Damn you!

Meanwhile, inside the very heart of the Bronte Mansion, a tempest raged. Signor Bronte, who had, with such meticulous foresight, moved his entire family to his secluded suburban villa yesterday morning, had returned. The arrogant confidence that had radiated from him when he departed was now utterly, spectacularly gone, replaced by a disheveled, heartbroken, and utterly frenzied state.

"F*ck! F***! F***!!!"**

Roars of pure, unadulterated fury echoed from Signor Bronte's mansion, punctuated by the shattering symphony of breaking wine bottles. He was a man possessed. One could only conclude that while he was, indeed, truly Italian; his dramatic outbursts carried a distinct, almost comedic, hint of Germanic influence.

Amidst Signor Bronte's furious shouts, a bottle of priceless red wine, hurled with the force of a desperate man, shattered a windowpane. It flew out of the room from the second floor, a crimson projectile arcing through the air, before smashing into a thousand glittering pieces on the first-floor courtyard below.

The bottle shattered, and crimson wine, thick as blood, splattered everywhere, staining the pristine stone. This fifty-dollar bottle of top-tier, imported wine, a fortune to the common man, was smashed on the ground just like that. The mere scent of the overflowing wine, rich and decadent, was enough to cover a common worker's entire week's wages.

The room, however, remained brightly lit, illuminating the scene of utter chaos. Signor Bronte, his eyes bloodshot, screamed and yelled, his voice raw, frantically smashing every opulent item within his reach. A group of familiar figures stood rigid in the room, a silent audience to their master's meltdown.

Upon closer inspection, they could be recognized as the same family members who had attended the previous, solemn meeting, their faces now pale with fear. But several were conspicuously missing, their absence a gaping hole in Bronte's inner circle. Aside from Signor Martelli, who had been dispatched on the disastrous ambush against Dutch Van der Linde's stronghold, at least three other positions, once occupied by loyal capos, were now vacant, a chilling testament to the gang's recent brutal efficiency.

"Damn it, they betrayed me! They dared to betray me! F*! F***! I will skin them alive and strip their bones! Damn it, I will kill their entire families! I will turn their women into pigs, and I will have them minced into pulp and fed to pigs!!!"

Signor Bronte screamed and cursed like a madman, his voice reaching a fever pitch of guttural fury. The faces of the crowd below showed a terrifying kaleidoscope of expressions: some were equally indignant, sharing his righteous wrath; some harbored thinly veiled gloating, a flicker of satisfaction in their eyes; and some, disturbingly, seemed utterly indifferent, their faces blank.

The reason for Signor Bronte's current, incandescent frenzy was brutally simple: it was due to the utterly problematic, utterly self-serving behavior of the very thugs he had sent out these past two days. Firstly, Signor Bronte was not, as Dutch Van der Linde perhaps foolishly imagined, a fool.

A man who had been deeply entrenched in the treacherous underworld of society for half his life would not be so stupid as to be unaware of the thugs' inherent nature, nor would he fail to set clear, brutal rules for them. In fact, Signor Bronte had very clearly, very precisely, explained to his subordinates what should and should not be done, what lines could not be crossed.

The reason why these thugs still behaved in such a problematic, disastrous manner lay with the very people who were sent to lead them, to do the work. These individuals, these treacherous snakes, dared to betray him, using this golden opportunity to incite the thugs to indiscriminate murder and robbery outside the city.

They then brutally framed Signor Bronte for the heinous crimes, and even, with sickening audacity, appeared as "witnesses" to give false testimony, confirming Bronte's guilt in instigating murder and robbery. This, precisely, was why Signor Bronte was so utterly consumed by a cold, burning rage.

These two specific crimes, murder and robbery, were pitifully small, insignificant acts for a man of Bronte's stature. But the cumulative, monstrous crimes committed by over a hundred thugs in his name were immeasurable, a mountain of guilt. Not to mention anything else, just what had been uncovered so far included more than thirty cases of robbery and murder. If all of this was officially linked to Signor Bronte, he would have no escape, no possible route to absolution.

The trouble caused by this matter was incomparable to the trouble of merely offending the Van der Linde Gang. The Van der Linde Gang had no background, no political backing; apart from their formidable military strength, there was absolutely nothing else to truly fear from them. However, these upper-class individuals, these ruthless elites, were interconnected, one linked to another in a dense, unbreakable chain of power and influence.

To solve this escalating problem, he would have to resolve this entire complex series of issues, and he couldn't use violence, his favored tool, which was the most troublesome, most frustrating part.

"Damn it! Damn it, you all !" Signor Bronte cursed repeatedly, his voice hoarse with fury, his face contorted in a mask of impotent rage. The rest of the people in the room lowered their heads even further, remaining silent like timid, cowering turtles. Even Bronte himself could no longer be entirely sure how many truly loyal people he had left among them. Years of Saint Denis's decadent, high society life had, he realized with a bitter pang, rotted these people to their very core.

However, no matter what, he had to find a way, a solution, to solve this disastrous problem now.

Signor Bronte finally ceased his furious cursing, his face incredibly grim as he slowly, heavily, sat back down on the sofa, his eyes burning with a desperate, calculating light.

"Jemps," Signor Bronte's voice was a low, chilling growl. He looked at the burly man, Jemps William, who stood rigidly at the front of the cowed family members, and asked, "have those three who betrayed me been found?" Jemps William was the new ace enforcer, promoted after Francisco's brutal, unexpected death. Although his personal ability could not compare to the late, lamented Francisco or the now-traumatized Signor Martelli, at present, among the crippled remnants of his inner circle, he was the least crippled, and thus, tragically, the only usable option. Fortunately, this particular brute's work efficiency was, at least, quite good.

"They have been found, Boss." Jemps said in a muffled voice, his head bowed, not daring to meet Bronte's furious gaze. "They are all hiding in the house next to the police station now. There are many police officers and gunmen outside, and our people can't get in."

"Damn it! These damned bastards had already planned this! Just waiting for me to show a weakness! Damn it!" Listening to Jemps' words, Bronte cursed, his voice thick with furious exasperation. To get through this treacherous stage, he either had to magically clear all the incriminating connections, or, more realistically, directly kill the witnesses to prevent his conviction.

Clearing all the connections was completely impossible; these damned Saint Denis upper-class individuals clearly wanted to use this golden opportunity to directly eliminate him, to devour his empire. Currently, his only viable option was to eliminate the witnesses, to prevent himself from being convicted by their damning testimony.

It was only because the Van der Linde Gang, those unpredictable devils, had, in their own bloodthirsty way, killed all the thugs during the day that Bronte's workload was greatly reduced. Otherwise, the path of killing witnesses would also be utterly impossible; how could one possibly kill over a hundred witnesses?

However, even with the greatly reduced workload, he was still utterly helpless at this moment. His subordinates did not possess the impossible strength of the Van der Linde Gang. If they were to forcibly kill them, there would inevitably be casualties, and these witnesses, being legitimate citizens of Saint Denis, had status.

Their deaths would undoubtedly lead directly back to Signor Bronte, a damning chain of evidence. Furthermore, his own loyal family members who specialized in such illicit activities had been brutally wiped out by the Van der Linde Gang, leaving him with no one capable of carrying out such dark deeds now. This was truly a chain of disastrous events, leaving Signor Bronte utterly, hopelessly helpless.

"F* you, Dutch Van der Linde! F***!"**

The more Signor Bronte thought about it, the angrier, the more wronged he felt. All the disastrous events of the past two days, all his current woes, were a direct result of the Van der Linde Gang wiping out all of his younger generation's forces. The more Bronte thought about it, the more his anger festered, and he cursed Dutch Van der Linde with every ounce of his being.

However, just as he uttered two more curses, the door to his second-floor room was violently kicked open from the outside.

"Bang!" The kick was so powerful, so utterly unexpected, that it even caused the upper part of the doorframe to splinter and fall off. The entire ornate door panel crashed crookedly against the wall behind it, shattering with a deafening sound, even knocking off a layer of plaster.

"F* you! Who is it?!"** This deafening bang startled everyone in the room. They quickly pulled out their guns, their faces pale with fear, and looked towards the shattered doorway. Signor Bronte's heart, in particular, suddenly plummeted, sinking into his stomach. He almost instantly, instinctively, wanted to hide directly under the sofa, a pathetic attempt at evasion. He had even, chillingly, guessed who the audacious newcomers were.

As their gazes shifted, Bronte's subordinate gunman, who had been dutifully guarding the door, was lifted like a terrified chick and held aloft in front of a man as burly as an ox. The burly man, wearing a battered gambler's hat, led the way into the room, his figure silhouetted in the doorway, standing to the left. His revolver, held steady, was aimed directly at Signor Bronte's head, who was furthest inside the room, a clear, deadly threat.

Then, another man with long, wild hair covering half his face, and radiating the unmistakable aura of a hardened bandit, strode into the opulent living room. He held two guns, aiming them with chilling precision at the cowering people in the room, seemingly ready to unleash a hail of bullets at any moment, exerting an immense, suffocating pressure.

And after these two, a figure with a surprisingly familiar face, even a strong, almost charming smile, and two exquisitely groomed, almost comical, little mustaches, elegantly walked into the living room.

Dutch Van der Linde didn't even bother to draw his gun. He walked casually, calmly, radiating an aura of utter fearlessness, directly towards Signor Bronte. As he walked, he spread his arms wide, laughing arrogantly, mockingly, his voice echoing with taunting glee.

"Oh ho ho, Signor Bronte, I'm so sorry to see you like this… this ridiculous sight, wearing pajamas like a clown for hire. Oh ho ho ho, I think you might even shine in a circus! With your mastery of Italian, perhaps you could make the audience roar with laughter just by speaking Italian, and the lions in the circus might even be charmed by you! And then, you might miss living like a clown in this luxurious villa, ha ha ha ha…"

Dutch Van der Linde's comfortable, confident laughter resonated through the opulent living room, filled with biting sarcasm. His words were a direct, calculated assault on Signor Bronte's pride, hitting him with the same devastating force as when Signor Bronte had mockingly taunted Dutch Van der Linde and his gang about being uncouth cowboys living with cows on the prairie, during a lavish dinner party some time ago. It was just that the roles, now, had been brutally, deliciously reversed.

Signor Bronte's face was ashen, drained of all color, being verbally assaulted by Dutch Van der Linde, yet he dared not move a single muscle, frozen in a tableau of impotent rage.