Chess

"OH F*CK! THIS IS AN OUTRAGE! AN OUTRAGE!" Signor Bronte's face, usually a picture of aristocratic calm, began to rapidly cycle through shades of deep crimson, then puce, then an alarming shade of bruised eggplant. His eyes, normally the color of polished mahogany, now glowed like embers, fixed in a laser-sharp glare on Dutch.

"Van der Linde! Dutch Van der Linde, you… you degenerate circus ape! I will flay you! I will personally decorate my drawing-room with your… your impudence!" He started stomping towards Dutch, each step a miniature tremor of rage, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides as if strangling an invisible, infuriating chicken.

"By all that is sacred, NO ONE, and I mean NO ONE, insults my sainted mother! You… you walking affront to decency!" Bronte's voice, surprisingly, hitched on the last word, almost a squeak of pure indignation. He even patted his chest dramatically, as if checking for a rapidly escaping heart.

Dutch, leaning back slightly with an almost angelic smile, let out a laugh that reverberated across the bustling dock, a deep, resonant rumble that seemed to physically shake Bronte's meticulously coiffed hair.

"Hahahaha! Signor Bronte, my dear, dear Signor Bronte, your delightful little tantrums are as fearsome as a kitten's sneeze against a tornado! Honestly, they don't even register as insults; they simply transform you into… well, into the most magnificent, sputtering clown! And wouldn't you know," Dutch paused, bringing a hand to his chin in mock contemplation, "our magnificent banquet tonight was indeed tragically bereft of a jester.

I daresay, Signor Bronte, you've stumbled into the role with unparalleled grace!" He finished with a flourish of his hand, as if presenting a grand new act. Behind Bronte, his four hulking family members remained rooted to the spot, their faces as expressionless as polished stones.

Bronte's orders had been absolute: Do not engage. Even if they witnessed their boss being roasted alive by Dutch's venomous wit, as long as actual fisticuffs or gunfire didn't erupt, they were to stand down. For the undisputed boss of the Saint Denis Mafia, this command was a bitter pill, a humiliating stomp on his carefully cultivated prestige.

But what other choice did he have? A bruised ego, however throbbing, was infinitely preferable to a bullet-riddled body floating in the bay, or the ultimate disgrace of fleeing back to Italy only to be personally insulted by his own family for being an imbecile.

Dutch glided closer, invading Bronte's personal bubble with an almost predatory grace, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper that only Bronte could hear. Their eyes, though seemingly locked in a death match, were actually just inches apart.

"Alright, Bronte, my troubled friend. Perhaps… just perhaps… we can cooperate." He leaned in even closer, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. "Meet me on the very top deck of that magnificent cruise ship. After the banquet truly gets underway. Don't be late. And perhaps, bring some cannoli."

Bronte's eyes flickered, just barely, but his threatening posture remained frozen in place. "Dutch Van der Linde, you won't be dancing on graves for much longer! Everyone, and I mean everyone, knows your entire existence is… problematic! I promise you, you and your… your ragtag band of vagabonds will be utterly wiped from the face of the earth! Sooner, rather than later!" He punctuated this with a furious, albeit slightly trembling, jab of his finger.

Dutch threw his head back, letting out another boisterous cackle, a sound full of genuine amusement. "Hahahaha! Signor Bronte, you delightful, predictable clown! Have all those years of swimming in luxury, draped in silks and gorging on truffles, utterly atrophied your ability to string together a decent threat? You sound like a disgruntled pigeon attempting to roar!" Dutch even patted Bronte's arm dismissively.

"GRRRR! OH, FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY! DUTCH VAN DER LINDE, I WILL PERSONALLY SEND YOU TO JOIN YOUR THE DEVIL IN HELL!"

Bronte's face, miraculously, maintained its furious mask despite the hidden conversation. He clenched his jaw, the muscle ticking visibly, glaring at Dutch with an intensity that could curdle milk. With a final, dramatic snort, he spun on his heel and stomped past Dutch, his shoulders ramrod straight, heading towards the gangplank of the opulent cruise ship.

Their heated exchange had, of course, been the main event for the surrounding upper-class crowd. Some of the bolder, less intimidated socialites, who had recently found new courage now that Bronte's iron grip seemed to be loosening, began to offer their own veiled barbs as he approached.

"Oh, dear Signor Bronte," purred a portly gentleman, Mr. Miller, his voice dripping with syrupy insincerity, "I simply adore seeing you here! I hadn't expected you to also receive Mr. Van der Linde's charming invitation. It's… such a pleasure to see you mingling!" A snicker rippled through his small entourage.

Bronte, though still sizzling from Dutch's direct insults, swiftly re-donned his familiar mask of menacing politeness for these lesser provocateurs. He managed a tight, almost predatory smile.

"Mr. Miller, my good man, I do believe if your vocabulary seems to be… lacking certain appropriate phrases, you simply must inform me. I would be delighted to arrange for someone to provide you with… comprehensive elocution lessons."

His voice, though soft, carried the unmistakable chill of a tomb. After all, he had reigned supreme over Saint Denis's underworld for over a decade. When Signor Bronte spoke with that tone, few dared to brave his sharp edge for long. These damnable Italian Mafia members, after all, had a disturbing habit of following through on their promises.

Meanwhile, Dutch and Arthur remained stationed at the port, patiently awaiting other guests.

"Dutch," Arthur began, his brow furrowed in a perplexed frown, "Are we seriously going to cut a deal with Bronte? I mean, we just… utterly shredded his dignity, didn't we? And Davey and the boys? They, uh… cleared out his entire operations, so to speak."

Arthur gestured vaguely with a hand, as if trying to erase an awkward stain. The notion of reconciliation felt utterly bizarre, like expecting a viper to suddenly start purring.

Dutch, a beatific, almost serene smile gracing his lips, leaned in conspiratorially, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. He even placed a reassuring hand on Arthur's shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze.

"So what, Arthur, my boy? These city elites, these so-called pillars of society… they don't possess the same… deep-seated emotional attachments we do. In their meticulously calculated minds, there exists only one true god: Profit. Emotions, my son, are merely inconvenient obstacles. So, striking a bargain with Bronte? It's astonishingly simple; you merely need to present him with the glistening, irresistible bait of whatever profit his greedy little heart desires."

He tilted his head, guiding Arthur's gaze towards the continuous stream of Saint Denis's dignitaries boarding the majestic cruise ship behind them. "Arthur, the upper echelons of society operate on an entirely different plane of existence than we do. Every single subtle nod, every carefully rehearsed chuckle, every painstakingly chosen word… it's all meticulously choreographed to ensure maximum gain. This, my boy, is the fundamental cornerstone of their enduring, suffocating success."

Dutch's eyes narrowed slightly, a hint of steel entering their depths. "Just as we delivered that strategic blow to Signor Bronte, and these Saint Denis magnates gleaned their precious profits from the fallout, so too was their initial desire for us to strike at Bronte rooted in their insatiable hunger to erode his interests. Profit, Arthur, is the relentless, pulsating heartbeat that courses through the very veins of these families. It is the puppet master, dictating their every single, calculated twitch."

"And our newfound 'cooperation' with Signor Bronte? It, too, springs from the fertile soil of profit. You see, after Bronte's formidable power took a significant tumble, these damned, arrogant upper-class individuals began to strut a little too brazenly.

This, Arthur, is not only detrimental to Bronte, but it is also, quite frankly, abysmal for us. Whether it is Signor Bronte's power swelling, or these Saint Denis elites growing too robust, either scenario inevitably spells trouble for the Van der Linde gang."

"So," Dutch concluded, leaning back with a knowing grin, his arms spread wide as if embracing a grand, unseen design, "initially, when Bronte was at his peak, flexing his considerable muscle, we shrewdly allied ourselves with these very same upper-class individuals to keep him in check.

Now that they are burgeoning with newfound strength, we must, by the very laws of the jungle, ally ourselves with Signor Bronte to contend with them. And for Signor Bronte? Watching these pompous individuals suffer a humbling blow aligns perfectly with his self-interest. He will not merely cooperate; he will embrace it like a long-lost brother! This, Arthur," Dutch gestured expansively, as if revealing the universe's greatest secret, "is upper-class society. This, my boy, is the brutal, beautiful game."

He cast a sinister, almost appreciative gaze at the brightly lit ferry, a faint, predatory smile playing on his lips. Tonight's negotiations, he mused, would undoubtedly be a jagged, unpleasant affair, fraught with tension. And that, precisely, was why Signor Bronte would be so amenable to his charming offer of "cooperation."

Listening to Dutch's elaborate, almost theatrical lecture, Arthur slowly, deliberately, nodded his head. A spark of understanding, a glint of genuine cunning, flickered in his eyes.

"So, Dutch," he mused, "if these two sides are constantly tearing each other apart, perpetually weakening each other… the ultimate victor in this glorious, bloody mess… will be us, won't it?" His lips quirked into a rare, knowing smile.

Dutch threw his head back, a triumphant, almost manic laugh erupting from his chest. He clapped Arthur heartily on the shoulder, a proud, almost paternal gleam in his eye. "Hoh hoh hoh! My boy! You've finally caught on! Yes! This, my astute apprentice, is the art of 'divide and conquer,' or perhaps, more poetically, 'watching your enemies destroy each other.'

It is the most exquisite, the most delicate, the most essential path to maintaining balance! Whoever is currently riding high, whoever is puffing out their chest with undue arrogance, that is who we subtly, discreetly, support the opposition against! And from that glorious, self-perpetuating conflict, Arthur, we harvest the sweet, sweet fruits of profit! We keep them locked in a perpetual, debilitating struggle, constantly weakening, while we… we flourish! We grow stronger! It is a truly, truly magnificent sight to behold!"

Dutch savored the moment, the hum of the city fading into the background. He knew, with an almost religious certainty, that in this brutal, beautiful world, remaining unseen, pulling the strings from the shadows, was the ultimate power.

For the moment one became a mere pawn in another's game, one had lost. And Dutch Van der Linde? He was the grand master, always, and forever, the architect of his own, magnificent, bloody chess match.