Under The Bridge

No more than two heartbeats passed before a flurry of frantic footsteps echoed from within the opulent villa. Then, as if launched from a cannon, Signor Bronte himself, impeccably tailored in a suit that practically screamed 'I'm important!', jetted out, a manic, sweat-beaded smile plastered across his face, ready to greet his… guests.

"Ah ha ha ha, Mr. Van der Linde, ah, my dear, dear Mr. Dutch Van der Linde!" Bronte trilled, his voice a little too high, a little too eager. He practically clapped his hands together. "Your most esteemed arrival truly, truly honors this humble abode, sir! Quick, quick, please, come in, Mr. Van der Linde! Signkr Martelli! You lummox! Hasten, man, and fetch our finest vintage! And for the love of all that's sacred, bring forth my treasured Cuban cigars!" The old scoundrel was a portrait of excited, almost desperate, composure.

"Oh ho ho, Signor Bronte, my little Italian Royal Clown!" Dutch chuckled, a sound like gravel rolling in a drum, his eyes twinkling with mischievous malice. He shook his head, a theatrical sigh escaping him. "Why, pray tell, aren't you gracing us with that damned nightgown today? Signor Bronte, this is utterly, truly disappointing to me!" Dutch condemned him with a face full of mock regret, his words an exquisitely crafted insult, practically a direct, open slap to Bronte's face!

Yet, Bronte, standing there at the mansion's grand entrance, staring at Dutch and his silent, imposing entourage, showed not a single flicker of resentment in his eyes. Instead, his face was a grotesque mask of fawning, his forced smile strained to the point of pain.

"I… I am sorry! Mr. Van der Linde, I am truly, deeply sorry!" Bronte stammered, wringing his hands. "My nightgown, you see, is currently… undergoing a thorough laundering! Oh, dear sir, please, please do come in! Signor Martelli! What are you waiting for, you useless oaf?! Go and retrieve my nightgown from the laundry at once!" Signor Bronte displayed absolutely no anger whatsoever, behaving as if he had undergone some profound, evolutionary shift, utterly removed from his previous, volatile state of constant breakdowns.

Dutch looked at him, a flicker of genuine surprise in his eyes, then a profound, almost philosophical glint. "Signor Bronte," he mused, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, "I confess, I didn't expect you to have… evolved to this extent in such a remarkably short time. Damn it, I really do believe you might be becoming a genuine threat to me now!"

He turned to Arthur, a conspiratorial wink. "Arthur, when we return, have someone re-evaluate Signor Bronte's threat assessment for us, damn it! Just look at that slimy, hypocritical appearance; I'd wager my last dime he absolutely hates me to death right now!"

Listening to Dutch's utterly brazen words, the fixed smile on Bronte's face suddenly froze. His eyes, wide with suppressed fury, screamed, 'Damn it, I hate you to the core!'

Fawning over you doesn't work, cursing you doesn't work either… what the actual FCK do you want from me?! Signor Bronte was practically fuming, his smile clinging to his face by a thread.

No, sh**t!, he thought, his teeth grinding so hard his jaw ached. How can someone be so utterly despicable? Isn't hypocrisy the most fundamental, bedrock requirement of high society? Why does this barbarian have to call me out publicly?!

Re-evaluate my threat? Give me two more guts, and I still wouldn't dare to harbor a single rebellious thought about the Van der Linde Gang now! Signor Bronte barely maintained his composure, enduring his escalating temper, wishing he could gnaw his own teeth into dust.

Although the two were now locked in a precarious, tacit cooperation, this did not, by any stretch of the imagination, mean that their previous bitter conflicts had simply vanished. They were merely buried a little deeper, like unexploded ordnance. Especially the profound apprehension towards Dutch, which ran like a chilling river through Bronte's very soul.

During this tumultuous time, Signor Bronte hadn't been idle, attempting to rally against the entrenched Saint Denis families. In fact, Bronte's primary attention during this entire period had been singularly fixed on the Van der Linde Gang. While his land-based men were effectively cut off from leaving Saint Denis by road, didn't Saint Denis, by God, have waterways?!

Throughout this time, Mr. Martelli, perpetually trembling, had dutifully arranged for personnel, dispatching multiple waves of his most trusted members via water. They stealthily bypassed the Van der Linde Gang's iron cordon outside Saint Denis, bravely reaching the distant town of Valentine, all in a desperate bid to understand the terrifying new reality of the Van der Linde Gang.

But the more he understood, the more absolutely terrified Signor Bronte became.

Damn it, what in the name of all that's unholy is the Van der Linde Gang doing?! Aren't they running a quaint little clothing factory? Why in God's name are they constructing so many damned bunkers all over New Hanover?!

Upon learning that these subterranean bunkers in New Hanover were connected one after another, stretching like an unholy serpent from Valentine all the way to Rhodes, Signor Bronte was utterly, completely stunned! He felt as if the very ground beneath his feet had vanished.

Damn it, he thought, his mind reeling, this group of utterly despicable robbers, after striking it rich, aren't thinking of squirreling away their fortunes and finding a nice quiet hole to escape to? Instead, they've started building bunkers?! What in the devil does that even mean?!

What the F*CK, who does things like that?!

What in the name of all that's sane is going on in that damned brain of Dutch Van der Linde?!

Every time he recalled the chilling news reported by his trembling subordinates, every time he saw the horrifying layout of those bunkers drawn on blueprints, Signor Bronte simply couldn't sleep. The very thought gnawed at his sanity.

This group of damned desperadoes was terrifyingly, clinically insane; compared to their unhinged ambition, he, Bronte, was a picture of virtuous citizenship!

And if it were just building bunkers, he, Bronte, wouldn't be quite so utterly paralyzed with fear. After all, he could simply stay curled up in Saint Denis, and bunkers, thankfully, couldn't move.

But the recent, brutal bandit suppression operation in New Hanover had completely terrified Signor Bronte down to his very bones. According to the documents, delivered by subordinates with faces ashen from fear, the total number of people involved in this bandit suppression operation, from front-line troops to logistical support, was estimated to be as many as a thousand.

Every single gang in New Hanover was not merely suppressed; they were annihilated. The major criminal organizations that even the New Hanover government couldn't touch were completely wiped out by this chillingly efficient operation.

It was rumored that the bodies, pulled back to Valentine for cremation, lined an entire street on flat carts, day after day after day!

This terrifying, almost unnatural rallying power was completely on par with the New Hanover state government itself! He, Bronte, had absolutely no conceivable possibility of resisting such a monstrous force. This was precisely why he displayed not an ounce of anger today, despite Dutch's relentless, almost joyful provocations.

Looking at Signor Bronte's unpleasant, forced smile, a genuinely happy, almost giddy expression finally settled upon Dutch's face. He laughed heartily, a deep, booming sound.

"Alright, Signor Bronte," Dutch announced, waving a dismissive hand, "I won't be gracing your inner sanctum. I have more pressing matters to attend to. I came chiefly to deliver a piece of news, a little gift, if you will." He leaned forward, his voice dropping, though his eyes still held that dangerous amusement.

"You can begin now, by any means, in any form, to thoroughly threaten those damned upper-class people! Make them live in constant, agonizing fear, unable to extricate themselves from their waking nightmares! In precisely one month, I want these Saint Denis high-ranking officials to become nothing more than lambs ready for the slaughterhouse!"

Listening to Dutch's chilling pronouncement, Signor Bronte's brows furrowed in genuine confusion. He shook his head slowly, a nervous tremor running through him. "No, Mr. Van der Linde," he stammered, "I think you must have mistaken me for someone else. I live in Saint Denis, and I can operate in Saint Denis. I don't believe I can perform such… illegal acts!" His voice was a thin, reedy squeak of protest.

"Hmph," Dutch snorted, a dismissive wave of his hand. His lips curled into a cold, contemptuous smirk. "Perhaps it won't be 'illegal' for much longer, Signor Bronte. With me around, you will never be breaking the law. Not a single one." Dutch then spun on his heel, grabbed the reins of his horse, and prepared to depart, leaving Bronte standing there, utterly flummoxed.

"Oh, and by the way, Signor Bronte," Dutch called over his shoulder, his voice loud and clear, "I think you are remarkably well-suited to be the mascot of Saint Denis, aren't you? A clown on call, a clown exclusive to Saint Denis, and only to the Van der Linde Gang! A private jester, if you will!"

He turned to Arthur, a broad, triumphant grin splitting his face. "Alright, Arthur, I think we should go pay our respects to Mr. Rhodes Brown now."

"Okay, Dutch!" Arthur nodded, a slight, knowing smirk playing on his lips. His gaze swept across Signor Bronte's rigid, pale face. Though he couldn't quite articulate what he was looking at, he felt, instinctively, that his silent observation lent the entire bizarre exchange a certain, unquantifiable gravitas.

Then, with an almost audible flourish, the group of five mounted their respective horses and galloped away, their thunderous hoofbeats fading into the bustling sounds of Saint Denis.

They left only Signor Bronte, standing motionless on his grand steps, deep in troubled thought, watching the receding backs of Dutch and the others.

"Visiting Mr. Rhodes Brown?" Bronte whispered, his eyes widening dramatically as a terrifying realization dawned. A low, guttural gasp escaped him. "Dutch Van der Linde, you've just handed me a colossal, heart-stopping surprise! I… I think I know exactly what you're thinking!"

The more Signor Bronte thought, the brighter, and more chillingly insightful, his eyes became. If he connected this latest maneuver with Mr. Van der Linde's utterly audacious actions when he first burst onto the Saint Denis scene, he would finally, horrifyingly, understand precisely why Mr. Van der Linde was going to visit Mr. Rhodes Brown.

Leveraging power!

"Damn it," Bronte choked, utterly shocked, "to have developed to such a monstrous extent in just a few short months is simply beyond unimaginable! It's… it's a nightmare!"

Dutch Van der Linde had played the his trick to absolute perfection; this was simply incomprehensible, a masterstroke of Machiavellian genius he hadn't thought possible from a mere "country bumpkin."

Signor Bronte looked at Mr. Martelli, who had just carefully, almost tentatively, emerged from the villa, his face still a sickly green. Bronte sighed deeply, a shudder running through him. As soon as he'd heard that Dutch Van der Linde was coming to visit, Signir Martelli had, quite predictably, made a frantic dash for the toilet. And now that Dutch and his terrifying retinue had just left, Signor Martelli, with suspiciously precise timing, had also reappeared. What the F*CK is going on with this world?!