The early winter sky was clear and pale, sunlight cutting through the thin morning mist and coating Shore Road in Brooklyn's Bay Ridge with a soft golden glow.
Apartment building No. 79 stood tall, its six-story brick-and-stone structure radiating solidity. Gothic-arched windows cast geometric patterns of light and shadow on the sidewalks below, and dewdrops on the cast-iron fence refracted tiny rainbows, glittering like scattered crystals.
The building had two entrances: a grand oak door with brass handles for daily access, and a hidden side passage leading to a freight elevator in the backyard, designed for moving large items.
Most impressive was the top-floor duplex, with its independent staircase and private entrance. This was precisely why Volker had chosen the building: to combine accessibility with privacy.
Shane surveyed the scene, a small smile tugging at his lips. "It's even grander than the blueprints. Rent must have been steep."
Volker, standing by the moving truck, called back with visible satisfaction, "Worth every penny. Everything's arranged as planned."
He watched his brothers unload crates. Vik and their cousin Vanio moved with practiced efficiency. Vik, who had once suffered a near-fatal infection from a shipboard injury, now carried a box of books in one hand while catching a luggage bag with the other.
"Careful! Those are Mr. Cassidy's treasures!" Volker scolded mock-seriously, though a smile betrayed his amusement.
Vik grinned, showing rows of white teeth. "See, Volker? Even if I got stabbed now, I wouldn't flinch!" Sunlight gleamed on his sweat-slicked skin, the old scar nearly invisible beneath his healthy, wheat-colored tone.
Volker laughed, shaking his head. "Enough showing off! Get back to work."
He approached Shane, placing two brass keys in his hand. "Top-floor duplex and the back stairwell. The sunrise view over the harbor is spectacular."
"The furniture's all in place," Volker added, adjusting his stubble. "I'm on the west side of the fourth floor. Vik and Vanio are on the east. Mikhail, Olki, and Jay are on the fifth floor with Tom and Linda. Third floor is reserved for the most reliable brothers; their families arrive next month."
Shane stared at the keys in his palm. These small metal objects now carried layers of meaning—a symbol of trust, power, and Volker's unspoken understanding. The cool metal reminded him of the rusty locks in the Lower East Side apartment he had left behind. Half a year ago, such locks had been shackles. Now, they were keys to a new life.
"Watch your step!"
Linda's bright voice rang out from the entrance. She pushed a cart full of kitchenware, her cheeks flushed with effort and joy. Her husband, Tom, walked beside her in a clean gray suit — his lavender tie slightly crooked, much like the man himself.
The wheels clattered cheerfully against the marble floor, echoing the energy of a new beginning.
"I still can't believe it," Linda said, running her hand over the polished walnut panels of the elevator. "Last month, we were still waiting forever at the public laundry…"
The elevator — an Otis, the latest model — rose slowly, its brass grille catching the morning light. Through the gaps, workers hurried about, carrying furniture up and down.
Vik whistled. "Check out that view!"
At the fifth-floor corridor's stained-glass window, sunlight filtered through blue and gold panes, scattering mesmerizing patterns on the carpet.
Shane noticed the fourth-floor apartment door was open, and voices speaking Irish floated out.
"Jacuzzi installed?" Tom called from behind, revealing clean, neatly trimmed nails—no trace of coal dust—and a few fresh wrench marks on his right hand from his mechanical training.
He handed Shane a bottle of champagne, elegantly packaged. "Old Jack was transferred to Detroit last week. He wanted me to bring this—consider it a housewarming gift."
Shane noticed the small bronze badge on Tom's shirt pocket: Packard Motor Company's lightning logo gleamed quietly in the morning sunlight. A man who once fought over cargo now polished his badge meticulously each day.
"Next Wednesday," Tom said, awkwardly reaching into his pants pocket and pulling out a gilded invitation.
"Packard's new car launch. I… I managed to get two guest spots," he added, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret.
"The logistics manager hinted that if I hit my performance targets next year, I might get the chance to study engine design at the Detroit headquarters!"
Shane's eyes softened. "Then learn everything you can, Tom — every last detail."
Tom nodded solemnly, clearly absorbing the weight of the advice.
From the corridor came the sound of Volker's brothers speaking in Polish, and Tom instinctively hid the invitation behind his back.
"Oh, and one more thing," Tom said, crouching as he opened a dark blue velvet box from a hidden compartment in his toolbox. Inside lay a set of brass bath fixtures — faucets, towel racks, and handles delicately engraved with elegant wave patterns.
"These are from my first month's salary," Tom said, his voice dry and tense. "Not much compared to what Volker and the others gave…"
Shane's eyes were drawn to a small brass thermometer inside the box, its base engraved with fine lettering:
"To my best friend — always grateful, Tom."
Before he could speak, Linda's voice roared from downstairs: "Tom Duke! My stew pot is not your toolbox!"
Tom jumped, saluted awkwardly, and dashed off — but not before wiping his shoes on the doormat.
Shane smiled faintly. That one small gesture — the mark of a man changed.
"The piano will arrive from Steinway this afternoon," Volker announced, holding a gilded delivery slip. "Model B, mahogany casing, brass-trimmed round legs, just as requested. The tuner—an old man from Vienna who tuned for Mahler's last tour—heard it was for Mary and generously offered an 80% discount."
Volker checked his pocket watch. "Mr. Hill called. He insists on personally delivering a housewarming gift."