Bronte and Dutch

The door groaned open from the outside, revealing an unexpected, yet utterly predictable, figure.

"Oh, hohoho, Mr. Arthur Callahan, or perhaps, Mr. Dutch Van der Linde himself. Buon giorno," Bronte purred, stepping through the threshold. Two hulking security guards in immaculate black suits, their faces like carved stone, materialized on either side of the entrance, forming an impassable wall of muscle. Bronte, dressed in deceptively casual attire, his smile a reptilian flash, surveyed the room.

As he entered, the twelve young women, diligently polishing and arranging the shop's pristine interior, froze. Their hands trembled, their shoulders hunched, and they huddled together like frightened mice, their eyes wide with naked terror. The name Bronte.

It echoed in the opulent salons of the rich and vibrated through the wretched hovels of the poor. Even the lowliest thugs in the slums worshipped him, aspiring to his dark dominion. They had, after all, witnessed his loan shark enforcers, club-wielding brutes, smashing the meager belongings of the unfortunate.

Dutch merely glanced at the girls' terrified faces, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. He waved a dismissive hand. "Ladies, please, carry on with your work. There's no need to fear Signor Bronte; he is merely a gentleman. A very, very kind gentleman!" Dutch's smile widened, a beacon of practiced charm. He turned back to Bronte, stepped forward, and extended his hand, his grip firm.

"Oh, hoho, Signor Bronte, your reputation precedes you. I apologize for never having paid my respects sooner. Your unexpected arrival truly honors me. Avril," Dutch called out, barely glancing at one of the newly hired girls, "coffee for our distinguished guest!"

Dutch was all smiles, a walking advertisement for geniality. Bronte, mirroring his grin, even chuckled conspiratorially to his two muscle-bound goons in rapid-fire Italian: "Vedi, signori, questo idiota che si occupa solo di mucche nella prateria sa anche parlare in modo così filosofico. Sembra che Saint Denis sia davvero un posto che nutre le persone." (See, gentlemen, this idiot who only messes with cows on the prairie can also speak such philosophical words. It seems Saint Denis is indeed a place that nurtures people.)

Bronte's face was a picture of mock admiration, utterly convinced his contempt was cloaked in an impenetrable linguistic veil. Dutch, however, understood every venomous word. Ah, these high-society fools, he mused, they just love being pretentious assholes.

Bronte, with an air of practiced ease, followed Dutch to the lounge area on the left side of the clothing store, the very space set up for the 'feminist' gatherings. The freshly brewed coffee steamed invitingly. Dutch raised his cup, a subtle gesture of invitation to Bronte, then took a delicate sip.

"So, Signor Bronte," Dutch began, his voice smooth as aged whiskey, "to what do we owe the… pleasure of this unexpected visit?"

"Hahaha, Mr. Van der Linde, I've merely come to make your acquaintance this time." Bronte waved a dismissive hand, a gesture of casual importance. His two subordinates immediately produced a brand-new, exquisitely crafted box of high-end cigars from inside their coats, placing it with a soft thud on the table between Dutch and Bronte.

Bronte gestured invitingly, a subtle nod. Putting aside the fact that this fat bastard constantly curses in Italian, Dutch thought, he does have a certain flair for this kind of subtle intimidation.

Dutch smiled and nodded, reaching in to select a cigar. One of Bronte's men, quick as a viper, produced a silver lighter, snapping it open and lighting Dutch's cigar with impeccable, almost unsettling, politeness. Every detail of the etiquette was observed, a silent testament to Bronte's iron grip.

"Indeed, Signor Bronte," Dutch exhaled a plume of smoke, a thoughtful expression on his face. "My original intention, ironically, was to transform myself into someone exactly like you. Unfortunately, I possess no… backing. So, such a grand transformation simply wasn't possible." He delivered the line with a perfectly calibrated sigh of regret.

"But now you have transformed, Mr. Van der Linde," Bronte countered, his eyes narrowing slightly, a predatory gleam entering them. He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low, intense growl.

"And into a state I don't quite understand. Oh, Dutch, Dutch, tell me, why on earth are you selling clothes? You know as well as I do, this won't significantly improve your… situation, even if you cling to the fringes of some people."

Bronte's gaze bored into Dutch's, searching, probing. He had intended to meet Dutch last night, but other, more pressing, and likely far more gruesome, matters had interfered. Compared to the nebulous threat Dutch might pose, Bronte's immediate curiosity was far more piqued by the baffling choice to become a mere clothing merchant. What possible use was a clothing merchant to him? Bronte's ideal transformation for Dutch would have been into another ruthless underground boss, a subordinate Bronte could manipulate.

"Oh, Signor Bronte," Dutch chuckled, spreading his hands wide in a gesture of exaggerated innocence, "I hardly think selling clothes is of no help to me. While I may have made a small misstep in Blackwater Town, I am now here, in Saint Denis, am I not? And here, Signor Bronte, I am simply an ordinary man. An ordinary man who, for the record, has not made any mistakes. Hahaha…" He held Bronte's gaze, his smile unyielding.

Bronte paused, his smile freezing for a beat, then he burst into a genuinely loud, albeit slightly unhinged, laugh.

"Hahaha, Dutch Van der Linde, you are an interesting man, you are quite amusing!" Bronte roared, slapping his knee. "But I sincerely hope you can continue to be so amusing, Mr. Van der Linde. You know," he leaned in, his voice dropping to a chilling whisper, his eyes glinting, "being amusing can spare a person a great deal of… suffering. Hahahaha…"

Bronte rose, still chuckling, and without another word, turned and walked towards the door, his two silent bodyguards trailing him like dark shadows.

Dutch sat at the coffee table, calmly puffing on his cigar, watching Bronte's retreating figure. The entire exchange had been a carefully encrypted dance, a mutual probing of intentions.

Bronte's opening gambit—claiming past similarities and questioning Dutch's clothing venture—was a thinly veiled olive branch, an offer to absorb Dutch into his legitimate operations (or more accurately, his black-market machinations, cloaked in legitimacy).

Dutch had countered, subtly rejecting the recruitment with his "no backing" line, signaling his independence.

Bronte's later insistence about the futility of clinging to the "fringes of some people" was a direct probe, an attempt to discover if Dutch was aligned with those damned Lemieux families, an effort to sow discord.

But Dutch had denied it all, subtly reaffirming his neutral stance, emphasizing his new, "normal" identity in Lemoyne to underline his position. His message was clear: I join neither side, and I fear neither side.

This, of course, was precisely why Bronte hoped he would remain "interesting." Those who attempted to ride the fence in this brutal, unforgiving world rarely survived. They were often crushed by the combined weight of both sides, eliminated as unstable, unpredictable variables.