novelraw Chapter 441: 416. The Riches Inside The Deepest Vault Of The Chapel
Chapter 441: 416. The Riches Inside The Deepest Vault Of The Chapel
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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
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The silence in the swamp was absolute, thick with a terrifying, beautiful tension. Lucan stared at Caleb's outstretched hand. He looked at the immaculate suit, the calm, unyielding blue eyes, and the sheer, overwhelming aura of absolute power that the man radiated. He then looked at the rotting wood of the church and the muddy water pooling around his own boots.
With a heavy, rattling sigh, Lucan slowly lowered the barrel of his repeating rifle toward the dirt. He reached up, engaging the safety with a loud click.
He didn't just lower his weapon, he dropped to one knee in the mud, completely submitting to the new authority.
"We've been out here for three years, Don McLaughlin," Lucan whispered, his voice cracking with exhaustion and profound relief. He reached out and gripped Caleb's hand tightly. "Get us out of this swamp, and our guns belong to you forever."
Behind him, the remaining seven guards simultaneously lowered their weapons. The heavy, metallic clattering of rifles being slung over shoulders echoed in the clearing as, one by one, they dropped to their knees in the wet grass.
"We are yours, Don McLaughlin," they echoed in a ragged chorus.
Caleb gripped Lucan's hand, pulling the scarred enforcer back to his feet with a powerful heave. He patted the man firmly on the shoulder, a genuine, victorious smile breaking across his face.
"Rise, brothers," Caleb commanded, his voice filled with the magnanimous warmth of a true king welcoming his prodigal sons home. "Your watch in the dark is over. Let's open the vault, pack up the gold, and go home to Saint Denis."
Lucan and his men stood up slowly, the thick, sucking mud of the bayou clinging heavily to their boots. They rose not just as pardoned men, but as reborn soldiers, having firmly pledged their absolute loyalty to the new Don.
The crushing, oppressive tension that had held the graveyard in a chokehold completely evaporated, replaced by a profound, collective exhale of relief. The humid, malarial air of the swamp suddenly felt breathable again.
Caleb offered them an approving nod, his presence radiating the calm, benevolent authority of a king who had just won a bloodless victory. He didn't waste time dwelling on the standoff. The empire was waiting.
With a sharp wave of his silver tipped cane, he brought all of them to follow him, turning his back on the muddy graveyard to enter the abandoned chapel.
The massive, iron-reinforced wooden doors groaned loudly on rusted hinges as Lucan and another guard hauled them open. The interior of the old church had been entirely stripped of its sacred history.
The pews had been violently torn out, the altar smashed to make room for logistics, and the stained glass windows completely boarded over with thick steel plating, leaving the massive nave bathed in the dim, flickering light of a dozen oil lanterns hung from the rotting wooden rafters.
As Caleb crossed the threshold, Vincenzo and Silvio walked in right behind him. The moment their eyes adjusted to the dim light, the two hardened capos stopped dead in their tracks.
Vincenzo and Silvio were absolutely shocked and completely paralyzed by the sheer, unimaginable amount of chests, heavy iron lockboxes, and wooden shipping crates that were locked securely in place across the vast stone floor of the nave.
It looked like the cargo hold of a massive galleon. Stacks of wooden crates bearing the faded stamps of Cornwall Freight and imported French shipping lines were piled high against the crumbling stone walls. Velvet lined trunks and heavy, brass-bound steamer chests were organized in neat, terrifyingly vast rows.
"Mother of God," Vincenzo whispered, his good hand unconsciously reaching up to cross himself. He walked forward slowly, staring at a stack of heavy iron lockboxes. "The old man... he hoarded all of this? While we were counting pennies and bleeding over scraps in the alleys?"
Silvio let out a low, dangerous growl, his fists clenching tight. "He could have bought the entire city of Saint Denis twice over with what's sitting in this room alone. He kept us living like rats so he could sleep on a mountain of stolen gold."
Caleb simply observed their righteous anger, letting it cement their loyalty to him even further. "Greed is a disease, brothers," Caleb said softly, walking past the outer rows of crates. "It blinded him to the true value of this family. But we are here for the cure."
While the outer nave was filled with an astronomical amount of illicit wealth, Caleb's true target was not the scattered crates or the smuggled contraband sitting in the open.
His eyes locked onto the far end of the chapel, right where the grand altar used to stand. Built directly into the reinforced stone of the apse was a heavy, windowless steel door leading to some sort of fortified cell room. It looked entirely out of place, a piece of modern, heavy duty banking infrastructure violently grafted into the rotting wood and ancient stone of the 18th-century church.
Caleb's target was exactly this place. When he had first come here months ago, operating under the guise of the dutiful new Underboss scouting the perimeter for Bronte, he had been explicitly told by Lucan during a quiet conversation that this fortified cell was where Bronte stored the absolute most valuable of his riches. It was the inner sanctum, the holy of holies for the paranoid Don.
Caleb walked up to the heavy steel door, his boots echoing sharply on the stone floor. Vincenzo and Silvio followed closely, watching him with breathless anticipation, while Lucan and the swamp guards formed a respectful perimeter.
The door possessed a massive, highly complex dual locking mechanism. It was a paranoid failsafe designed to ensure no single man could ever breach the vault alone.
Caleb calmly reached into his dark coat. First, he reached into his leather satchel and took out Bronte's key, the heavy, brass key attached to a silver chain that he had extorted from the weeping Don in the cold cellar just hours ago.
But one key was not enough. The second key belonged to the only other man Angelo Bronte had ever partially trusted: the late Guido Martelli.
Caleb closed his eyes for a fraction of a millisecond, his mind interfacing with the vast, dimensional space of his system. With a mere thought, he reached into his inventory and materialized the second key. He palmed it smoothly, ensuring no one saw it appear out of thin air. He had taken this key from Guido Martelli's cold, dead body the night he orchestrated the former Underboss's assassination.
Holding one key from his inventory and one from his satchel, Caleb stepped up to the steel door. He inserted Guido's key into the upper cylinder and Bronte's key into the lower cylinder simultaneously.
With a firm, synchronized twist of his wrists, he turned them both.
Clack. Clack.
The sound of the two heavy internal deadbolts disengaging with two loud, deep clicks was incredibly satisfying to Caleb. It was the sound of complete, total victory. The final physical barrier to absolute supremacy had just been dismantled.
Caleb grabbed the heavy steel handle and pulled. The thick door swung outward with a smooth, well oiled silence that belied its massive weight.
Entering into the room, the air was stale, smelling of old paper, dust, and cold iron. Caleb lifted a nearby oil lantern from a wall hook, casting a warm, flickering glow over the interior of the cell.
It wasn't a massive room, but it was lined floor to ceiling with heavy, reinforced lockboxes and a few ornate, velvet lined chests. There were no loose coins or scattered bills here; everything was meticulously categorized and secured.
Caleb walked over to a solid steel workbench where several of the most prominent lockboxes rested. He set the lantern down and opened one of the lockboxes.
He lifted the heavy lid, and it truly was a big surprise. He had expected to see tightly banded stacks of large denomination greenbacks, the usual untraceable currency of the mob. Instead, the box was filled to the brim with neatly bound, incredibly thick documents printed on high quality, watermarked parchment.
Caleb reached in and pulled out a thick stack. He read through it, his newly maxed out Business Skill instantly processing the complex legal jargon, the ornate borders, and the specific financial terminology.
He found out immediately that it was a massive collection of bearer bonds.
They were a mix of municipal bonds, federal government bonds, and highly lucrative corporate railway bonds. Caleb's mind raced as he analyzed the dates and the issuing entities.
In which Bronte had probably loaned the money out to desperate politicians and failing companies through shadow brokers, or, more likely, he had violently stolen the bonds from rival outfits and heavily guarded bank coaches. Bronte had stored it all here so that he could easily redeem it whenever he needed a massive influx of clean, legitimate money.
The genius of this specific type of wealth made Caleb smile. Since during this time in 1899, the bonds in this era are bearer bonds, they functioned exactly like cash, but in vastly larger denominations.
There was no registry of ownership. There was no name printed on the paper detailing who had purchased them. So, whoever held the physical piece of paper could legally redeem it for its full face value, plus any accrued interest, even if the name of the one who redeems it isn't on any ledger.
Caleb rapidly flipped through the stacks, his fingers flying over the crisp parchment, his Business Skill running complex calculations at lightning speed. He counted it, extrapolating the value based on the face amounts printed in the corners of the documents.
There was easily worth hundreds of thousands of dollars of bearer bonds here in total. It was an astronomical, economy shifting sum of money.
And Caleb was very happy. He wasn't just smiling, a deep, profound thrill of absolute conquest rushed through his veins. This wasn't just wealth, it was the ultimate weapon.
Since he now had very big, entirely liquid assets, he could easily take over the entire city's infrastructure. He could use these bonds to buy many legitimate enterprises, sweeping up commercial real estate, shipping fleets, and political favor using the money ostensibly in the name of the family to keep the capos happy.
But of course, with his maxed out intelligence and careful legal maneuvering, he will become the true owner of all of this business in name, and also the lands that he will acquire.
He would launder Bronte's blood money through the family's fronts, but the ultimate deeds and corporate charters would be held under shell companies that pointed directly back to Caleb Thorne. He was transforming from a mob boss into an untouchable corporate titan right inside this damp, rotting church.
After that satisfying discovery, he moved down the workbench. He goes to check the next lockbox, popping the heavy brass latch.
This one was significantly lighter. Caleb opened it, and found it was filled entirely with thick, wax sealed documents of land deeds. There weren't as many pieces of paper as the bonds, there were probably around eight deeds in total.
But as Caleb unfolded the heavy parchment and read the legal descriptions, his smile widened into a predatory grin. The deeds weren't for worthless swampland or random residential plots. They were all zoned on prime, highly strategic areas around the immediate perimeter of Saint Denis.
This was absolutely great, a perfect alignment of his vast, overarching ambitions. Because it could be used to build the massive factory branch for his legitimate firearm company much easier. He had been planning to expand his Connecticut based firearms manufacturing empire into the South to cut shipping costs and dominate the local markets.
Now, since he didn't need to waste time negotiating with stubborn landowners or buy a new tract of land anymore, he could break ground immediately. He had deep water port access, rail connections, and enough acreage to build the most advanced munitions factory south of the Mason-Dixon line.
He folded the deeds carefully and placed them back in the box, treating them with the reverence they deserved.
Next, he turned his attention to a large, heavy, iron banded wooden chest sitting on the floor of the cell. It looked like something pulled from a pirate wreck. Caleb knelt down, grasped the heavy iron rings, and hauled the lid open.
On the inside, bathed in the flickering, warm light of the oil lantern, was the raw, undeniable visual manifestation of immense wealth. The chest was packed with small burlap sacks and velvet pouches. Caleb pulled the drawstring on one of the velvet bags and poured the contents into his palm.
A cascade of glittering, perfectly cut jewels caught the light, diamonds, rubies, and deep green emeralds, likely stripped from the necks of wealthy socialites or fenced from high end robberies.
Beneath the pouches of jewels were neat, heavy stacks of solid gold bars, each stamped with the assay marks of various international banks, alongside heavy canvas sacks filled with raw, unrefined gold nuggets extorted from independent prospectors up in the Grizzlies.
The sheer weight of the gold was staggering. Caleb ran a hand over the cold, heavy bars, staring at the glittering hoard.
And this riches he saw was only contained within the deepest vault. This was just the cell room.
Caleb stood up, looking back out through the open steel door into the massive, cavernous nave of the abandoned church. He couldn't imagine what the others out there were filled with.
If Bronte kept the bonds, the deeds, and the raw gold in here, the dozens of heavy steamer trunks and shipping crates in the outer room must hold an ocean of secondary wealth. Maybe they were filled with priceless antiques stolen from rival estates, or rolled up canvas paintings by European masters, or just endless, tightly packed stacks of low-denomination dollar bills used to pay the street soldiers.
The logistical reality of the situation rapidly set in. This chapel was isolated, yes, but it was also highly vulnerable to the elements, to rot, and to the sheer unpredictability of the swamp. Now, his only thinking was to move all of this from the chapel immediately. He could not leave the foundation of his new empire sitting out in the mud, guarded by men who had just proven their loyalties could be swayed.
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Name: Caleb Thorne
Age: 23
Body Attributes:
- Strength: 8/10
- Agility: 8/10
- Perception: 9/10
- Stamina: 8/10
- Charm: 8/10
- Luck: 9/10
Skills:
- Handgun (Lvl MAX)
- Rifle (Lvl MAX)
- Firearms Knowledge (Lvl MAX)
- Past Life Memory (Lvl MAX)
- Knife (Lvl MAX)
- Blunt Weapon (Lvl MAX)
- Sneaking (Lvl MAX)
- Horse Mastery (Lvl MAX)
- Poker (Lvl MAX)
- Hand to Hand Combat (Lvl MAX)
- Eagle Eye (Lvl MAX)
- Dead Eye (Lvl MAX)
- Bow (Lvl MAX)
- Pain Nullifier (Lvl MAX)
- Physical Regeneration (Lvl MAX)
- Crafting (Lvl MAX)
- Persuasion (Lvl MAX)
- Mental Fortitude (Lvl MAX)
- Cooking (Lvl MAX)
- Teaching (Lvl MAX)
- Trilingual Language Proficiency - G, I, & C (Lvl MAX)
- Inventory System (Permanent - 100x100x100)
- Acting (Lvl MAX)
- Alcohol Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Treasure Hunter (Lvl MAX)
- Drugs Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Business (Lvl MAX)
- Leadership (Lvl MAX)
Money: 3,322 dollars and 60 cents
Inventory: 286,492 dollars and 61 cents, 11 gold nuggets, 74 gold bars, 1 Double Action, 1 Schofield, 2 Colm's Schofields, 1 land deed (Parcel), 1 Mauser, 1 Semi Auto Pistol, 1 Lancaster Repeater, 1 Old Wood Jewelry Box, 1 F.F Mausoleum small brass key, 1 Ruby, 1 Braithwaites Land Deed, 1 Broken Pirate Sword, 1 Milton's Safety Deposit Key, 1 Senator Pendleton Sealed Envelope, Proof Of Marlin-Thorne Firearms Co., 10 Dynamites, 1 LeMat, 1 M1899, 1 Carcano, 1 Ownership deed of Doyle's Tavern, 3 Diamonds, & Important Documents & Deeds Of Cornwall
Bank: -