Plans

After the gang members' initial euphoria over the mountain of cash began to settle, Dutch finally spoke, his voice cutting through the remaining hum of excitement like a sharp knife through butter.

"Alright, gentlemen and ladies," Dutch declared, a hand raised for silence, his eyes sweeping over their eager faces. "This seventy thousand dollars is merely a happy anomaly, a special circumstance. We won't see such a windfall every day, but we should maintain an income of at least sixty thousand dollars a month. That, my friends, is enough for us to continue our glorious expansion!" He paused, his expression shifting from triumphant to grim. "However, far more important than mere income is our current predicament. The Pinkerton Detectives, the upper echelons of Saint Denis, our rival gangs—yes, even those persistent O'Driscolls—and our perpetually 'wanted' status... these are the problems we must address now!"

As Dutch spoke, a sudden, almost reverent quiet descended upon the room. Every eye, every soul, was fixed on him, sitting or standing around the impromptu bar, waiting for his next pronouncement.

Seeing their rapt attention, Dutch's face darkened, his jaw tightening. He leaned forward, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "Actually, ladies and gentlemen, we encountered a damned ambush on our return! If not for Arthur and John, we might not have recovered this seventy thousand dollars at all!" He slammed a fist lightly on the table, a sharp thud that made a few of the girls jump.

"Shit!" Mac exploded, his face twisting into a mask of furious indignation. He leapt to his feet, practically vibrating with rage. "Dutch, who was chasing you?! Just say the word, and I'll go kill them all right now!" He cracked his knuckles, a wild glint in his eye.

"Alright, child, calm yourself." Dutch waved a dismissive hand, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "The fools who were chasing us have all been dealt with. But this is merely the beginning; the real troubles are what we need to solve!"

Dutch's gaze swept over everyone's faces, his expression hardening into a cold, predatory mask. He spoke in a low, dangerous voice, each word a hammer blow.

"During this time, Hosea and I opened our first clothing store in Saint Denis and had some… dealings… with the upper-class people of Saint Denis." Dutch spat the words "upper-class" like a curse.

"These damned Saint Denis rich people are heartless, cunning bastards. They want to use us, they want to annex us, but on the surface, they still feign compliance, hiding their despicable motives behind smiles and pleasantries!" Dutch curled his lip in disgust. "And Mr. Bronte is one of them. He is the big boss of the Saint Denis Mafia family, the undisputed underground king of that city. The attack on the train was a direct consequence of his instigation!" Dutch's eyes glittered with a dangerous, almost reptilian coldness.

"These damned jackals will constantly probe for our information, search for our weaknesses, seek methods to deal with us, and they will never stop trying!" Dutch slammed his fist on the table again, a louder thud this time. "These damned things will have a huge impact on our lives, making us live in constant danger! This is unacceptable, gentlemen, ladies, this cannot be tolerated!" His voice rose to a chilling crescendo.

"So we must resist! We must tightly bind their hands and feet, break their limbs, and devour them, piece by agonizing piece!" Dutch's face grew more ferocious with each word, his eyes glinting in the dim light of the train car, making even the bravest members shrink back slightly. He was radiating the aura of a hungry, coiled viper.

"So, Davey, Mac, Sean, Bill, Lenny, John," Dutch's gaze settled on his most formidable fighters, his voice a low command, "this is your job now, gentlemen!"

"Okay, Dutch, you tell us!" Davey snarled, his face contorted into a vicious grin. He cracked his neck. "Whoever you say to kill, we'll kill them! Damn Saint Denis, this city needs to pay for its mistakes!"

Davey, unlike the more introspective Arthur, was pure, unadulterated ferocity. He and Mac were a terrifying duo, their marksmanship—even praised by Micah himself—a testament to their raw combat power.

"No, Davey, no." Dutch waved a hand dismissively, almost a soft caress of the air. "We cannot threaten Saint Denis. We still need the upper-class people of Saint Denis to maintain our… white-glove identity, child. And Mr. Bronte, believe it or not, is an important figure in maintaining that facade. So not only can we not kill him, we actually need to help him! Even if Mr. Bronte targets us, we must repay evil with good, and actively help and protect him. I think he will definitely come to his senses!"

Dutch's words were, as always, a magnificent tapestry of glorious, righteous-sounding lies, even when describing cold-blooded murder. Listen, he thought, assisting local police in dealing with troublemakers—what a creatively pleasant phrase!

"Listen to me, children." Dutch leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Mr. Angelo Bronte is the undisputed controller of Saint Denis's gray businesses. As far as I know, he actually has related business dealings with the two major families of Rhodes—such as the Gray Family's tobacco business and the Braithwaite family's moonshine business. In fact, the ultimate controller behind these operations is still Mr. Bronte! And the Lemoyne Raiders, skulking around Saint Denis, also engage in their own arms trade, which has undoubtedly posed a certain… threat… to Mr. Bronte's personal safety!"

Dutch's expression darkened, his voice laced with mock indignation.

"But this won't do, gentlemen! This won't do! Whether it's moonshine or tobacco, or the Lemoyne Raiders' arms trade, these all need to be taxed! But these damned families are deceiving Mr. Bronte, actively evading protection taxes!

This is extremely detrimental to the entire national market and the innocent people of Saint Denis! Especially since these damned families still maintain slavery, and all the people who farm and make moonshine are ordinary, enslaved individuals!

Damn it, this is simply heinous! And it greatly damages Mr. Bronte's personal reputation!"

Dutch looked around, his eyes wide with feigned outrage, as if he were discussing a grave injustice against humanity.

"And the very existence of the Lemoyne Raiders," Dutch continued, his voice resonating with a chilling righteousness, "is also a huge and intolerable security risk for Mr. Bronte's moonshine and tobacco shipments! Therefore, for the sacred safety of Saint Denis, and for the convenient, unimpeded flow of Mr. Bronte's moonshine and tobacco shipments, I need you to take some of our men to the outskirts of Saint Denis, send all the Lemoyne Raiders straight to heaven," Dutch paused, a flicker of pure malice in his eyes, "and then build a few easily defensible bunkers in the secluded wilderness around Saint Denis, preferably not too far from the roads, to facilitate our assistance to Mr. Bronte in guarding the roads and ensuring the safe delivery of his tobacco and moonshine!"

Dutch's face hardened, his smile now a thin, dangerous line. "Of course, although our actions are purely benevolent, Mr. Bronte cannot be ungrateful. He will voluntarily give us half a cart of all his tobacco and moonshine shipments as our reward and our… tax." Dutch leaned in, his voice dropping to a low, intimate growl.

"Mr. Bronte is a big shot in Saint Denis, a very powerful figure! I admire him greatly. But his men may often defect and flee Saint Denis, and at that time, we will, naturally, need to help Mr. Bronte deal with them completely! In short, you must ensure that Mr. Bronte's interests within Saint Denis suffer no loss! Can you do it, gentlemen?"

Dutch's gaze was dark, his words dripping with light and goodwill, yet their true meaning was cold enough to freeze blood.

"I understand, Dutch, I understand what you mean!" Davey nodded, a truly sinister grin spreading across his face, a mirror image of Dutch's inner thoughts.

"Very good, Davey, very good." Dutch chuckled, a deep, satisfied rumble. "You depart tomorrow, hahaha. I think Mr. Bronte will surely love this gift from me!" He threw his head back, a booming laugh echoing through the train car, genuinely happy to be "helping" Mr. Bronte, for this was, in his own twisted logic, a truly benevolent deed.