The Westchester Premium Wholesale Center was exactly what Ryan needed—a massive complex where the city’s restaurants, hotels, and caterers sourced their supplies in bulk.
The kind of place where you didn’t buy a bag of rice, you bought a pallet of rice.
The air inside the main warehouse was thick with competing smells: fresh produce, raw meat from the butcher section, the yeasty scent of baked goods, cleaning chemicals, cardboard.
It was organized chaos—forklifts beeping, workers shouting, the constant rumble of hand trucks over concrete floors.
The kind of bustling, everyday commerce that would be extinct in seven days.
Ryan walked past the crowded front section where smaller buyers were loading up carts and headed straight for the back of the warehouse, where the serious volume was stored.
His destination: Big Tony’s Bulk Foods & Supplies.
The largest grain and dry goods distributor in the tri-state area, run by a guy everyone called Big Tony.
Three hundred pounds of attitude wrapped in stained overalls, with a mouth that could make a longshoreman blush and connections that ran deep into every supply chain from here to Chicago.
In Ryan’s previous life, Big Tony had been one of the first to figure out what was happening when the apocalypse hit.
The fat bastard had locked down his warehouses, armed his workers, and created a fortified trading post in White Plains.
He’d controlled the food supply for thousands of survivors, trading rice and canned goods for jewelry, cash, sexual favors—whatever desperate people would offer.
Tony had lasted almost six months before the extreme cold got him.
Turns out all the food in the world doesn’t help much when you freeze to death because you cheaped out on heating fuel.
As Ryan approached the storefront, he could hear Big Tony’s booming voice before he saw him.
“—I’m telling you, Jerry, nobody in this whole damn state moves volume like I do!
You need ten tons of white rice by Thursday?
I got it.
Twenty tons?
I got it!
You want fifty thousand pounds of dried beans?
Boom, done!
That’s why they call it Big Tony’s—because I go BIG!” Tony was holding court near the loading dock, shirtless except for a grease-stained tank top that had given up trying to cover his massive gut years ago.
He had a beer in one hand despite it being 7 PM on a weeknight, and he was gesturing wildly while his workers—four younger guys in company shirts—laughed at his jokes.
Ryan walked right up to the group and stopped.
“I want to buy everything in your warehouse,” he said flatly.
The laughter died instantly.
Big Tony turned slowly, sizing Ryan up with bloodshot eyes.
He took in Ryan’s designer jeans and Tom Ford button-down—probably fifteen hundred bucks worth of clothes.
“Kid, you lost?” Tony said, grinning.
“The Whole Foods is like ten miles that way.
This is a wholesale operation.
Minimum orders.
Business licenses required.
Not a place for rich kids to play grocery shopping.” The workers snickered.
Ryan didn’t blink.
“I said, I want everything.
All the rice, all the pasta, all the dried goods, all the canned goods, all the cooking oil.
Your entire inventory.
And I want it delivered to this address within the week.” He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and dropped it on the desk next to Tony’s beer.
It had the Matthews Estate address written on it.
Tony stared at the paper, then at Ryan, then burst out laughing—a wet, wheezing sound.
“Oh man!
Oh, that’s good!” He slapped his knee, making his whole body jiggle.
“Hey Jerry, this kid’s doing a comedy routine!
You hear that?
He wants to buy out my whole warehouse!
That’s like…
what, eight million bucks worth of inventory?
Kid, get the fuck outta here before I have my guys throw you out on your ass.” The workers had stopped laughing.
Now they were watching Ryan with the kind of predatory attention that suggested “throwing him out” might involve some bruises.
Ryan pulled out his phone without a word.
He opened his banking app, navigated to wire transfer, and looked at Tony.
“What’s your account number?” Tony’s grin faltered.
“What?” “Your bank account number.
Personal account, business account, I don’t care.
Give it to me.” “Kid, are you on drugs or—” Ryan turned his phone screen toward Tony.
The wire transfer interface was open.
The recipient field was blank.
But in the amount field: $1,000,000.00 Seven figures.
Clear as day.
Tony’s laugh died in his throat.
His face went slack, the beer bottle frozen halfway to his mouth.
The workers craned their necks, trying to see the screen.
One of them—Jerry—made a choking sound.
“Holy shit, boss, is that—” “Card number,” Ryan said calmly.
“Now.” Tony’s brain seemed to reboot.
His eyes flicked between Ryan’s face and the phone screen like he was watching a tennis match.
“Uh…
I…
you’re not seriously—” “Account number.
You have five seconds before I go to your competitor across town.” Tony’s hand shot to his back pocket, fumbling for his wallet.
He pulled out a business card with shaking fingers and read off a string of numbers.
Ryan typed them in without hesitation.
Confirmed the transfer.
TRANSFER SUCCESSFUL: $1,000,000.00 For three full seconds, nothing happened.
Then Tony’s phone—sitting on the desk next to his beer—lit up with a notification chime.
He grabbed it like it might explode, thumbs fumbling over the screen to open his banking app.
His eyes went wide.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispered.
“It’s real.
You actually…
it’s really there.
One million dollars.
Just…
sitting in my account.” “That’s your deposit,” Ryan said.
“To prove I’m serious.
Now, let’s talk business.” Tony looked up at him with an expression somewhere between awe and terror.
The cocky warehouse king was gone.
In his place was a man who’d just realized he was in way over his head.
“Boss,” Jerry said nervously.
“Should I…
do you want me to call someone or—” “Shut up, Jerry,” Tony said, not taking his eyes off Ryan.
He straightened up, sucked in his gut (it didn’t help), and gestured to a folding chair near the desk.
“Please.
Sir.
Have a seat.
Can I…
do you want water?
Coffee?
We got some—” “I’m fine,” Ryan said, sitting down.
“Here’s what I need.” He pulled out his phone again and opened the notes app where he’d been making lists.
“Ten thousand tons of white rice.
Five thousand tons of pasta—all varieties.
Three thousand tons of dried beans—black, kidney, pinto, chickpeas, lentils.
Two million cans of vegetables.
One million cans of fruit.
Five hundred thousand cans of meat—tuna, chicken, beef, whatever you can source.
One hundred thousand gallons of cooking oil.
Fifty thousand pounds of salt.
Twenty thousand pounds of sugar.
Ten thousand pounds of honey.
Flour, yeast, baking supplies—as much as you can get.” Tony’s mouth opened wider with each item.
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