High Society

"Dutch." Arthur's voice, usually so steady, was laced with concern. His gaze, having tracked Mr. Norton Lemieux's retreat, now settled on Dutch. Arthur's hand instinctively went to his side, subtly touching the holstered revolver beneath his coat.

Dutch, ever the picture of unruffled composure, merely shook his head slowly, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "No, Arthur, not yet, son." He chuckled, a low, confident sound. "Truth be told, his bluster is a boon for us."

Arthur, still quite green in the intricate dances of high society, was clearly itching for a confrontation. His jaw was set, his eyes narrowed. He felt a burgeoning responsibility to protect the Van der Linde Gang, and in his mind, that meant nipping any potential threats in the bud. A vein throbbed in his temple.

"Blast it all, the boy's becoming a touch… zealous!" Dutch mused to himself, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. "The weight of those factory workers' woes has surely put a strain on him."

Dutch strode closer to Arthur, clapping him firmly on the shoulder, a gesture of both camaraderie and gentle admonishment.

"Now, now, Arthur. Don't fret, son. These high society gentlemen, they love to rattle their sabers, but in truth, they're all bark and no bite."

He leaned in conspiratorially, his voice dropping to a near whisper, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Besides, his arrogance serves our purpose admirably."

Dutch swept his arm in a grand, encompassing gesture, taking in the opulent surroundings and the oblivious gentry.

"Look at him, Arthur. All these years of gilded living have dulled their senses, made them soft. They've forgotten that rules aren't carved in stone by their whims, but forged in the fires of strength!" He paused, his smile widening, and a triumphant gleam entered his eyes.

"But that, my boy, is precisely our opening, isn't it? This chasm between our worlds, this generational blindness... once we strike, they'll be utterly defenseless! Ha ha ha!"

Dutch's booming laughter echoed through the grand saloon as he strode off, mingling with other guests, leaving Arthur to stew in a mix of awe and exasperation.

Arthur shook his head, muttering under his breath, his brow furrowed in disbelief. "Oh, damn it! Dutch is truly Dutch; to glean such insight from mere pronouncements, and to conjure a counter-strategy so swiftly..."

Mary, elegant in a new gown, approached Arthur, her eyes reflecting a newfound admiration. She sighed, a soft, wistful sound. "Oh, Arthur, Dutch has transformed so profoundly. I daresay you'll glean more wisdom by observing him closely." She remembered Dutch from simpler times, a man less sharp, less cunning.

"Aye, Dutch remains Dutch, always a fresh wellspring of schemes," Arthur agreed, patting Mary's hand warmly. He had indeed learned a great deal from Dutch, especially the art of unconventional thinking.

The gang, before Dutch's recent resurgence, had been largely devoid of strategic minds, relying mostly on brute force.

"Surely, Dutch truly never changed too much! He's still same old Durch..." Arthur thought, watching his mentor with a newfound respect.

Time flowed like the river outside, bringing more and more of the city's elite to the "President's Dream." Even Signor Bronte, a man whose presence usually commanded a certain dread, arrived.

A luxurious carriage, pulled by two impeccably groomed horses and attended by coachmen in smart suits, drew up to the gangplank. The door swung open, and Signor Bronte emerged, a figure of sartorial elegance in a perfectly tailored suit.

He looked surprisingly un-haggard, his retinue as formidable as ever. However, there was an air about him, a forced regality that suggested a man struggling to maintain his facade.

What truly struck Arthur was the absence of Bronte's two formidable enforcers, Mr. Martelli and Francisco. Their absence was a glaring testament to Bronte's weakened state, a gaping wound in the heart of his Saint Denis Mafia.

The Van der Linde Gang's recent assault had utterly crippled his network, shattering decades of carefully built power and decimating his new generation of family members.

"Hohoho, well, well, Arthur, look who it is!" Dutch's voice, brimming with mock surprise, boomed across the dock. He threw his head back and laughed, a genuinely mirthful sound. "Isn't it our esteemed old friend, Signor Bronte? Oh, but I'll be damned, Signor Bronte, in a proper suit! My God! Where are those damnable clown pajamas and that ridiculous turban? Eh, Signor Bronte?"

Bronte, just stepping onto the gangplank, froze. His face, initially composed, began to flush a furious crimson. His hands balled into fists at his sides. The mere mention of those "clown pajamas" sent a fresh wave of humiliation washing over him.

Ever since Dutch's last mocking jibe, Bronte had banished all such garments from his wardrobe. The memory of Dutch's taunts buzzed in his ears like a swarm of angry wasps.

"Damn you, Van der Linde!" Bronte's voice, usually smooth as silk, was now a raw, furious rasp. He pointed a trembling finger at Dutch. "Do you kiss your own mother with such a vile tongue?"

"Of course not, Signor Bronte." Dutch shook his head with an air of mock sincerity, his eyes twinkling with mischief. Bronte, for a fleeting moment, allowed a sigh of relief to escape him. But then, Dutch's next words shattered his fragile calm.

"Actually, I always kiss your mother with this foul mouth!"

"Oh, you sonova! Damn it all!" Signor Bronte roared, his face contorted in a mask of pure, unadulterated rage. He was at his breaking point.