Paint It Black

Unlike the Gray Family's vast, sun-baked tobacco fields, which stretched into a monotonous horizon, the Braithwaite Family's estate was practically an arboreal paradise.

Trees, glorious trees, hugged their sprawling manor, particularly on one side where the foliage grew thick and lush, a veritable Eden of fruit trees embracing the very walls of the mansion.

And this verdant embrace, Dutch realized with a glint in his eye, provided him and John with nothing short of the finest, most discreet cover imaginable.

The two men, moving with the silent grace of predatory shadows, slipped effortlessly into the fruit orchard. They dispatched the lurking sentries within – a quick, brutal whisper of a knife, a choked gasp, and then nothing – before melting into the deeper gloom, creeping towards the very edge of the manor.

One couldn't help but marvel at the Van der Linde Gang; they truly were the Swiss Army knives of chaos, terrifyingly adept at everything.

"Alright, John," Dutch whispered, a low, excited thrum in his voice, his eyes gleaming in the dim light. He pointed with a subtle flick of his chin. "You take the lumbering oaf on the left door, I'll take his equally dense companion on the right. Once we're inside, remember: no theatrics, no booming firearms. We continue with the silent ballet of assassination. Make sure every living soul in this entire manor breathes their last. Then, we'll gather all the bodies – no stragglers, mind you – and drag them into the central hall. Afterwards," he grinned, a flash of white teeth in the gloom, "we'll light this whole damn place up like a Fourth of July bonfire!"

It was undeniable. The Van der Linde Gang thrived on this peculiar brand of thrilling mayhem. Otherwise, this operation could have been a messy, impersonal affair; just roll up a Maxim gun and sweep the place clean.

But where was the art in that? Where was the joy? No, that simply wouldn't do. If these boys didn't get their hands dirty, didn't feel the adrenaline coursing through their veins, they'd truly become agitated, restless as caged panthers. Some folks, they say, kill when they're unhappy.

The Van der Linde Gang, however, got unhappy if they didn't kill. This was the dark, twisted rhythm of their lives since childhood, and it was a beat that simply couldn't be changed. Excitement, in its purest, most dangerous form, was their true, insidious pursuit.

"Okay, Dutch!" John affirmed, his voice a low, eager growl. He wasn't the dullard of moments ago. His eyes, though still somewhat shadowed, now gleamed with a predatory light, and his movements were coiled, cautious, every muscle taut.

This silent assassination mission was clearly igniting a dangerous spark within him. Damn it, this was a man whose primal killing intent couldn't be hidden, even if he tried to pose as a milkman.

Dutch raised his throwing knife, the cold steel reflecting a sliver of distant moonlight. His gaze locked onto the two unsuspecting gunmen guarding the door, then, with a sudden, almost imperceptible flick of his wrist, he flung the knife. And John, a mere shadow beside him, launched his own blade in an almost perfect synchronicity.

"Swish!" Two barely audible whispers of steel cutting through the night. The throwing knives struck true, sinking deep into the necks of the two men. As their bodies began to slump, a horrifyingly swift descent, Dutch and John were already there, catching them before they could even groan, preventing a single sound from escaping.

Dutch slowly, gently, lowered the limp body in his hands, then, with excruciating care, nudged open a hairline crack in the villa's grand main door. He nodded at John, a silent command, and then, two deadly wraiths, they squeezed through the narrow opening, vanishing into the opulent, unsuspecting darkness of the villa…

Forty-four-year-old Dutch Van der Linde, light as a phantom, moved with the agility of a man half his age. Twenty-six-year-old John Marston, for all his usual clumsiness, moved with a surprising, deadly precision. Thirty-six-year-old Arthur Morgan, elsewhere, was undoubtedly mature and steady, a picture of grim competence. And Charles? Charles was simply a walking, breathing, silent killing machine.

Hours later, blazing flames erupted from deep within the Braithwaite Family estate, a monstrous inferno that clawed at the night sky, so intensely hot that no living soul dared to approach. Simultaneously, the Rhodes Police Department, for some utterly unknown reason, was curiously closed today, its doors locked, its windows dark. And the Gray Family manor, miles away, stood with an unnerving, almost unnatural quiet.

Just as everyone's attention was morbidly fixed on the towering, hungry flames devouring Braithwaite Manor, a piece of news, colder and more terrifying than any fire, emerged from the Gray Family manor.

Every single person within its walls had been… assassinated. Not a scream, not a shot, just a horrifying, silent wipeout.

And that wasn't all. Not a single soul from Braithwaite Manor escaped the consuming blaze.

Two prominent families, whose roots had delved deep into the soil of this land for centuries, declined, withered, and vanished within the span of a single, horrific day.

Only Penelope Braithwaite and Beau Gray, a young, illicitly dating couple, escaped the purge, spared only by the fortune of their secret trysts outside the manors. None of the direct bloodline survived.

All of a sudden, a wave of profound, existential panic rippled through Rhodes. The sections of town controlled by the Grays, and the taverns operating under the Braithwaite thumb, erupted in a confused, terrified clamor. The working poor, the countless folk who toiled under the thumb of these two dynasties, found themselves momentarily utterly flustered.

"Damn it!" they muttered, scratching their heads, eyes wide with a mix of fear and bewilderment. "The ones who paid us… they're dead! What the hell are we supposed to do now?!"

And in the ensuing power vacuum, the collateral branches of both families, like ravenous vultures, swooped in, scrambling fiercely, savagely contending for the suddenly vacant wealth and businesses left behind. Adding to the delicious anarchy, even the opportunistic Lemoyne Raiders emerged from the swamps, gleefully burning, killing, and plundering their way through Rhodes, like uninvited guests at a morbid feast.

These grim reports, dripping with confusion and mounting dread, finally reached Saint Denis by evening. And immediately, the high-ranking officials of Saint Denis were shaken to their very gilded foundations.

"Shit!" Mr. Henry roared, his face a mottled crimson, slamming his ornate wine glass against the marble wall, the crystal exploding into glittering shards. His eyes, bloodshot and bulging, were wild with impotent fury. "This was definitely done by the Van der Linde Gang! Damn it! They're practically asking for a bullet to the head!"

Currently, Lemoyne was under the direct, iron-fisted control of Henry Lemieux, a proud, influential member of his very own Lemieux Family! Such a major incident in Rhodes, right under his supposedly vigilant nose, was not merely an inconvenience; it was a colossal, ugly stain on his family's pristine reputation. While perhaps minor in the grand, bloody tapestry of the era, it was an undeniable, public slap to their carefully constructed facade of control.

As for why he was so chillingly certain it was the Van der Linde Gang? Simple logic, really, if you followed his kind of twisted reasoning. Recently, aside from the troublesome Van der Linde Gang slithering into Lemoyne, there was only Mr. Rhodes Brown of the Morgan Group.

Just three potential culprits capable of such a audacious, perfectly executed atrocity. Signor Bronte? Too cautious, too entangled in his own web of 'legitimate' business, even partnering with the Braithwaite Family. He wouldn't touch this with a ten-foot pole. The Lemoyne Raiders? They too had their own shady, profitable arrangements with the Braithwaites. That left only the damn, infuriating Van der Linde Gang!

But even with this grim, infuriating certainty, he was utterly, painfully helpless. Arresting people required evidence, pesky little things like eyewitnesses or confessions. No one had seen the Van der Linde Gang do this. And the Van der Linde Gang wasn't conveniently stationed near Rhodes, nor did they have any public, pre-existing conflict with the two families.

The matter simply couldn't be pinned on them, not legally, not cleanly.

As for the Saint Denis police? Mr. Henry emitted a short, sharp, contemptuous bark of laughter. Don't be ridiculous. The Saint Denis police were nothing more than glorified bodyguards for the city's fat, complacent rich.

They possessed no authority to meddle in Rhodes, nor would it even be legal. Besides, the Rhodes police, miraculously, weren't all dead. If Saint Denis truly wanted to intervene, they'd need to file a formal lawsuit with the Lemoyne State Government, then endure a glacial trial, and only if it passed could they even think about sending men over.

And by the time that entire, ponderous bureaucratic machine even began to creak into motion, it would be laughably, agonizingly too late.

Besides, the Van der Linde Gang wasn't even settling in Rhodes anyway!

"Shit! Shit! Shit!" Mr. Henry raged, pacing his office like a caged, impotent tiger. His powerlessness was a palpable thing, a suffocating blanket, but beneath it, a chilling, insidious fear, a heightened vigilance, began to coil. He suddenly stopped, his eyes wide and vacant, staring at nothing.

"Van der Linde!" he whispered, his voice trembling, a mix of terror and dawning, terrifying realization. He slammed his fist against his desk, the sound hollow. "Damn it! Are you… are you warning us?!"

Undoubtedly, he was scared down to his very bones. If the Van der Linde Gang possessed the chilling capability to silently, surgically carve out two major families from the heart of Rhodes, they could just as easily do the same to several prominent families right there in Saint Denis. This cold, brutal deterrence was undeniably severe, so effective it made him entertain a truly desperate, radical thought for the very first time.

Perhaps… perhaps he could use this horrifying incident as leverage, to file a lawsuit with the Lemoyne State Government, demanding that Pinkerton Detectives be granted cross-state enforcement authority once more! But the idea fizzled out, like a damp firecracker, before it even fully formed. That was even harder. The Pinkerton Detectives' cross-state enforcement authority had only just been stripped away, politically eviscerated.

Their very existence had once threatened the nascent, fragile rule of the United States Government, and those in power, those truly at the top, would never, ever, allow them even a whisper of a chance at revival. No, that was practically, utterly, impossibly out of reach.

Unless, of course, the Van der Linde Gang decided to rob the Saint Denis bank itself, or assassinate a truly prominent, untouchable figure within Saint Denis. Only then might there be a glimmer of possibility. And even if they somehow, magically, manipulated the assembly to allow Pinkerton Detectives to enforce the law in Lemoyne, what then?! The damn Van der Linde Gang wasn't settled in Lemoyne! They were still comfortably holed up in Valentine!

This was truly, maddeningly, frustratingly helpless! Mr. Henry sank back onto the plush sofa, his once-composed features now slack with defeat, a profound sense of utter powerlessness settling over him like a suffocating shroud. He was, at long last, experiencing the gut-wrenching futility that Signor Bronte had known so intimately.

A deep, bone-deep sense of powerlessness filled Mr. Henry's entire being, a bitter, metallic taste in his mouth, making him regret his initial, seemingly brilliant, decision for the very first time. Initially, introducing the Van der Linde Gang into the local ecosystem had seemed like such a masterful chess move, a perfect, subtle way to weaken Signor Bronte.

In their arrogant, sheltered minds, the Van der Linde Gang was nothing more than a reckless, predictable gang – a wild dog that could be legally tried and put down once its usefulness had expired.

But now, with a chilling suddenness that made his blood run cold, they realized the damned Van der Linde Gang held no leverage whatsoever in their hands! When they tried to play by the rules, they found the other party wasn't playing by any rules. And when they finally resorted to brute force, they discovered, to their horror, that they couldn't even compete, let alone control them.

The gang claimed to be "developing" in Saint Denis, but they had only one measly shop, and their headquarters weren't even in Lemoyne! What kind of "development method" was this?! Mr. Henry's carefully constructed mental model of the world shattered around him.

He felt he couldn't see through Dutch Van der Linde at all, as if the man were a ghost. If he were Dutch Van der Linde, after opening a shop in Saint Denis, his entire focus would surely shift there! Not to be holed up in that trashy livestock town with no development possibilities! It made no sense!

"Damn it," Mr. Henry whimpered, running a hand through his thinning hair, his voice rising to a bewildered shriek that barely broke the silence of his opulent office. "Damn it, what kind of game is this?!"

(It's RDR 2 old man xdd)