Bronte's Perspective

The heavy rain poured relentlessly, an unending cascade, and even muffled thunder rumbled ominously in the distant sky, a low, rolling growl that seemed to vibrate through the very foundations of Saint Denis.

Such extreme weather was a rarity in Saint Denis, and the distant, muffled thunder, like a giant clearing its throat, even startled Signor Bronte from his uneasy sleep. He stirred, a heavy sigh escaping his lips.

"Cough, cough…" Signor Bronte rasped, a dry, hacking sound, then reached out a trembling hand to switch on the bedside lamp.

The soft, yellowish light bloomed dimly in the opulent room, pushing back the shadows just enough to reveal Signor Bronte's unusual attire. He was wearing a full, slightly wrinkled suit, still perfectly buttoned.

That's right, he was sleeping in a suit. His personal golden cage.

He lifted a hand, straightening the slightly wrinkled collar of his suit with a meticulous, almost obsessive gesture, then slowly, ponderously, sat up in bed. He pressed both hands against his forehead, as if trying to push away a nagging headache or a troubling thought, and coughed deeply twice, a weary, rattling sound, mixed with a profound, almost artistic sigh.

It was hard to imagine that the self-proclaimed King of Saint Denis, the Big Boss of the Saint Denis Mafia, the greatest underground leader in the city, could appear so utterly helpless, so burdened. His public persona was one of unshakable power, yet here, in the dim light of his private room, he was a picture of vulnerability.

But a golden cage, no matter how luxurious, is still a cage; it binds and constrains. Signor Bronte had been trapped in this gilded prison for a long, suffocating time, and he truly felt an immense, crushing pressure weighing down on him, a constant, gnawing anxiety.

"Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh…" Fine, persistent raindrops pattered against the ornate bedroom windowpane, creating a continuous, whispering whooshing sound, a melancholic soundtrack to his troubled thoughts.

Listening intently to the complex, multilayered sound of the rain outside the window, Signor Bronte slowly, almost ponderously, pushed himself out of bed. His silk slippers shuffled softly on the thick rug as he ambled towards the window, his gaze blank, unfocused, as he stared out at the impenetrable dark rain curtain beyond the glass.

A dark and stormy night, perfect for murder; this extreme, almost theatrical weather made him feel a chilling, profound coldness deep inside, a premonition of ill tidings. Thirty years ago, on just such a night, he had brutally killed a man, a cold, calculated act as a 'blood pledge' to enter the family, thereby becoming a full-fledged member of the Mafia.

For so many years, although he appeared glorious and untouchable on the surface, his inner peace had vanished utterly after that fateful night. Since then, he couldn't even sleep soundly, his nights plagued by restless anxieties and the ghosts of his past.

"Alas…" Bronte breathed out a deep, heavy sigh, his breath misting on the cold glass. He looked at the vast, dark expanse of Saint Denis outside the window, a sudden, almost poetic sense of melancholy washing over him, like an artist contemplating a grim masterpiece, for some unknown, unsettling reason.

Bronte gazed blankly, hypnotized, at the rain-drenched Saint Denis night beyond the window, quietly, almost masochistically, experiencing nature's decay, its relentless, indifferent destruction.

Outside, the night remained profoundly dark, swallowed by the storm. The distant streetlights were barely visible, their weak glows diffused into hazy halos. The sound of rain, thick and pervasive, almost completely covered all other noises; the dense, continuous downpour sounded like sustained gunfire, crackling non-stop, a relentless barrage. And then, he saw it. Flickering flashes of light, indistinguishable from genuine gunshots, could be seen, faint but undeniable, in the far distance…

Wait!

Signor Bronte's eyes suddenly snapped wide open, a flicker of raw alarm replacing his contemplative gaze. He pressed his broad face, almost flattening his nose, against the cold window glass, straining to see, his eyes fixed on the villa not far from his own sprawling mansion.

The torrential downpour and the suffocating darkness intertwined, making it impossible for him to discern anything clearly. But those sporadic, flickering gunpowder flashes, that rhythmic, crackling sound, undeniably akin to gunshots – these could not be mistaken! They were real.

Damn it, he thought, a cold knot forming in his stomach, that crackling sound wasn't the rain at all; it was actual gunfire!

But thankfully, a wave of immediate relief washed over him, it wasn't hitting his own house!

However, if he remembered correctly, wasn't that distant villa the mansion of the Miller family in Saint Denis? Who in God's name was audacious enough, bold enough, to attack those damned council members? The thought sent a shiver down his spine.

Signor Bronte's gaze extended further into the distance, straining his eyes. Although he couldn't see clearly due to the obscuring distance and the heavy rain, the faint, yet persistent, flickering points of light in the profound darkness still made his heart skip a beat, a sickening lurch in his chest.

Damn it, is there still a large-scale battle raging outside? Has an army truly come to attack Saint Denis? Or, God forbid, has a coup d'état, a full-blown revolution, occurred in Saint Denis?

Signor Bronte felt a distinct surge of panic, a cold sweat breaking out on his brow. But then, upon seeing the familiar, reassuring sight of seven or eight burly gunmen, their forms dark against the faint light, standing guard at his villa's imposing entrance, he slowly breathed a shaky sigh of relief, the tension easing slightly from his shoulders. He had said it himself, his security had been significantly upgraded recently. Even in this treacherous, rainy night, there were still loyal gunmen standing guard at his door, their rifles gleaming faintly.

Signor Bronte looked at the seven or eight gunmen, standing ramrod straight in front of his mansion's ornate gate, with a profound sense of satisfaction, a warm glow of pride spreading through him.

These gunmen were excellent, truly exemplary! Still faithfully standing guard in such relentless heavy rain, their discipline unwavering – very good!

He focused on them, his gaze moving from figure to figure, then lingering on the heavy weaponry. Looking at the rifles held securely in their hands and the ominous Maxim gun, its barrel dark and deadly, set up prominently at the entrance, Signor Bronte felt a profound, almost palpable sense of security…

"Maxim?"

Signor Bronte's meandering thoughts suddenly broke off, snapped like a dry twig. His large face, which had been pressed against the window, suddenly flattened even more against the cold glass, his breath fogging it slightly. His two small, beady eyes, usually shrewd and calculating, widened impossibly, staring unblinkingly, fixed with horrifying clarity on the Maxim gun conspicuously set up at his doorstep, and then, slowly, agonizingly, on the utterly familiar uniforms of those armed gunmen…

"Oh, sh*t! Van der Linde! F*ck you! Van der Linde! F*ck!!!"

Signor Bronte's previous feelings of profound loneliness and philosophical solitude, his sense of stability and contemplative reflection, instantly evaporated, dissolving into thin air. The very moment he clearly, horrifyingly, saw what was happening downstairs, a guttural scream of pure, unadulterated fury tore from his throat, and he began to curse loudly, his voice hoarse with rage and disbelief.

"Oh, f*ck! F*ck! F*ck! Damn you, Van der Linde, what exactly have you done in Saint Denis?!" Signor Bronte screamed, his voice cracking, clutching at his chest as if his heart might explode. Connecting this terrifying revelation with the sporadic gunshots and persistent gunpowder flashes he had heard just moments ago, how could he not know that the people outside, surrounding his very home, must be from the accursed Van der Linde Gang!

Damn it! The dense gunpowder flashes shimmering in the distance and the distinct uniforms of the gunmen positioned menacingly at his own door all converged, pointing to one terrifying, undeniable truth: Dutch Van der Linde had, with unimaginable audacity, very likely launched a full-blown coup d'état in Saint Denis on this dark, rainy night!

Otherwise, it would be impossible for the surrounding villas to be filled with so much continuous gunfire, and the gunshots would not be crackling incessantly like the very downpour itself!

Damn it all! His carefully constructed composure shattered, splintered into a million pieces. He paced frantically in the small space by the window, his hands clenching and unclenching.

He had just performed an extreme, audacious maneuver recently, orchestrating the assassination of two officials in Saint Denis. These two ruthless actions had filled him with a smug, almost intoxicated confidence, making him feel as if he was about to return to his absolute peak of power.

He had even hosted a lavish banquet these past two days, reveling in his triumph, to celebrate his latest, brutal progress.

And now, now you're telling me that at this critical, triumphant moment, you're leading people here to launch a coup d'état?! And an overnight coup at that, overturning everything in mere hours?!

What the hell are we supposed to do now?! The question screamed silently in his mind, echoing his rising panic.

"F*ck! F*ck! F*ck! This isn't how you play, damn it, this isn't how you do things! Van der Linde, you're a rule-breaker! You're a rule-breaker!!!" Signor Bronte shrieked, so consumed by rage and frustration that he couldn't even form proper curses, just stubbornly repeating the accusation, his voice rising to a hysterical pitch, his hands chopping the air in frantic disbelief.

He couldn't have imagined that this man, Dutch, would be so incredibly bold! He actually launched a night attack on Saint Denis, initiating a coup d'état under the cloak of darkness! Damn it, no one, no one, could tolerate this blatant disregard for the established order!

"Oh, oh, oh! F*ck! Mr. Martelli, you damn thing, get my pajamas, get my pajamas!" Signor Bronte paced anxiously, almost frantic, in the room, his eyes wide with a manic desperation. He occasionally leaned against the window, his face contorted, peeking out at the Van der Linde Gang gunmen who had already entered the mansion's grounds, their figures looming in the rain.

He could only admit defeat now, acknowledge the horrifying truth; that damned Van der Linde Gang always pulled off moves no one else would dare, no one else would even think of! They were utterly unpredictable!

"Big Boss!" Mr. Martelli, who had already heard Signor Bronte's escalating shouts and frenzied demands, immediately pushed the bedroom door open and scurried in, his face a mixture of fear and confusion.

He was wearing a ridiculously ill-fitting, clown-like pajama suit, its bright colors clashing garishly, and in his arms, he clutched another identical set.

Seeing Martelli's absurd attire, Bronte's agitation instantly flared into a fresh, furious rage. His eyes narrowed, a vein throbbing in his temple.

"F*ck! Mr. Martelli, where did you get the pajamas you're wearing?!" Bronte roared, pointing a furious, trembling finger at Martelli's clownish garb. "Oh, sh*t! You bastard, you've wanted to betray me for a long time, haven't you? F*ck!" His voice was laced with a paranoiac suspicion.

Signor Bronte was utterly furious, his face purple with rage, staring at Mr. Martelli's ugly, almost mocking pajamas.

Damn it, he thought, his mind racing, the Imperial Army hasn't even arrived and you're already learning Japanese? The Van der Linde Gang hasn't even arrived and you've already bought pajamas for surrender?

What's this? You're preparing to surrender in advance, are you?

F*ck, I knew the legendary King of Endurance must have a trick or two up his sleeve! This is his play, his ultimate humiliation!

"Oh, f*ck! Mr. Martelli, f*ck!" Signor Bronte bellowed, his hand lashing out with explosive fury, striking Mr. Martelli across the face. This was the first time he had ever physically slapped a family member, a testament to his utter, desperate breakdown.

Slapping sounds echoed sharply in the room as Bronte, with trembling, furious hands, slapped Martelli and simultaneously began to frantically strip off his own suit and pull on the clown pajamas. He shaved the middle of his hair with a quick, desperate motion, exposing a pale, glistening forehead. He then grabbed a mop, wrapping its grimy strands around his head, meticulously shaping it into a crude, absurd clown's hat. Finally, with a profound, self-degrading gesture, he tied a rope around his own neck, handing the other end to a bewildered Mr. Martelli, signaling him to lead the way.

Finally, after he had meticulously and tragically dressed himself as a grotesque clown, the door to Signor Bronte's bedroom swung inward.

"Thud!" With a resounding, echoing bang, the bedroom door was kicked open violently, splintering slightly against the frame.

What greeted the burly gunmen, their steel pipes still held menacingly, was a bizarre and utterly unexpected sight: two figures, dressed identically in garish clown pajamas, prostrating themselves on the polished floor, their faces pressed to the ground in a tableau of abject submission.

"Hoo hoo hoo, gentlemen," Signor Bronte's voice, though muffled by his prostrate position, managed a fawning, exaggeratedly servile tone, dripping with false humility. His voice was laced with an almost theatrical obsequiousness. "Is it the esteemed, the revered, my most admired, the Van der Linde gentleman who illuminates Lemoyne like God, who has arrived? Oh, gentlemen, please allow me, this loyal clown, to request an audience with the respected Van der Linde gentleman! I believe amusing the Van der Linde gentleman with myself might be the only thing this humble clown can do for the Van der Linde gentleman!" He managed to lift his head slightly, his eyes wide and pleading, fixed on the bewildered gunmen.

As the door opened fully, Signor Bronte's absurd figure and his astonishing, fawning expression left the burly men at the door, still clutching their steel pipes, utterly astonished, their faces slack with disbelief.

F*ck! one thought, his jaw slack. The Van der Linde gentleman didn't say Saint Denis had such a… such a beauty! It was an image that would forever be seared into their minds.