Serpent

Dutch's conjectures, so far, had been terrifyingly flawless. Every step, every calculated guess, had landed with the precision of a master marksman. And his assessment of Signor Bronte? Uncomfortably accurate.

At this very moment, within the opulent, stifling confines of Bronte Manor, Signor Bronte—the esteemed Public Welfare Ambassador of Saint Denis, its most "successful" businessman, its undisputed underground overlord, and the puppet master of its dark forces—lounged on his velvet sofa, a glass of crimson red wine swirling idly in his hand. He took a slow, deliberate sip, his eyes gleaming with a chilling satisfaction.

Signor Martelli, Bronte's shadow, stood rigidly to the side, bowing with an almost frantic deference as he refilled Bronte's glass. Nominally, Martelli was the Saint Denis Mafia's second-in-command, the destined heir to Bronte's dark throne. But in this treacherous game of power, he was, for now, utterly powerless against his master.

Bronte, in his own twisted right, was undeniably worthy of his position. He was a master of the gilded cage, adept at every social deception. He held internal power with an iron fist, his voice unchallenged, yet maintained a meticulously cultivated "good reputation" externally. Martelli, by contrast, was a blunt instrument. He lacked Bronte's cunning, his ability to conceal his weaknesses, his arrogance so glaring that even the common street urchins of Saint Denis knew it.

As the old proverb warned, "the scorching sun will arrive before dusk." Sometimes, an overwhelming display of strength wasn't a sign of unassailable influence, but merely the last, desperate glow before an inevitable plummet. In the game, Martelli would rise to power after Bronte's demise in Charles's black boxing escapade, and he would, almost immediately, become wildly, predictably rampant. As Charles himself put it, with a shake of his head: "Even the sheriff didn't dare disobey Signor Martelli's wishes."

While Bronte had painstakingly cloaked their Mafia in the respectable garb of "friendly merchants," "public welfare ambassadors," and "legitimate figures"—a cunning strategy to transition into political and capital magnates—Martelli, bless his predictable heart, would revert to his old, brutish ways within three short years. In this era, these Mafia forces might have seemed formidable compared to mere politicians and businessmen.

But fifteen years later, with the cataclysm of World War I, the entire world order would shatter. National regimes, backed by colossal armies, would become utterly stable, absolutely unbreakable. And then, these swaggering Mafia bosses would be forced back into the shadows, their overt power crushed.

(A single tank, Bronte often mused, would flatten anyone who dared to resist.)

For now, though, as Bronte's enforcer, Signor Martelli's abilities were more than sufficient. He was the quintessential Mafia thug, brutal, loyal, and utterly without subtlety. But with Bronte still breathing, Martelli's chance to rise remained a distant, flickering hope. Though, one could never be certain. Bronte, in his hubris, was currently courting death with the fervor of a lovesick teenager.

"Seventy thousand dollars. That's seventy thousand dollars! Seventy thousand dollars earned in one day! Oh, Dutch Van der Linde, what an interesting fool!" Bronte murmured, picking up the wine Martelli had poured. He raised his glass, a mocking toast.

"Oh, come on, Signor Martelli," Bronte chuckled, a cold gleam in his eye, "have a drink with me."

"Yes, sir!" Martelli eagerly sat down, pouring himself a generous measure of red wine. He clinked glasses with Bronte, his face alight with subservient pride. Martelli gulped his wine down in a single, unrefined swallow, while Bronte held his glass motionless, his face lost in chilling contemplation.

"Thump thump thump…" Bronte's fingers tapped a rhythmic, almost hypnotic beat on the table before him, but his mind was already a whirlwind of predatory thought.

"Hoo hoo hoo," Bronte chuckled, a dark, venomous sound. "Seventy thousand dollars. That's no small sum, Signor Martelli. Even for us, it would take two months to earn! Those damned shop owners, they never give me seventy thousand dollars; they only hand over a pitiful few dozen! These damned parasites, these greedy bastards! Their businesses are overflowing with profit, yet they are only willing to give me a few paltry dollars every month! It's truly… heartbreaking!"

Bronte's expression twisted into a malevolent grimace, his eyes narrowing to slits as if he wished to pull out a gun and personally execute every shop owner in Saint Denis.

Listening to Bronte's terrifying monologue, Martelli cautiously looked up, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple. "Sir," he ventured, his voice barely a whisper, "should we start raising their 'prices' next month?"

"Yes, it's time to raise prices, Signor Martelli," Bronte hissed, his voice like sandpaper. He slammed his fist lightly on the table. "I've never raised prices for them in Saint Denis for so many years, yet they only deceive and fool me! These damned, heartless scoundrels, they have completely betrayed my trust!"

Bronte's face was a mask of righteous indignation, a villain playing the part of an emissary of justice, even as he openly discussed collecting protection money.

"But now, our focus should be on Signor Van der Linde, shouldn't it?" Bronte said, putting down his wine glass, his face once again plastered with a serene, almost innocent smile. "Seventy thousand dollars is two months of our income, after all."

Martelli's eyes widened. "Okay, boss," he began, already rising from his seat, "I'll bring the boys tonight—"

"No, no, no!" Bronte interrupted, his hand shooting up, cutting Martelli off mid-sentence. His voice was suddenly sharp, laced with barely concealed fury. "Signor Martelli, do you wish to destroy the image I've painstakingly cultivated? You disappoint me, too much! Our legitimate identity is the very foundation of our standing in Saint Denis! It's the cornerstone of the status I now possess! I've told you this countless times!" Bronte leaned forward, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "Because of this identity, even if they hate me immensely, they cannot directly act against me! Mr. Van der Linde has now become a public figure in Saint Denis; he can die, he can be robbed, but it cannot be done by us! Otherwise, that would be breaking the rules!" He tapped his temple meaningfully.

As Bronte's enforcer, Martelli had no objection to this. He idolized Bronte, a man who had lifted them from the gutter. Bronte's words were absolute law. "Then what should I do, sir?" Martelli asked, carefully setting his wine glass down on the table, his eyes desperate for instruction.

"Let the Lemoyne Raiders do it," Bronte declared, a cruel smile stretching his lips. He leaned back, his eyes half-closed in contemplation. "Don't those damned scoundrels love money the most? Find someone to spread the word. Give them Mr. Van der Linde's whereabouts. I think seventy thousand dollars will be an irresistible fortune for them. Once they kill Mr. Van der Linde or rob him clean, then you can make your move! After all," Bronte chuckled, a dry, mirthless sound, "combating criminals is the solemn responsibility of great public welfare individuals like us, isn't it? Hahahaha…"

Bronte threw back his head and laughed, a sound devoid of mirth, filled only with chilling calculation. He reveled in such methods, which allowed him to publicly posture as righteous, profit immensely, and eliminate his enemies without ever dirtying his own hands. As for things being "too coincidental"? It didn't matter.

Dead men told no tales, and no living soul would dare openly accuse him, not as long as he maintained his facade and adhered to the unspoken rules. After all, which of these upper-class individuals didn't already know about each other's sordid dealings?

"Oh ho ho, Mr. Van der Linde is quite interesting, but interesting people never live very long, hahaha," Bronte murmured, his eyes fixed on some distant, unseen point. "That's the most common thing in Saint Denis! Alright, Signor Martelli, start your work, and remember to clean up the scene. Leave no trace."

"Yes, sir!" Martelli nodded heavily, a grim determination hardening his features. He turned, retrieved two of his men, and slipped out of the manor, swallowed by the deepening twilight.

Even though everyone could see Bronte's orchestration, his intricate web of manipulation, no one would ever openly accuse him. It wasn't him who pulled the trigger. This was the rule, the invisible, unbreakable boundary they had all drawn for themselves, a circle that both restricted and protected them. For men like Bronte, the benefits of adhering to this twisted code always, always, outweighed the drawbacks.