Francisco

At this very moment, far away in the opulent, yet increasingly tense, heart of Saint Denis, Signor Bronte was anything but the jovial, party-throwing king his public facade suggested. For two days, he hadn't shown his face, a deliberate, ominous absence. These titans of high society rarely indulged in frivolous, daily soirées; their lives were a meticulous tapestry woven from power, influence, and the art of bleeding the city dry.

The same held true for Signor Bronte. He sat, a brooding figure, on the velvet sofa of his lavish Bronte Mansion, a financial statement clutched in his hand, his brows drawn together so tightly they threatened to fuse into a single, angry line.

"Signor Martelli," Bronte's voice, as cold and emotionless as a slab of marble, sliced through the heavy air, sending a shiver down one's spine. "Can you, by some miracle, explain why our moonshine and tobacco businesses have suffered such a significant reduction in production this week?"

Bronte, to his credit, never resorted to vulgar, public torture or direct assassinations of his subordinates. But no one, not a single living soul, underestimated the quiet menace of Signor Bronte. Every soul he had ever disliked, every minor inconvenience, had somehow found their way to the bottom of the lake, offering a grisly feast for the alligators.

Hearing the chilling question, Signor Martelli, who stood beside him like a nervous statue, quickly stammered, "Big Boss, the plummet in moonshine and tobacco profits is… due to the two major families in Rhodes. The amount of moonshine and tobacco they've transported is more than half less than usual. It's said," he paused, swallowing hard, "that some unknown gang members ambushed them on the way, confiscating more than half of their damned goods, which led to our diminished profits here."

"Unknown gang members robbing?" Bronte's eyes, usually as placid as a pond, now sparked with a dangerous fire. He slammed the financial statement onto the polished table, the sound cracking like a whip. "Figlio di puttana! Didn't they send people to eliminate these brigands? Or are these damned 'criminals' actually people from these two major families, trying to play me for a fool?!" His voice rose, tinged with a furious suspicion.

Signor Bronte, after all, was the undisputed King of Saint Denis, the clandestine monarch of its underworld! Most of his vast income flowed from the protection money he extorted, the opium he peddled, the human lives he trafficked, and the usurious loans and commissions he levied with an iron fist. And the tobacco and moonshine businesses of those two major families in Rhodes?

That was his primary source of commission, a golden goose he plucked without lifting a finger. If those Rhodes families wanted to peddle their wares in Saint Denis, they coughed up fifty percent of their profits to Signor Bronte. Fifty percent! For doing absolutely nothing! They had, after all, obtained "trade rights" from him, so it was only fair, wasn't it? (In the game, those Rhodes families did pay tribute to Bronte, who maintained the public facade of a charitable businessman.)

This delightful arrangement, however, also meant that while the Rhodes families outwardly served Signor Bronte, deep down, a festering resentment simmered. They constantly conjured up flimsy excuses to reduce their tribute. This, precisely, was why Signor Bronte's first thought was suspicion of them, not some phantom gang.

"Signor Martelli!" Bronte snarled, his voice like ice splintering.

Signor Martelli bowed, a red flower pinned to his suit lapel, a stark symbol of his precarious status within the Bronte faction. "From this moment forth, you will take our men to the two major families in Rhodes, and you will personally watch them load and transport the goods! Personally watch them deliver the goods, sh*t! If there are no so-called 'gang members' on the road, then those two damned families will have to seriously consider how to appease my wrath!"

Bronte's voice was a chilling whisper, his eyes shadowed, radiating an unspoken menace that commanded respect without needing a single display of overt anger. Bronte's fangs were finally beginning to show, a stark, terrifying glint of their true sharpness.

"Yes, Signore!" Signor Martelli bowed again, then spun on his heel and strode out, his subordinates trailing behind him like loyal shadows.

Watching Martelli retreating figure, Bronte's brow furrowed, a new, unsettling thought beginning to bloom in his mind. If this mysterious gang truly existed, what in God's name were they?

His, Bronte's, reputation was a leviathan that cast its shadow across the entire damned Lemoyne. Those petty, fly-by-night gangs wouldn't dare provoke him. Only a select few, those with the guts of a rabid badger, would even contemplate touching his business.

First, there was the O'Driscoll Gang, a snarling pack of mad dogs. While their leader, Colm, might not be a "big shot" in the eyes of the Van der Linde Gang, he was a top-tier terror in the West. O'Driscoll members seemed to infest every damn corner of the frontier; wherever there were people, there were O'Driscolls. They weren't a unified bunch, some robbing here, some there, so it wouldn't be entirely strange for some audacious fool to pilfer his goods.

Second, the Del Lobos, but their focus wouldn't be on moonshine and tobacco. They had their own sordid industries, caring little for such small-fry profits. And being organized and disciplined, they wouldn't carelessly provoke other gangs.

Third, the Lemoyne Raiders, those scruffy veterans. But they generally kept to themselves, preferring to rob, sell illegal weapons, or assassinate corrupt government officials. The old witch in Rhodes even had dealings with them, so the possibility of them being involved was small. Of course, it was also possible someone among them knew the exact, agonizing details of his last encounter with that particular gang, and this was their way of seeking bloody retaliation.

And then there was the last group, the one that had made Bronte's blood run cold recently, the one that now occupied his every waking thought: the Van der Linde Gang!

Thinking of the Van der Linde Gang, Bronte felt a palpable wave of unease wash over him, a chilling premonition. Sht!* These people were practically superhumans! After hearing the horrifying tale of four of them single-handedly slaughtering fifty Lemoyne Raiders, Signor Bronte had launched a ruthless investigation into every scrap of news surrounding the Blackwater Town robbery. The intelligence he'd received had made him feel as if he'd stumbled through the very gates of hell.

These damned, utterly insane individuals had actually fought their way through the entire Blackwater Town! They had butchered the Pinkerton Detectives and lawmen originally stationed there to protect against the Del Lobos, unleashing such devastation that Blackwater Town wouldn't recover for twenty years, effectively crushing its chance to evolve into the second Saint Denis in the West. More importantly, these devils had suffered zero casualties, and even dragged a group of screaming female burdens with them during their escape!

How could such terrifying deeds not make Bronte tremble? He truly believed that these madmen would, by God, sneak into his very mansion in the dead of night and steal the gold from under his bed!

"Damn Francisco!" Bronte roared, slamming his fist on the table. "Immediately take men to support Signor Martelli! Both of you, follow directly behind those Rhodes wagons! If it's confirmed that our opponents are from the Van der Linde Gang, and if you can completely encircle them, then by all that's holy, don't let a single one escape! If you feel they are not opponents, then stand down, make no move, just return to me!" Bronte's face was a mask of sheer ruthlessness.

So what if a gang boasted a few superhumans? He, Bronte, had been in this treacherous business for decades; he wasn't some easily swayed fool! Of course, before committing to a full-blown war, he'd let those two Rhodes families test the waters. If the enemy truly consisted of nothing but superhumans, then he, Bronte, would, naturally, remain the most amiable, understanding gentleman in all of Saint Denis.

Francisco, one of Bronte's top enforcers, a man who commanded hundreds of subordinates, understood the grim implication. With his support