Caught

When Dutch, with a smug, knowing smirk, not only exposed his innermost thoughts but also, with infuriating precision, completely guessed his clandestine, desperate plan, Signor Bronte's carefully constructed composure finally, irrevocably, shattered.

A clammy, cold sweat plastered his silken pajamas to his skin, making him shiver. He was truly, utterly, panicked as sh*t! A wild, desperate animal trapped in a gilded cage.

But even though his mind screamed in utter terror, his face remained a mask of forced calm, a grotesque parody of cordiality. He even managed a strained, hearty laugh, picked up his wine glass, his hand trembling almost imperceptibly, and 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, like a rusty hinge. "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. Every muscle in his face ached from the effort of maintaining that sickeningly sweet smile.

He was consumed by a bitter, poisonous rage. He cursed inwardly, Ahaha, old Mr. Martelli, old Mr. Martelli! I've let you down! Recalling that Mr. Martelli and the fifty family members he'd so foolishly sent were about to die, or had already tragically perished, Bronte was so distressed, so utterly consumed by a suffocating despair, that he could barely breathe.

He cried out in his heart, a silent, desperate wail, his smile stretched so taut it looked ready to tear. Looking at Dutch, lounging comfortably in front of him, Bronte wished, with every fiber of his being, that he could leap across the space and kill all three of them right then and there!

However, the fleeting satisfaction of murdering them would be just that: temporary. Afterwards, Bronte would have to utterly abandon his painstakingly built status and vast wealth in Saint Denis. He would have to immediately flee Saint Denis by boat, under the cloak of night, returning to Italy, a defeated, exiled shadow.

For the sake of his decades of ruthless hard work, for the very chance to recover his catastrophic losses in time, Bronte had to, with immense, agonizing effort, put aside his murderous intent towards Dutch.

Damn it, he raged internally, why would such an unpredictable, utterly unhinged creature appear in Saint Denis?! Why don't these damned, unpredictable bastards fight to the death with their gangs of outlaws on the desolate prairie, where they belong?! Why, in God's name, do they come to Saint Denis?!

Damn it, he thought, his jaw clenching. Ever since this idiot came, Bronte hasn't had a single good day! Bronte gritted his teeth, a grinding sound audible only to himself, his hatred for Dutch a burning, corrosive acid in his gut.

Dutch and his gang were not like the predictable, chess-playing upper-class people in the city; he didn't play by their restrained, intricate rules. Conflicts among these damn upper-class societies were usually very restrained, a slow, methodical erosion of the opponent, bit by agonizing bit.

But this damned cowboy came and directly blockaded Saint Denis, tearing away 70% of Bronte's power in one fell swoop! And the remaining 30% were already trapped, besieged, leaving Bronte utterly gutted, returned to the pathetic state of decades ago, all in just one hellish week. He felt as if he had instantly become thirty years younger, transforming overnight from Signor Bronte, the philanthropic merchant of Saint Denis, into a miserable street thug, a sewer rat Bronte.

The little nobody Bronte grew more and more indignant the more he thought about it, the injustice a bitter bile in his throat. He finally couldn't even bother to maintain his grotesque, fake smile, and his face snapped back to its natural, gloomy, murderous expression.

"Alright, Mr. Dutch Van der Linde," Bronte snarled, his voice stripped of its false cordiality, "it seems I truly underestimated you. But even so, you still need to come and help me today, don't you, you arrogant bastard? If I cease to exist, if I am utterly destroyed, then you will become the first target of those damned scumbags, those vultures of Saint Denis. So, what do you intend to do, sir? What's your price?"

Dutch looked at the now truly gloomy Bronte, a picture of relaxed leisure, the smile on his face growing wider, almost predatory. He once again launched a scathing verbal attack on Signor Bronte, rubbing salt into the fresh wounds.

"Look, Arthur, John. How naturally the expression on Signor Bronte's clown face changes. Damn it, if I ever make a movie, I'll definitely name the clown Bronte! As for what to do, Signor Bronte, you just need to give us the location intelligence. Since those damned bastards betrayed you, they must be prepared to face the ultimate consequences of betrayal."

"Hahaha." Arthur chuckled, a genuine sound of amusement, cooperating perfectly with Dutch's sarcasm. John, initially bewildered, turned to look at Dutch, then at Arthur, thought for a moment, and then, with a knowing grin, quickly followed suit with two hearty laughs. "Hehehe..."

Being called a clown by Dutch repeatedly, with a relentless stream of cutting sarcasm, combined with Arthur and John's gleeful, mocking cooperation, Signor Bronte's face grew even more deeply, terrifyingly gloomy.

The murderous intent in his heart, usually so tightly controlled, almost solidified into a tangible, choking presence. Damn you, Dutch Van der Linde, I will kill you!!! his mind screamed. Damn it, look at his two stupid subordinates! Even such damned idiots dare to mock me so wantonly! I will kill all of you! Every last one!

Bronte's face grew increasingly grim, a mask of pure, unadulterated fury. He waved a dismissive hand, not even bothering to speak directly to Dutch anymore. Instead, he snapped at Jemps, his newly promoted, terrified top enforcer, "Jemps, give Dutch Van der Linde your information. Also, go see if Mr. Martelli has returned. I think it's time he came back." Bronte's voice held a desperate, almost pathetic hope.

"Yes, Big Boss!" Jemps nodded, then looked at the three grinning outlaws. "Mr. Van der Linde, Mr. Morgan, and Mr. Marston, please follow me. The exact location requires our people to lead you there before we can indicate it."

Bronte, still clad in his ridiculous pajamas and a silly nightcap, remained silent, his face a thunderous, gloomy mask, looking truly no different from a defeated clown.

Dutch, however, was still relishing his triumph. He smiled, stood up with Arthur and John, and looked at the utterly gloomy Signor Bronte, his voice dripping with continued mockery.

"Alright, Signor Bronte, stop pretending. You just want Mr. Jemps to go to Valentine and call Mr. Martelli back, don't you? Just say it directly. This kind of evasiveness is truly ridiculous, especially your pajama outfit and that damned headscarf on your head. Damn it, what kind of idiot would sit on a sofa wearing such ridiculous clothes and try to cover something up?!

Oh, I remember you seem to have a membership card for our 'VDL' Clothing Store. Why don't you hurry to our 'VDL' Clothing Store and buy a decent outfit to change into? Damn it, your ridiculous appearance has probably already spread among the upper-class people in Saint Denis!"

"Enough! Dutch Van der Linde! I will kill you, I will kill you!!!"

Signor Bronte finally, spectacularly, broke down. He could no longer maintain his image as a gloomy, controlled mob boss. With a guttural roar, he suddenly sprang up from the sofa, his face contorted with pure, unadulterated fury. He ripped off the despised headscarf he was wearing, tearing it into shreds, and slammed it onto the sofa with a violent slap.

His eyes were bloodshot, bulging with rage, his chest heaved, struggling for air, and the murderous intent in his eyes almost solidified into a palpable, choking presence. He could no longer endure the burning resentment, the bitter humiliation festering in his heart. He opened his mouth, a frothing, incoherent stream of curses erupting.

"You damned idiots, you pigs and dogs from the countryside! Even wearing these damned clothes, you still can't hide the stench of cow dung on you! Your damned quality is the eternal gap between you and high society! I am Bronte, I am the King of Saint Denis, the philanthropic merchant of Saint Denis, the authoritative ambassador of Saint Denis!

This entire city is mine! And you, you damned idiots who only mess with cows, no matter how luxurious you dress, no matter how hard you try, you are still a bunch of old-era trash, still a bunch of damned outlaws! You are nothing, you are useless, you are insignificant, you will never catch up with this wave of civilization, and you, sooner or later, will die meaninglessly under the pursuit of the police, you damned paupers, you pigs and dogs from the countryside, you damned SLAVES!!!!!!!!!!!" Bronte's voice cracked, raw from the furious, unending torrent of insults.

Dutch listened to Signor Bronte's furious curses, his face utterly devoid of any sign of anger. He merely watched the man's spectacular meltdown with an almost clinical detachment. And as Signor Bronte cursed, his subordinates, still cowering, instinctively raised their guns again, aiming them nervously at Dutch and his grinning companions. Arthur and John, ever prepared, had already raised their own guns, aiming them with chilling precision at Bronte, who now stood gasping on the sofa.

Looking at Signor Bronte, who was wheezing, red-faced, struggling for breath from his string of curses, Dutch not only showed no anger, but even a look of mild, almost humorous concern on his face.

"Oh, Signor Bronte," Dutch drawled, his voice dripping with condescension, "please catch your breath before you curse again. Damn it, I don't want you to choke to death from talking too fast. As for what you said," Dutch shrugged, a casual gesture,

"I think it's all correct. We are pigs and dogs from the countryside, we are damned paupers. And you, Bronte, King of Saint Denis, should continue to be a noble upper-class gentleman in Saint Denis." The concern on Dutch's face slowly, deliciously, transformed into a cold, triumphant sneer as he continued, "Of course, you can only be a noble gentleman in Saint Denis."

Then he slowly backed away towards the door, spreading his hands in a grand, final gesture as he delivered his devastating parting words to Signor Bronte.

"Signor Bronte, King of Saint Denis, from now on, you won't be able to leave Saint Denis by a single step. Enjoy your life as King in Saint Denis, Bronte the clown. Hahahaha..."

Dutch turned and calmly walked out the door, his laughter echoing through the shattered remnants of Bronte's dignity. Arthur and John, holding their guns steady, cautiously retreated with Dutch, their eyes scanning the nervous gunmen behind them. Inside the room, Signor Bronte, now utterly broken, furiously grabbed the wine glasses, wine bottles, and even the cigars from the table and hurled them wildly towards the door, cursing uncontrollably, his voice a raw, desperate shriek, as if he had completely, irrevocably broken down.

"Damn you, Dutch Van der Linde, you will die, I will kill you!!!"

Only two words from Dutch responded to Signor Bronte's pathetic, furious breakdown, drifting back from the night.

"Idiot."

"Ahhhhhhh!!!" Signor Bronte collapsed, a broken, defeated heap, his empire crumbling around him.