Brote is of no consequence

It was past two in the morning when they finally slipped away from Signor Bronte's mansion, leaving behind a shattered tyrant and a trail of shattered dignity. This was the hour when the city truly slept, when people were most profoundly tired, and the streets lay utterly deserted.

In this era, devoid of the incessant glow of mobile phones or the hum of computers, even the boisterous dance halls and smoky bars had fallen silent. By two o'clock, those seeking pleasure had already sated their desires and were fast asleep, lost to their dreams.

The streets of Saint Denis were deserted, stretches of wide, main roads paved with neat, albeit uneven, bricks. While they couldn't compare to the smooth efficiency of future concrete or asphalt, horses could still gallop across them with relative ease.

Even though cement had been reinvented way back in 1824, brick and stone structures were still the common currency of construction, and wooden houses proliferated in the West. This epoch-making invention, cement, was only truly seen, in its practical, impactful form, in the formidable bunkers Dutch had so cunningly built.

And this very insight, this chilling truth, would cause Signor Bronte to directly, utterly collapse. Indeed, the very word 'bunker' would haunt Signor Bronte throughout his miserable life, becoming his waking nightmare for the latter half of his days.

"Sh*t!"

Three fast horses galloped through the deserted streets, their hooves clattering rhythmically, heading directly towards the Saint Denis police station.

"Arthur, John, just knock out a few officers later, no need to kill them." Dutch instructed, his voice low, his gaze fixed straight ahead, not bothering to glance at Arthur and John, who rode half a step behind him. "They will all be our subordinates in the future, our loyal men."

"Okay, Dutch." Arthur nodded, a hint of worry clouding his features. He put his journal back into his satchel. "Was it too much for us to humiliate Signor Bronte like this today? Dutch." He paused, chewing on his lip.

"After all, he has a high status in this city, and I've heard these past few days that the Italian Mafia also has many family branches in other cities. If Signor Bronte, in his humiliation, requests outside help, will it cause us some... significant losses?"

Arthur's concern was valid. The Italian Mafia wasn't just the isolated Bronte branch. The "Americans" they knew, the so-called "European Americans," were actually immigrants who had moved to this wild land.

This completely undeveloped land at the time had attracted millions of ambitious speculators. As an already mature, deeply entrenched party, the Italian Mafia had made arrangements early on, establishing branches across the continent.

Signor Bronte of Italy was, at most, just a branch of the sprawling family, and not a particularly important one. The true high-ranking members were still gathered in Italy, controlling family members all over the world like gods, like the Pope himself, holding dominion. Even if it was only nominal control, for the sake of that sacred name alone, there would be a continuous stream of Mafia members coming, eager to help Signor Bronte suppress Dutch in order to gain profit, to gain a foothold. It could be said that Signor Bronte's absolute worst outcome, his ultimate defeat, was merely to return to Italy dejectedly, disgraced, rather than facing the ignominy of being hanged in Saint Denis, America.

It was clear that Arthur, in his own way, had started to learn a little during this time, or rather, he had seen and heard more, and thus thought more thoroughly, his mind expanding beyond the immediate horizon.

Dutch nodded happily, a proud smile gracing his lips. "Arthur, oh, Arthur, you can finally think, child. You finally have your own opinions. This is very good, child, very good indeed. I think I can safely let you take charge on your own from now on! As for the Italian Mafia, there's no need to worry about that at all, Arthur. Signor Bronte won't contact his family headquarters for support until he's absolutely at his wit's end, on the very brink of annihilation. He struggled for half his life to finally gain a foothold in Saint Denis, finally escaping the suffocating constraints of the family somewhat.

He wouldn't abandon his newfound power and interests for a temporary humiliation, no matter how galling. In other words, when Signor Bronte is the only one in Saint Denis, he is the undisputed spokesperson for the Italian Mafia family, and everyone will outwardly show him respect, even fear. But if the Italian Mafia family sends people to support him, if they interfere directly, then Signor Bronte will no longer be the Mafia's sole spokesperson in Saint Denis.

At that point, no one will truly care whether he lives or dies; he will be expendable! The Mafia isn't as united as our gang, child. Their recommendation system leads to those recommended into the family naturally belonging to the recommender's faction, thus causing significant branching of power, a tangled web of allegiances. This is the inherent drawback of the Mafia, child, their fatal flaw. So even if the true Italian Mafia notices us and sends people, we don't need to worry at all."

Dutch's voice dropped, becoming a low, conspiratorial growl. "Oh, Arthur, compared to them, we are the true desperadoes, child! They should be the ones who are afraid, because we will always go to any lengths, we will always cross every line! Hahaha, Arthur, could it be that after being 'Mr. Morgan' for over a month, you've truly forgotten your roots, forgotten who you truly are?"

Dutch laughed mockingly, a teasing gleam in his eye as he looked at Arthur. John, who rode beside him, clearly didn't feel the same subtle shift, as he still, in his heart, considered himself a true, unrepentant desperado.

"Alright, Dutch, oh, damn it, I really do seem to be getting a bit timid." Arthur shrugged, outwardly dismissing Dutch's mockery, but inwardly, he felt a strange, unsettling sensation about himself. It wasn't quite right to say he was simply timid because of his new identity as "Mr. Morgan." It was more likely because their current influence, their burgeoning empire, was simply too vast, too consequential. He usually had to meticulously consider the far-reaching impact of his every action, to avoid causing trouble, to avoid jeopardizing Dutch's grand vision and the gang's current prosperity. That was the real, uncomfortable reason he felt a bit constrained, a bit "timid."

In other words, now that they had thriving clothing stores, bustling factories, and Mary, he couldn't just abandon it all and ride away like he might have in his wild youth. That was what truly made him feel constrained, tied down.

Dutch looked at Arthur and John, his expression earnest, his voice imbued with a rare, profound sincerity.

"Children, don't feel constrained by your identities. You can still do whatever you want! Our gang went from having nothing, from being hunted dogs, to what we have now in just two or three short months. In other words, as long as we are still alive, as long as we breathe, we can still rise again, we can always rebuild, so I need you to always ensure your safety. As for other external things, they can all be discarded at any time! With me, and with you, my sons, our gang will always be full of hope, always!"

Dutch spoke earnestly and with deep emotion, his words resonating with a power that deeply moved Arthur and John. But as tough, stoic men, such moments of raw emotion always brought a slight, almost physical discomfort. Arthur awkwardly waved his hand, a small, embarrassed smile on his face. "Oh, Dutch, don't be so sentimental. You should say those sentimental words to Miss O'Shea more often at night."

"Sh*t! Damn Arthur!" Dutch's face, for a fleeting moment, darkened with a rare flush of genuine embarrassment.