Don Bronte Perspective

Mr. Henry was beyond furious; he was a walking, sputtering fuse. His face, still mottled from the earlier rage, twitched with a nervous energy. And in the gilded cages of Saint Denis, he wasn't the only one choking on the bitter news.

Deep within the opulent, almost suffocating silence of Bronte Mansion, Signor Bronte swirled the dark red wine in his crystal goblet, a thoughtful, almost serene expression on his face. He drained it slowly, deliberately, as if savoring not the taste, but the implications.

"The Van der Linde Gang," Bronte purred, a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips. He let the words hang in the air, a connoisseur appreciating a rare, unsettling vintage. "How… surprising."

Behind him, stiff as a starched funeral shroud, stood the long-lost, almost mythical and alive Signor Martelli. After all these years of tireless, often humiliating, service, Signor Bronte hadn't simply discarded Martelli like a broken toy. The family, surprisingly, had no such policy. Besides, Martelli, despite his recent… episodes… was still Bronte's top enforcer. Even if he folded like a cheap suit against the Van der Linde Gang, he could still manage to crack a few skulls among the city's lesser thugs.

How else could he have clawed his way to such a prestigious position? So, yes, Signor Martelli was still very much alive, and currently, very much not well.

At the mere mention of 'The Van der Linde Gang,' Martelli's body seized up, every muscle tightening like an overworked spring. His breath hitched. Even without seeing a single one of those goddamn devils, just the name was enough to send a cold, paralyzing dread shooting through his veins. Goddamn it, every single one of them is a demon! Pure devils!

Signor Martelli was already sweating profusely, a sheen of pure terror glistening on his brow, but Signor Bronte, lost in the intricate chessboard of his own mind, was utterly oblivious. He continued to gaze into the middle distance, lost in thought, pondering his next move.

"Martelli," Bronte finally said, turning his head slightly, "since the Van der Linde Gang has already made their… bold move, I'm afraid Mr. Fusal will soon begin to target them. So, tell me, how are the arrangements I asked you to make coming along?"

Martelli, still drenched in a cold sweat, his mind a panicked scramble, was trapped in a vivid flashback. He was reliving his humiliating encounter in Valentine with Francisco, a memory that made his gut twist. Then, the horrific image of three members of the Van der Linde Gang effortlessly slaughtering fifty Lemoyne Raiders… Fifty! He hadn't participated in any of those three battles, of course. And precisely because he hadn't, he was still, miraculously, breathing.

Martelli offered no response, lost in his silent, terror-induced stupor. Signor Bronte's brow furrowed. He turned his head fully, and his eyes, sharp as razors, immediately fell upon Martelli. He saw the sheer, unadulterated terror in the man's eyes, the river of sweat cascading down his face.

"Shit! Martelli!" Bronte bellowed, a flash of genuine irritation on his face.

"Ah… ah… ah…?" Martelli stammered, jolted violently back to the present. He jumped, almost tripping over his own feet. "Ah ah! Signor Bronte, Signor Bronte!" He responded instantly, his voice a pathetic squeak, completely flustered, eyes wide as saucers. This once-feared top enforcer, the very hand of Signor Bronte's iron will, the second-in-command of Saint Denis's formidable Mafia, had been reduced to a quivering, nervous wreck.

"Shit! Martelli," Bronte growled, his voice low and menacing, his hand clenching into a fist. "If there's a next time… I think you can go to a nursing home. For a very long, quiet retirement." If he hadn't been wearing his impeccably tailored black suit, prohibiting any unseemly gestures, he probably would have backhanded Martelli. He still resented that cursed Dutchman who had publicly labeled him a clown, forcing him to abandon his beloved pajamas and turban forever.

"I'm s-s-sorry, Signore" Martelli stammered, bowing so deeply his head almost scraped the polished floor. "There won't be a next time!"

Signor Bronte snorted, a sharp, dismissive sound, then returned to his original, imperious tone. "How are your preparations coming along?"

"They are fully prepared, Signor Bronte!" Martelli blurted out, his voice regaining a fraction of its former solidity. His head was still almost touching the ground, his body a monument to subservience. "As soon as you give the order, our people will begin acting!"

Listening to Martelli's earnest, if still slightly tremulous, reply, Signor Bronte finally nodded, a flicker of satisfaction in his dark eyes. "Very good, Martelli. Wait for it… once Fusal makes his move against the Van der Linde Gang, we will immediately commence our operation! This time, my friend, we will completely reverse all our disadvantages and reclaim our rightful position as the undisputed rulers of Saint Denis!" Signor Bronte's eyes blazed with a chilling, ruthless determination. He rubbed his thumb against his chin, a predatory glint in his eye.

These other 'families' hadn't just nibbled at his business; they'd taken significant, greedy bites. The ongoing struggle with these upstarts was a crude, brutal game: you send assassins to kill my subordinates and seize my territory, and then I send my own men to kill yours and reclaim what's mine.

The only difference was that the Saint Denis families, ever so refined, used the government's name to seize Signor Bronte's illicit enterprises. And Bronte's means of retaliation? He'd simply assassinate their lower-level leaders, or subtly corrupt them, thereby slowly eroding their influence. After all, in a sprawling metropolis like Saint Denis, it wasn't just about raw violence; it was about intricate social etiquette and the delicate dance of business dealings between powerful groups.

And apart from Signor Bronte and the perpetually agitated Mr. Henry, the other prominent families had also officially begun to send their carefully worded invitations to Mr. Fusal. With their combined influence, the primary, crushing force confronting the Van der Linde Gang would officially become the formidable Mr. Fusal.

However, the Van der Linde Gang members, blissfully ignorant of the storm brewing in Saint Denis, couldn't have cared less.

Early that morning, Dutch, Arthur, John, and Hosea, their faces set with a shared purpose, had already arrived at Shady Belle. In just one short month, the once dilapidated, almost derelict plantation had undergone a complete, startling transformation. It was no longer a ramshackle hideout; it hummed with the quiet efficiency of a well-oiled machine.

With the recent influx of over fifty new gunmen and an equal number of diligent female workers, Shady Belle was now a fully operational hub. Three sturdy bunkers, bristling with defensive capabilities, encircled the main house like watchful sentinels. Beyond them, seven or eight hidden and overt sentries, sharp-eyed and vigilant, dotted the perimeter, ensuring that any unwelcome visitor would be spotted the moment they dared to approach.

From time to time, sturdy carriages, laden with bundles of freshly made clothing, would rumble out of Shady Belle's gates, escorted by seven or eight grim-faced gunmen on horseback, all heading towards the hungry markets of Saint Denis.

And alongside these commercial ventures, several smaller carriages, surprisingly, could also be seen ferrying children towards the city. These were the children of the workers living here, their faces bright with expectation, each clutching a cup of milk and a piece of bread, chatting and laughing happily as they embarked on their daily journey to school.

It was, almost impossibly, a picture of idyllic, domestic normalcy. Shady Belle had begun its official, humming operations, supplying clothing not just to Saint Denis, but even to the recently destabilized Rhodes.

At this moment, as Dutch and his inner circle dismounted, a wave of excitement rippled through the gunmen manning the hidden and overt sentry posts. They immediately converged, a torrent of enthusiastic greetings.

"Oh, Mr. Van der Linde!" a burly fellow yelled, practically tripping over himself. "Look, look, it's Mr. Van der Linde! And Mr. Morgan, Mr. Marston, and Mr. Smith!" He elbowed the man next to him.

"My goodness, Mr. Van der Linde is here!" another shouted, his voice cracking with excitement. "Quick, quick, go help Mr. Van der Linde with his horse!"

"Mr. Van der Linde, you're finally here!" a third exclaimed, his eyes shining with almost childlike adoration. "Shady Belle has been running smoothly! We haven't let you down!"

A large group of gunmen swarmed them, tears actually welling up in some of their eyes, their faces etched with a devotion that bordered on the fanatical. These were the men with families, sent here by the Van der Linde Gang so their children could attend school.

Their loyalty wasn't just earned; it was forged in the fires of gratitude. They had once struggled simply to keep food in their bellies, their lives a constant, desperate grind. But here, at Shady Belle, they ate well, dressed warmly, worked manageable hours, and their children, their precious children, were learning to read and write. Who could resist such profound, life-altering kindness?

These men wished they could lay down their very lives, shed every drop of their blood for Mr. Dutch, dedicating every fiber of their being to his cause! Damn it, they were even more fervently devoted than zealots.

And the man overseeing this entire, burgeoning enterprise was Sunny Quell, a meticulous, steady middle-aged man hand-picked by Dutch himself. Sunny practically worshipped Dutch Van der Linde as a living god. Every morning, every evening, he would pause before meals, his head bowed, murmuring fervent prayers for the safety of the Van der Linde Gang and for Mr. Dutch Van der Linde's grandest wishes to come true. He thanked the heavens, and Dutch, for his family's newfound security and prosperity. It was no exaggeration to say he was a fanatical believer in Dutch Van der Linde, utterly devoted to the man's every whim.

If Dutch, on a whim, decided to don a ridiculous little mustache and start playing the role of a mad dictator, Sune could, without a moment's hesitation, instantly transform into a terrifyingly efficient Heydrich.

At this very moment, several gunmen had already sprinted deep into Shady Belle, their shouts echoing through the grounds, announcing the momentous arrival of Dutch Van der Linde to everyone within earshot.