How the turntables

The tables had not merely turned; they had been violently overturned, spilling the contents of power and dignity across the opulent rug of Bronte Manor. The offense and defense were utterly reversed, the situation flipped on its very head. Signor Bronte, the cunning king of Saint Denis's underworld, knew, with a bitter taste in his mouth, that when one is under another's roof – especially when that roof is his own and the other man holds a metaphorical blade to his throat – one must bow one's head.

As Mr. Dutch, a picture of insouciant charm, relentlessly mocked him, Signor Bronte's face darkened, a stormy mask of impotent rage. Not a single retort escaped his lips. His mind, however, raced, processing with lightning speed the true, chilling reason for Mr. Dutch's brazen arrival.

It was simple, brutally clear: Signor Bronte could not, dared not, afford to have anything happen to him now. He still needed to be alive, a living, breathing shield, to bear the crushing weight of public and political pressure for Mr. Dutch's continued "legitimacy."

Thinking of this, Signor Bronte's heart, previously a tight knot of terror, finally relaxed, but only slightly, like a spring unwinding by a hair's breadth.

Signor Bronte's face remained grim, a study in ugly, controlled fury. He watched Mr. Dutch stroll over, completely unconcerned by the numerous handguns still pointed at him by Bronte's cowering men. "Mr. Van der Linde," Bronte sneered, his voice barely controlled, "even if I am a clown, you are still worse than a clown now, aren't you? Otherwise, you wouldn't have come here, would you, you desperate fool?"

Mr. Dutch, utterly unconcerned by Signor Bronte's pathetic attempt at mockery – for he now held an ace, a move that could easily crush his opponent – merely chuckled.

"Oh, enough, Signor Bronte, stop making me laugh. I admit you have a real talent for dressing up as a clown; look at those damned pajamas you're wearing, they look as ridiculous as an old lady's foot wraps. Even the words that come out of your mouth can easily make me burst into laughter. If you don't believe me, if you don't think my amusement is genuine, then I can leave now. Even if it means becoming outlaws again, it would just be starting over, wouldn't it, a grand adventure!"

Mr. Dutch's words were a fatal, exquisitely painful blow to Signor Bronte at this very moment. What he feared most, what truly turned his blood to ice, was Mr. Dutch leaving, abandoning him to the wolves, leaving him utterly helpless and exposed. So, facing Mr. Dutch's relentless mockery, he not only had to accept every cutting word entirely but also ensure that Mr. Dutch harbored no lingering complaints, no shred of dissatisfaction.

Signor Bronte's face was a study in extreme grimness, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached, his vicious expression looking as if he wanted, with every fiber of his being, to skin Mr. Dutch alive and strip his bones clean. But in that agonizing moment, the vicious snarl on his face instantly vanished, replaced by a dazzling, utterly fake, but undeniably bright and happy smile.

"Hahahahaha, Mr. Van der Linde, Mr. Van der Linde!" Signor Bronte roared with forced mirth, his voice ringing with a false cordiality.

"It's truly delightful to speak with you; you are truly a man of unparalleled courage! I never, never misjudged you! I believe that in this entire city, only you and I, the two of us, possess true intelligence! As for the rest of those gentlemen," he waved a dismissive hand, a sneer flashing in his eyes, "they are merely despicable, vulgar, and utterly shameless scoundrels! Hahaha, Mr. Van der Linde, I am very pleased you could honor us with your visit as a guest."

Signor Bronte stood up entirely from the sofa, his face completely devoid of any lingering viciousness, instead radiating a forced sunshine and uncontrollable, brittle laughter. He even stepped forward, bowed slightly, a gesture of profound respect, and grasped Mr. Dutch's hands, shaking them with immense, almost frantic cordiality.

And as Signor Bronte's attitude snapped like a broken bone, the cowering family members in the living room who had been pointing guns at Mr. Dutch and his two companions, now, with a collective sigh of relief, lowered their weapons. Several even stepped forward with beaming smiles towards Mr. Arthur and Mr. John, complimenting them profusely, almost fawning, and eagerly guiding them to sit on the opulent living room sofa.

"Oh, ho ho, dear sirs, it's a profound pleasure to make your acquaintance. May I inquire as to your names?" one of them gushed, practically beaming as he gently took the hostage gunman from Mr. Arthur's still-clenched grasp.

Mr. Arthur, his own face a mask of internal conflict, looked at the sudden, overwhelming friendliness radiating from the approaching men, and then at Mr. Dutch, who was already ensconced on the sofa, a triumphant smile on his face. With a grunt, Arthur finally released the gunman's neck, sliding his gun back into its holster. He nodded somewhat unnaturally, feeling the sheer absurdity of it all. "Arthur, Arthur Morgan."

Mr. John did the same, his face a grimace of discomfort. He looked at the leader who had, just moments ago, been a picture of vicious menace but now showed no trace of it, his smiles sickly sweet. "John Marston," he muttered, clearly uncomfortable with the dizzying shift in atmosphere.

"Oh, it's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Morgan and Mr. Marston!" Signor Bronte declared, his voice dripping with false warmth. He even walked over directly, personally guiding them to sit on the plush sofa opposite him.

"Come, gentlemen, please be seated! I believe we had a slight misunderstanding just now. Libbie!" he barked at a nearby maid. "Quickly bring out the drinks; this is not how we treat our esteemed guests, ladies!"

Mr. Dutch, meanwhile, had comfortably settled into a side sofa, his own personal throne. With utmost ease, he picked up a fat, expensive cigar from the table, expertly cut an opening with a small blade, then gestured with a dismissive flick of his hand for someone to come and light it for him. He acted like a pampered old man, completely at ease, even pushing the exquisite cigar box towards Mr. Arthur and Mr. John.

"Arthur, John, try them, boys. These are Signor Bronte's cherished treasures, far more luxurious than the cheap stuff we usually smoke." Mr. Dutch took a contented sniff of the cigar smoke, a rich, fragrant aroma wafting towards him, a scent of money and power.

"Alright." Mr. Arthur nodded, picked up the cigar box from the table, and handed one to Mr. John, who took it with a hesitant expression.

Signor Bronte, witnessing this brazen display of comfortable familiarity, showed not a single trace of anger. His smile remained fixed, unwavering, and he even waved a dismissive hand.

"Libbie!" he snapped. "Quickly light Mr. Morgan's and Mr. Marston's cigars! Damn it, have you forgotten my instructions on how to treat guests, you dolt?" The maid standing nearby quickly scurried forward, striking a match and lighting Mr. Arthur's and Mr. John's cigars. Signor Bronte also settled back onto the sofa, his face still radiating forced smiles and brittle cordiality.

"Oh, ho ho, Signor Bronte," Dutch began, his voice laced with biting sarcasm, a comfortable chuckle escaping him.

"You truly have a knack for being a clown; your expression changes so naturally, not a shred of dignity bothers you. The circus, I daresay, would truly be enhanced with you as its star performer!" Signor Bronte had given face, but Mr. Dutch, a cruel smile playing on his lips, did not return the favor. He continued to mercilessly mock Signor Bronte, utterly uncaring whether he was on Bronte's territory or whether Bronte had just performed a dizzying about-face in attitude.

The same terrifying question remained in the air, unspoken: Who truly wanted to kill Mr. Dutch most now? Not the Pinkerton Detective, not the deceased Mr. Mac (who, in this particular timeline, was still very much alive), but this very smiling Signor Bronte before him. Bronte, it was clear, had truly lived in the big city for a long time, mastering its treacherous ways of survival, its brutal, unspoken rules.

Listening to Mr. Dutch's intermittent mockery, Signor Bronte remained unconcerned. He even laughed heartily, a forced, grating sound, and complimented,

"Hahahaha, Mr. Van der Linde, it seems my self-control is quite good, wouldn't you agree? I imagine that one day, I might actually apply to the circus and try it out. Of course, right now, I might need a little help from you, which I believe is also the purpose of your visit, is it not?"

Mr. Dutch burst into hearty laughter at Signor Bronte's unexpected, almost self-deprecating words. "Hahaha, Signor Bronte, you truly make me think highly of you. A coward like you is hard to find these days, and what's even rarer is your astonishing ability to adapt. I think becoming your enemy might be a very terrifying thing, after all, you might stealthily kill someone in their home when they are completely unguarded, wouldn't you?"

As Mr. Dutch casually uttered these words, the very air in the room seemed to crackle. Signor Bronte was genuinely stunned for a moment, and his heart suddenly jolted with a profound, terrifying alarm. Damn it, he thought, his eyes widening. Mr. Dutch is right! Mr. Martelli, whom Signor Bronte had sent to raid the home, was already on the boat and might even be close to Valentine!

Seeing Signor Bronte's eyes clearly narrow, a flicker of profound surprise crossing his face, Mr. Dutch instantly became intensely curious. He looked at Signor Bronte, who sat opposite him, with an expression of utterly feigned disbelief, his face brimming with surprised smiles. He pointed a finger at Signor Bronte, and burst into hearty laughter: "Hahaha, Signor Bronte, I think I just saw you look a bit surprised. Damn it, you didn't really send someone to attack my factory, did you?!"

Dutch leaned forward, his voice dropping, a conspiratorial, gleeful whisper. "Let me think. Signor Bronte's top enforcer seems to be Mr. Martelli, and now he's nowhere to be found… Damn it, Signor Bronte, did you send Mr. Martelli by water to bypass outside Saint Denis and go directly to Valentine to attack my factory?! Hahahaha, that's truly a brilliant plan!"

The more Mr. Dutch spoke, the more excited he became, his laughter growing louder, more triumphant. He even picked up the already full glass of red wine in front of him and, with a flourish, clinked it with Mr. Arthur and Mr. John, saying, "Damn it, Arthur, John. Look, this is Signor Bronte, a heartless scoundrel. We're not the only ones who can launch sneak attacks. In fact, these damned Italian Mafia are the most skilled at these crooked schemes!"

"Cheers!" Mr. Arthur and Mr. John, their faces now beaming with genuine, unbridled amusement, raised their glasses and clinked them with Mr. Dutch. The smiles on their faces, which moments ago had been forced and awkward, were now completely, delightfully genuine, reflecting the sheer absurdity and the exhilarating danger of their lives.

Damn it, they thought, a shared, silent chuckle passing between them, you dare to attack a factory with five bunkers, five Maxims, one artillery piece, and forty gunmen? Heck, even the Van der Linde Gang at its peak would be very nervous seeing such a defense!