railroads. But this kid, he wants to control everything. From the meat people eat, to the lamps they light, and now he's even starting to meddle in the houses they live in."
"I heard recently he started something called the 'Federal Real Estate Company'. That manager, the kid named Hamilton, has been buying land all over Manhattan like a mad dog lately."
Cooper nodded in deep agreement.
"I've heard as well. He bought up a large number of unfinished buildings in the Lower East Side, saying he's going to build some 'Standard Apartments'. The prices are being pushed very low; those small developers are being driven crazy by him."
"This is both a good thing and a bad thing."
Vanderbilt looked out at the busy street.
"The good part is that after his meddling, land prices in New York are likely to rise. But the bad part is, in the future, the weight of our words in New York might really have to be split in half with him."
"Then what do you plan to do? Or should we unite with others to suppress him?"
"It won't work. Argyle has already gained momentum; he can't be suppressed."
Vanderbilt shook his head.
"He has people in Washington, he has guns (the security company), and he has money. Moreover, he is very smart; he knows how to share the cake. My railroads have made quite a bit from his oil and steel transport recently."
The Commodore stood up and adjusted his collar.
"So since we can't kill him off, let's just watch him build. When his castle is finished, I'll have to go take a look. I want to see exactly what a house built with millions of dollars looks like."
"If it's truly decent..."
The old Commodore grinned, revealing a mouthful of yellow teeth.
"Then I'll buy a piece of land right next to it and build an even bigger one. The Vanderbilt family cannot be outdone by a newcomer."
Amidst the discussions in clubs and salons, Felix's Long Island manor project was like a giant boulder crashing into the calm lake of New York.
The old money mocked his vulgarity, the nouveau riche envied his wealth, and the businessmen were calculating the profits within.
But this was merely a storm in high society.
On the other side of the city, in those muddy streets and docks, the stories about Argyle were of a different version.
New York, East River Docks.
This was the underbelly of the city, a world where sweat, coal dust, and curses intertwined.
The cold wind swirled trash and ice floes on the river, slapping against those moss-covered wooden pilings.
Dozens of barges were moored at the shore, their waterlines pressed deep.
The boats were filled with massive limestone blocks from Indiana and bundles of rebar from New Jersey.
"Hey... Mike. Don't dawdle, the crane is here!"
The foreman stood on the shore, shouting at the barge.
Big Mike was a large Irish man with arms thicker than an ordinary person's thighs. Wrapped in a worn sheepskin coat, his hands frozen red, he was binding a three-ton piece of stone with iron chains.
"I know! What's the rush!"
Big Mike spat, pulled the chains tight, and gestured to his companion operating the steam crane.
"Lift!"
Accompanied by the harsh grinding of gears and the puffing of steam, the giant stone slowly left the hold, hanging in mid-air like a massive tooth.
"Where is this being shipped to now?"
A young porter who had just arrived nearby asked, blowing on his hands for warmth.
"Why has it been nothing but this kind of stone lately? It's heavy as hell."
"To Long Island. Sands Point."
Big Mike wiped the sweat from his forehead; despite it being winter, the high-intensity labor still made him steam all over.
"That Argyle estate again?" The young man's eyes widened. "Good Lord, I heard tens of thousands of tons of stone have already been shipped there. Is he building a pyramid?"
"Who knows."
Big Mike pulled a piece of rock-hard brown bread from his jacket and took a bite.
"I heard he's building a huge castle, a hundred times larger than the Governor's house."
"So rich..."
The young man sighed, his tone carrying a hint of jealousy and helplessness.
"We work ourselves to death all day just to earn 1.5 dollars. One of their stones is enough to feed us for a year."
"Stop complaining, kid."
Big Mike swallowed the bread and pointed to a table not far away. Several uniformed accountants were sitting there, handing out money to the workers finishing their shifts.
"At least Mr. Argyle pays promptly. Look over there, the Federal Real Estate Company accountants. They settle in cash directly after work every day, never a delay. And overtime pays double."
"And..."
Big Mike lowered his voice, as if sharing a secret.
"My cousin works on that construction site, and he says the food there is terrifyingly good. There's meat soup every day at noon, and as much bread as you can eat. You even get a pack of tobacco every week."
"Really?" The young man's eyes lit up. "Then I want to go too."
"Get in line," Big Mike grunted.
"Now every worker in New York wants to go to Long Island, but I heard that manager named Hamilton is very strict about picking people. He only wants strong laborers, and they have to have a clean background—preferably Irish."
Just then, a middle-aged man carrying a newspaper walked over.
It was the newly released The New York Daily Truth, the first newspaper since Fowler took over the news company.
"Hey, guys, look at this!" The middle-aged man waved the newspaper. "Mr. Argyle is making another big move."
"Read it to us, Old Joe. I can't read," Big Mike shouted.
Old Joe cleared his throat, stood on a wooden crate like an orator, and read:
"'The People's Victory: Universal Department Store to Provide Affordable Goods for New York Citizens.' The article says Mr. Argyle promises the new department store will break the monopoly of those unscrupulous merchants. Flour, sugar, clothes—prices will be 20% cheaper than on the market. And..."
Old Joe paused and read the slogan Fowler had carefully crafted:
"Let every hardworking New Yorker live with dignity."
A buzz of discussion broke out on the docks.
"20% cheaper? For real?"
"Mr. Argyle keeps his word. Look at his kerosene; it just burns longer than others'."
"I know that Old Gable; he's a good man. Since he's the manager, it definitely won't be wrong."
Big Mike listened to these discussions and watched the barge in the distance setting sail for Long Island, a strange feeling suddenly welling up in his heart.
Although he still lived in a drafty shack and couldn't afford those expensive stones,
but seeing that tycoon who came out of the slums trampling those high-and-mighty 'old money' types underfoot and opening cheap stores for the poor, he felt a strange sense of satisfaction.
"Work! Everyone, get to work!"
Big Mike roared, grabbing the iron chains again.
"Send this stone over; that's a stone that brings pride to us Irishmen."
...And on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean, another conversation about Argyle was taking place.
France, Paris.
The city was in the period of Napoleon III's Second Empire—luxurious, flamboyant, but also full of opportunity.
In preparation for the upcoming 1867 Universal Exposition, all of Paris was under heavy construction.
In a high-end salon off the Champs-Élysées, crystal chandeliers emitted a blurry glow.
After the meeting, Peter Jenkins settled the two minority shareholders of Standard Oil to establish subsidiaries in the South, then immediately returned to Europe.
After all, compared to assimilating the Ohio Standard Oil managed by Rockefeller, he had more confidence in developing the European market.
At this moment, he was wearing a well-tailored tailcoat, holding champagne, and conversing in fluent French with an official from the French Department of the Army.
After several months of experience, the former American businessman had fully adapted to the pace of Europe.
His manners were elegant and his conversation witty; if it weren't for the slight American accent, no one would doubt he was a European aristocrat.
"Monsieur le Baron," Jenkins said with a smile.
"Regarding that order of 'Safety Kerosene,' I assume you have no more doubts? Our Blue Barrel Kerosene performed perfectly in the British Navy's tests."
"Of course, Mr. Jenkins."
The baron with the handlebar mustache nodded.
"The French army needs this safe fuel. Especially in... well, in certain hot colonies."
"However..."
The baron's tone shifted, his eyes showing a hint of curiosity.
"I've heard a rumor lately. About your Boss, Mr. Felix Argyle."
"Oh?" Jenkins remained unfazed.
"It is said that he bought a massive cape near New York and is building a castle comparable to the Palace of Versailles? He even ordered a large quantity of silk tapestries and Sèvres porcelain from France?"
Jenkins smiled; it seemed Felix's activities had reached Europe.
"You are well-informed, Baron. However, the Palace of Versailles might be a bit small. As far as I know, the designer of that estate, Mr. Hunt, intends to surpass Versailles."
The baron gasped.
"Surpass Versailles? An American?"
"Mr. Argyle is more than just an American."
Jenkins set down his glass, his tone becoming serious and respectful.
"He is also the head of a commercial kingdom. Although this kingdom has no territory, its power..."
Jenkins pointed to the gas lamps burning outside the window, which used Standard Oil's raw materials, and then to the pistol the baron wore at his waist, produced under license from Militech.
"Its power is everywhere."
Just then, a tall Prussian man walked over. It was Otto, Miller's agent in Europe and a typical descendant of Junker nobility.
"Excuse me, Jenkins."
Otto held his glass, a hint of urgency in his eyes.
"A telegram has come from Berlin. Chancellor Bismarck is not only interested in those rifles, but he's also very interested in the 'Nitroglycerin explosives' you've newly developed. He asks if that stuff can be used to blow up French fortresses?"
Although Otto's voice was low, the French baron nearby still caught a few words, and his face instantly turned sour.
Jenkins skillfully stepped between the two, a professional smile on his face.
"Gentlemen, tonight is for socializing. As for business, we can discuss it at the office tomorrow."
He raised his glass.
"To peace."
"To peace." The two clinked glasses, each with their own hidden agendas.
_____________________
*To peace and the new World Order