I searched and fought in America.

Rosen raised an eyebrow: "Oh? Tell me about it."

Morris pointed to the data on the document:

"Taking into account the costs of raw materials, labor, and operating expenses, including site, utilities, and equipment depreciation, the cost of this 100-gram bag of solid oil powder is approximately US$15."

He paused:

"But this bag of powder can absorb about 300 grams of gasoline. What does that mean for a recycling company?"

Rosen remained silent, waiting for him to continue.

"Ordinary recycling companies handle waste oil in two ways," Morris said, holding up two fingers.

"One option is to dump it directly, but if caught by an environmental organization, the fine will start at least several thousand US dollars. Another option is to send it to a professional treatment plant, where the treatment fee for a barrel of waste oil is about one hundred to two hundred US dollars."

He turned the page:

"Our powder can solidify waste oil into blocks, which can then be sold directly as fuel. One bag of powder can absorb the waste oil and save at least two hundred US dollars in processing fees."

If that company is being monitored by environmental organizations, the savings could be even greater, potentially three hundred or even four hundred dollars.

He looked up at Rosen:

"So, my initial price is $110 per bag."

Rosen frowned.

$110, cost $15, gross profit $95.

This profit margin is already terrifying.

But he still felt it was a bit low, because this was a groundbreaking technology, and high profits were to be expected. Moreover, according to Morris, the profit margin was still quite large.

"One hundred and eleven?" he asked. "Even if it's priced at one hundred and forty or one hundred and fifty, someone should still buy it, right?"

Morris smiled.

That smile carried a hint of professional confidence.

“Father,” he said, “you are right. Even if the price is set at 150, those companies that are being pressured by environmental organizations will grit their teeth and buy it.”

He paused:

"But our goal is not to make money off those few companies."

Rosen looked at him.

Morris continued:

"This is something we only have right now; we're the only ones in the entire United States that can produce it. It's a monopoly."

He stretched out one hand, fingers spread:

"The biggest taboo in a monopolistic business is setting prices too high. If you set the price too high, those companies can afford to buy, but they won't be happy to buy."

They'll be paying you while simultaneously cursing you, searching everywhere for substitutes, trying to find ways to bypass you, and the moment someone manages to copy it, they'll abandon you immediately.

He clenched his fist:

"But if you set the price lower, and they think, 'Wow, this is a good deal,' they will come to you to buy it. They will feel that they are getting a bargain, rather than being ripped off."

He paused:

"Moreover, low prices mean low barriers to entry. Small companies that originally thought it was too expensive and planned to stubbornly bear environmental fines will be willing to give it a try. Once they use it and find that it can really save money, they will not be able to live without it."

He put away the documents and looked at Rosen:

"What we need to do now is not to make quick money, but to seize the market, use low prices to quickly fill the market, and once everyone is using our products, then..."

He smiled slightly and said nothing more.

After listening, Rosen remained silent for a few seconds.

Then he laughed.

That smile held a mix of emotion and relief.

"Okay." He patted Maurice on the shoulder. "We'll do it your way."

Morris paused for a moment.

Rosen continued:

"From now on, you will be fully responsible for everything at the factory. You will have the final say on raw material procurement, production management, and sales pricing. Just give me a report every month."

Professional matters should be handled by professionals. It is a big no-no for laymen to instruct experts. He really doesn't understand these things, so it's better to leave everything to Maurice.

Morris was stunned.

He looked at Rosen, a hint of disbelief flashing in his eyes.

Full responsibility?

The factory is the core industry for the Iron Claw Gang's future; raw material procurement, production and sales, and financial management are all vital to their survival.

So the Holy Father just... handed everything over to him?

"Father, this..." Maurice opened his mouth, but for a moment he didn't know what to say.

Rosen looked at him and smiled slightly:

"What? You think you can't do it?"

"No!" Maurice quickly shook his head. "It's just... you've only been in charge of the gang for a short time, yet you trust me so much..."

Rosen patted him on the shoulder:

"Maurice, you've followed Father Kevin for twenty years. You know better than I do what kind of person Father Kevin is. I trust the people he chooses."

He paused, looking into Maurice's eyes:

"Besides, your skills might fool others, but they won't fool me."

Morris's heart skipped a beat.

He recalled the meaningful look Rosen had given him earlier.

The Holy Father... seems to really know everything.

"So," Rosen withdrew his hand, "don't overthink it, just go for it. Tell me what you need."

Morris remained silent for a long time.

Then he took a deep breath and nodded heavily:

"Yes, Holy Father."

His voice trembled slightly.

It's not because I'm afraid.

It's because of excitement.

He had been with Father Kevin for twenty years, always as the logistics manager, in charge of accounts, personnel, and supplies, but he never had any real decision-making power. Big and small matters all had to be decided by Father Kevin.

And now-

This young Holy Father actually handed over such great power to him.

Morris suddenly felt that his old bones could still fight for another twenty years.

"Oh, right," Rosen suddenly remembered something, "once things stabilize at the factory, help me make an appointment with someone."

Morris composed himself and said seriously:

"Who?"

Rosen looked out the window, his gaze somewhat distant.

"The pastor of Zion Chapel, Mel Weiss."

Morris paused for a moment.

Pastor Mair?

That saint who gave alms and took in homeless people in the slums?

What did the Father want with him?

But he didn't ask.

He simply nodded.

"Yes, Father."

---

Just then, a member of the gang rushed in. Upon seeing Rosen, he immediately rushed forward and said:

"Holy Father, the people of the Latin Kingdom are looking for you."

"The Latin Kingdom?"

Rosen repeated the name, a strange look flashing in his eyes.

Morris's expression also changed.

Of course he knew the name.

Three blocks south of Ronnie's neighborhood lies the territory of the Latin Kingdom, a group entirely of Mexican descent. They are ruthless and cruel, and the "sugar apple" at the neighborhood's intersection is their creation.

"What are they doing here?" Maurice asked in a deep voice.

The gang member shook his head:

"If you don't know, just say you want to see the Father, that you are an old friend."

Old friend.

Rosen's lips curled slightly as he recalled the scene of him pretending to be a grandson, and a hint of coldness appeared in his eyes.

He hadn't even gone to settle accounts with them yet, and they came to him on their own.

Where are they?

"Seven or eight people arrived at the company gate, driving three cars."

Rosen nodded, took out his phone from his pocket, and dialed a number.

The phone rang twice before being answered.

"Father?" Caesar's voice came from the other end, tinged with doubt. "You wanted to see me?"

"Where are you?"

"We just finished unloading a batch of goods at the recycling company. What's going on?"

Rosen's tone was very calm:

"People from the Latin Kingdom have come to the company; they say they're looking for me."

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the phone.

Then--

"What?!"

Caesar's voice suddenly rose, "What do those Mexican bastards want with you?! Are they here to cause trouble? Father, you wait! I'm coming right away!"

"We'll talk about it later, don't rush," Rosen interrupted him. "Bring a few more people, don't come alone."

"clear!"

The phone hangs up.

Rosen put his phone back in his pocket and looked at the henchman:

"Tell them to wait. Just say I'm busy and I'll see them when I'm done."

The gang member paused for a moment, then nodded, turned and ran out.

---

Thank you for the two monthly tickets from the Spirit of the North!