Game Over

When Dutch, with a knowing smirk, exposed his innermost thoughts and, with terrifying precision, completely guessed his clandestine plan, Signor Bronte's carefully constructed composure finally, utterly, shattered. A cold sweat plastered his silken pajamas to his skin. He was truly, utterly, panicked as sh*t!

But even though his mind screamed in utter terror, his face remained a mask of forced calm. He even managed a hearty, booming laugh, picked up his wine glass, and, with a trembling hand, raised it high, clinking it intimately with Dutch's.

"Hahaha, Mr. Van der Linde, Mr. Van der Linde!" Bronte roared, his voice thin, reedy, utterly devoid of genuine mirth.

"Your idea is truly brilliant, but why would I do such a thing? Mr. Van der Linde. Perhaps there's a slight misunderstanding between us, but I never take these misunderstandings to heart. People have different personalities and tempers; small frictions and misunderstandings are not worth killing over. How could I possibly send people to ambush your factory? After all, your factory is a legitimate business, protected by federal law. Oh, my dear sir, you are truly humorous."

Signor Bronte was gnashing his teeth so hard in his heart, he thought his jaw might crack. But his face remained wreathed in a sickly sweet, utterly fake smile. However, amidst his internal turmoil, a flicker of desperate hope ignited within him. He began to feel incredibly fortunate, fortunate that he had dispatched Mr. Martelli and his precious reserves so early; they were probably almost there by now, their little fleet inching towards Valentine.

And now, even if Dutch, with his infuriating prescience, had guessed his plan, it didn't matter. His best men, his last reserves, were already outside Saint Denis, committed to their watery assault. Even if they rushed back, it would be too late to stop them. As long as tonight's agonizing crisis passed, he would only have good news afterward.

However, Dutch Van der Linde truly made him look at him in a new, terrifying light this time. This man, this damned outlaw, genuinely possessed a cunning wisdom that transcended the common street thug. He was even, chillingly, unrestricted by the rigid, predictable rules of the city, operating with a ruthless pragmatism that defied comprehension.

It seemed he was even more difficult to deal with than the established, ossified upper-class figures of Saint Denis. Especially that damned, stinking, utterly insolent mouth of his! Bronte wished, with every fiber of his being, that he could reach across the table and tear it to shreds!

Looking at Signor Bronte's forced, sickly sweet smile and listening to his desperate, explaining voice, Dutch's suspicion was utterly confirmed. Very good, he thought, a smug grin playing on his lips. Signor Bronte was indeed a scoundrel, a predictable, scheming viper. Thinking of Mr. Martelli leading a pathetic group of men to attack his formidable stronghold, Dutch's face was full of genuine, unrestrained smiles.

He smiled and nodded, his voice dripping with condescending sweetness. "Is that so? Signor Bronte, I never thought you were so noble. But it's just as well, after all, the five bunkers, five Maxim guns, one cannon, and forty gunmen I built at my factory are not to be trifled with, my dear sir. Fewer than a hundred people attacking my factory will never return, not a single one."

"F*ck!" Hearing Dutch's smiling words, each delivered with casual, almost murderous politeness, Signor Bronte finally, explosively, couldn't help but blurt out a curse, his carefully maintained facade shattering.

One of his hands, clutching his wine glass, began to tremble uncontrollably, spilling a few precious drops onto the ornate rug. He looked, incredulous, at Dutch, who was sitting on the sofa diagonally opposite him, calmly smoking a cigar with a contented, infuriating expression. Incredulous, he opened his eyes wide, so wide they threatened to pop out of their sockets, and stammered,

"Five, five, five, five bunkers?! Five Maxim guns?! Dutch, Mr. Dutch Van der Linde, oh, sh*t! Are you building a military zone?! Damn it, even a military zone isn't as heavily defended as yours, you madman!"

Bronte trembled all over, a cold dread seeping into his very bones, his mind utterly dazed, spinning wildly. He felt cold all over, his skin prickling, looking at the smiling Dutch before him as if he were staring directly into the eyes of a demon crawled out of the deepest pits of hell. Damn it, he thought, a horrifying realization dawning on him. What the hell are you? Why would anyone, anyone in their right mind, build five bunkers outside their factory? Is this something a human being could even conceive of, let alone implement?!

Damn it, his mind screamed. Five bloody turtle shells with murderous crossfire, forty gunmen, five Maxim guns? And a fcking cannon?!

Don't even talk about a hundred people not being able to get in; five hundred people wouldn't be able to do a damn thing against these five big, impregnable turtle shells! If you cut down the surrounding trees and the area is flat, then no matter how many come, they'll all die in a hail of bullets! In this era without RPGs or Tanks, this is f*cking invincible! An impenetrable fortress!

Signor Bronte's eyes were wide, as if they wanted to pop out of their sockets, to escape the horrific truth. He thought of Mr. Martelli, his loyal lieutenant, and the last fifty of his reserve core members he had so foolishly sent with him, his mind completely dazed, utterly paralyzed by the enormity of his catastrophic miscalculation.

If this group of people, his last reserves, were lost again, then Signor Bronte's decades of painstaking work in Saint Denis, his entire empire, would be completely in vain. He wouldn't be able to hold onto any of his hard-won industries, and he himself would even end up in a miserable, ignominious prison cell.

'If it's a person, I'll eat them!' This was the only coherent thought left in Signor Bronte's shattered mind, a desperate, animalistic cry for revenge against the phantom "person" who had orchestrated his downfall.

With his last, desperate flicker of hope, he looked expectantly, pleadingly, at Dutch, who sat on the sofa, radiating smug satisfaction. Bronte forced a pathetic, trembling smile, whispering hopefully, his voice barely a breath, "Ho ho, haha, you're really good at joking, Mr. Van der Linde. What normal person builds bunkers inside their factory?"

Dutch looked at Bronte's ashen, terrified face, a cruel, triumphant smile on his lips. "That's right, Signor Bronte, I'm not normal. Oh, Signor Bronte, ever since I was shot three times in Blackwater Town," he sighed dramatically, shaking his head with mock sorrow,

"I've had a bit of a phobia of insufficient firepower. Oh, damn it, Signor Bronte, you don't know, now if I don't have five Maxim guns guarding me, I can't sleep at night at all! It really makes me feel insecure, it's hard to go to sleep!"

Bronte's heart turned to ashes, crumbling into dust within his chest. He tremblingly extended a finger, his hand shaking so violently that he nearly dropped his cigar. He placed it carefully on the table, stammering, a desperate, final plea of hope escaping his lips. "Then, then you didn't, you didn't cut down the trees around the bunkers, did you? You left some cover, right?"

Dutch looked at Bronte in profound, theatrical surprise, his eyes wide with feigned astonishment. "Of course I cut them down, Signor Bronte! Otherwise, what if the attackers hid in the woods, the cunning devils? To ensure my Maxim guns had ample firing space, a clear line of sight, I cut down trees for a full hundred meters around! And I even used those trees to build three watchtowers, hidden strategically.

I even made the bunkers look like innocent earth mounds, blending them seamlessly with the landscape! I can guarantee that if there are any attacking enemies, they won't discover my bunkers; they'll only be completely mowed down into meat paste in groups by the Maxim guns sticking out of the dark little holes on those small earth mounds after they get close to the bunkers!"

Dutch leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, his face inches from Bronte's. "What's wrong, Signor Bronte? Why do you look so pale? Could it be that you really sent someone to ambush my factory? No way, no way?"

As Dutch spoke, he leaned closer and closer, his smile widening, a demonic gleam in his eyes. Signor Bronte's face grew paler and paler, his skin clammy with fear, and he looked as if he had aged ten years in an instant, his features sagging with despair. He stared at Dutch, who loomed before him, his eyes filled with a raw, primal terror.

He even feared that Dutch's smile, so close, so menacing, would somehow pull the muscles on his face, triggering a hidden bomb somewhere on Dutch's person, blowing him to ashes, ending his miserable existence.

Too terrifying, this man was f*cking terrifying! Bronte had dominated Saint Denis for so many years, he had seen people fight at the drop of a hat, seen people kill at the drop of a hat, seen people risk their entire family's lives for a desperate gamble.

But he had never seen anyone so sneaky, so utterly cunning, and so terrifyingly, unnervingly steady! Shouldn't a person like this be a miser, guarding his money at home and not daring to come out and strive for more?

Damn it, Bronte thought, his mind spiraling into utter chaos. Why is he so calm? Damn it, now he's sitting here so brazenly, could he be carrying bombs all over him? Is he going to blow us all to hell?!

Signor Bronte's entire mentality shattered, crumbling into a million pieces.