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The heavy rain in Saint Denis continued its relentless descent, a pounding symphony that drowned out all other sounds.

Compared to the relative calm of a moment ago, the soaked streets of Saint Denis now possessed an eerie, unsettling atmosphere. The air crackled with a strange, unnatural silence, broken only by the deluge.

Dark figures occasionally materialized and dissolved within the swirling gloom, moving with a grim purpose through the rain-slicked streets. Most were carrying what appeared to be inert, corpse-like bodies, their forms slung over shoulders or dragged by their feet, making their way steadily towards Mr. Henry's sprawling Manor.

If it weren't for the occasional, choked groans of pain that escaped these seemingly inanimate individuals, one might truly believe this place had become the underworld itself, a macabre procession of the damned.

Signor Bronte and Mr. Martelli, both dressed in their absurdly bright, clown-like pajamas, braved the heavy rain, their clothes clinging uncomfortably to their bodies. They shivered uncontrollably, their teeth chattering, as they closely followed the grim-faced figures leading the way. Their eyes darted nervously, horrified by the grotesque sight of bodies being dragged along both sides of the road, leaving faint trails in the water.

Too brutal! Bronte thought, a cold dread seeping into his very bones. Van der Linde is truly too brutal! This is beating them to death! He swallowed hard, his throat tight. Apart from the two of them, miraculously still intact and able to walk, everyone else could only be dragged, a testament to the savagery they had endured.

Even the newly appointed police chief, a man of considerable authority, had been "invited" over by a trio of imposing figures, his limp form slung between them. Two ominous Maxim guns were conspicuously set up at the entrance of the Saint Denis Police Station, their dark muzzles aimed directly at the double doors, a silent, deadly warning that made the remaining police inside the Saint Denis Police Station too terrified to even twitch, much less move a muscle.

In addition, every single street intersection was now guarded, manned by grim, silent figures, effectively and strictly controlling all thoroughfares in Saint Denis. Maxim guns, their heavy frames gleaming wetly, were even positioned at various vantage points, overlooking the city, their presence a stark declaration of dominance.

Bronte had been a tyrannical force in Saint Denis his entire life; when had he ever witnessed a scene like this, a city so utterly subjugated, so swiftly and ruthlessly seized? The sheer scale and efficiency of the operation was terrifying.

The terrifying spectacle unfolding throughout the streets, a horrifying tableau of silent conquest, scared Signor Bronte so profoundly that he spontaneously handed the rope he held to Mr. Martelli himself, an unspoken plea for the other man to lead him, to ensure their theatrical, self-degrading performance of submission was flawless.

The heavy, cold rain washed over Mr. Martelli and Signor Bronte, soaking them to the bone and making Signor Bronte shiver continuously, his body trembling uncontrollably.

Damn it, he thought, a wave of profound misery washing over him. He was already fifty years old; how could he possibly endure such physical and emotional torment? He wanted to cry out, Didn't they know that Bronte was afraid of water? The cold was unbearable!

Mr. Martelli, still dutifully holding the rope tied around Bronte's neck, led Signor Bronte forward. He maintained a determined stride, ensuring that the two of them looked sufficiently comical, a grotesque mockery of their former selves.

Finally, amidst Signor Bronte's escalating apprehension and shivering, they arrived at the imposing, now eerily quiet, facade of Mr. Henry's Manor.

"Go in, Mr. Van der Linde is waiting for you inside!" a gruff voice commanded, a gunman gesturing sharply with his rifle towards the open, inviting doorway.

The entire Henry Manor was completely swarming with Van der Linde Gang gunmen, a silent, disciplined occupation force. Two more Maxim guns, their barrels aimed menacingly outwards, were set up at the grand entrance. Even two additional Maxim guns were positioned strategically on the second floor of the villa, their dark forms providing reinforced, unassailable firepower. More than a hundred patrolling gunmen moved through the mansion's vast interior, almost completely occupying every room, every corridor.

Looking at the powerful, overwhelming force of over a hundred gunmen, with more continuously gathering from the murky distance, their ranks swelling, Signor Bronte felt a wave of sheer terror so intense he thought he was about to piss himself right then and there. His knees threatened to buckle.

Two precise rows of gunmen lined up, creating a silent, intimidating gauntlet, their eyes fixed intently, piercingly, on Signor Bronte and Mr. Martelli as they approached, their expressions unreadable.

The terrifying, unwavering gaze of these men made Mr. Martelli's crotch feel warm and wet, a sudden, involuntary release. This sensation, mixed with the cold, seeping rain, created a strangely novel and utterly disgusting combination.

"F*ck! Mr. Martelli, hurry up and go, don't make Mr. Van der Linde wait impatiently!" Signor Bronte, his clown pajamas completely soaked and clinging uncomfortably to his body, let out a frustrated grunt and kicked Mr. Martelli's wet butt with what little force he could muster. Mr. Martelli let out a startled yelp, stumbled forward, and then broke into a frantic run towards the brightly lit room, pulling the rope that was still tied around Signor Bronte's neck.

As Martelli ran, the rope tightened abruptly, its constriction around Bronte's neck making him unable to hold back a loud, protesting fart, a final, undignified release.

Mr. Martelli quickly dragged Signor Bronte towards the villa's main hall, their grotesque parade continuing.

Upon entering the villa's grand hall, the scene within Mr. Henry's once-impeccable villa was fully and horrifyingly presented to Signor Bronte.

All unnecessary decorations – the priceless tapestries, the antique furniture, the delicate sculptures – in the entire hall had been cleared away, crudely piled into other rooms, leaving the vast space stark and bare. Only three plush sofas remained, arranged to provide seating for Mr. Van der Linde, Mr. Morgan, and Mr. Callander.

And the polished floor of the hall was completely covered, literally filled, with the prostrate forms of the dignitaries of Saint Denis. The patriarchs of the eight great families of Saint Denis, the true, self-proclaimed controllers of the city, and various officials of the Saint Denis City Government at all levels, from minor bureaucrats to prominent figures – all were present, mostly lying on the ground in similar, contorted positions, groaning softly in pain.

They were all visibly beaten, their bodies curled up like shrimps, their faces bruised and swollen. Their eyes, wide with a mixture of fear and profound helplessness, were fixed on Mr. Van der Linde, who sat imperiously on one of the sofas at the front of the room, observing them with a detached air.

But despite their suffering, they dared not utter a single word of protest or complaint. The reason was clear: the room was filled to the brim with burly men, their faces grim, holding steel pipes and rifles, staring intently at them, their presence rendering all thoughts and means of resistance utterly useless. Their power had been crushed, their voices silenced.

As Signor Bronte, dragged by the rope, approached the scene, Dutch, seated comfortably, his legs crossed, suddenly exclaimed in feigned surprise, a wide, almost theatrical grin spreading across his face. He leaned forward, gesturing with an open hand. "Oh, sh*t! Is that Signor Bronte? Is that the uncrowned king of Saint Denis, the underground king of Saint Denis, Signor Bronte?" Dutch shook his head slowly, a mock look of wonder on his face. "Oh, damn it, Signor Bronte, why are you dressed like a clown! Oh, ho ho ho, you even have a rope around your neck!" He chuckled, a deep, resonant sound.

"Damn it, what a brilliant idea!" Dutch exclaimed, clapping his hands together with a performative flourish. He turned to Arthur and Mac, gesturing towards Bronte. "Arthur, Mac, look at Signor Bronte's outfit, my goodness, this is definitely the most fashionable attire in Saint Denis! I never thought our 'VDL' Clothing Store would meet a design rival today!"

"Hey!" Arthur couldn't help but let out a short, surprised laugh, a genuine burst of amusement, but then quickly stifled it, covering his mouth with a hand, a flicker of professional decorum returning to his face.

Mac, however, standing beside him, showed no mercy or restraint towards Signor Bronte. He threw his head back and laughed loudly, a booming, derisive sound, openly humiliating Signor Bronte. "Oh, this damn clown is also a famous person in Saint Denis? Damn it, Arthur, you never told me Saint Denis had such a funny clown!" He pointed a finger at Bronte, his face split by a wide, mocking grin.

Dutch laughed heartily, a deep, booming sound that filled the hall, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. He looked at Signor Bronte, whom Mr. Martelli was still leading like a pathetic dog on a leash, his face full of almost paternal emotion. "I never thought Signor Bronte could be so flexible, so adaptable. Now, Signor Bronte, I truly admire you!" He paused, his gaze hardening slightly.

"But now is not the time to deal with you, Signor Bronte," Dutch said, waving a dismissive hand. "So I think you can temporarily stand aside and let these noble gentlemen of Saint Denis talk to me properly."

"Of course, of course, Mr. Van der Linde!" Signor Bronte stammered, his voice eager, more obedient than any dog. He quickly scrambled to his feet, pulling the rope tight, and consciously shuffled to the back of the room, trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. At this point, humiliated as he was, he finally had a moment to scan the full, horrifying scene in front of him.

However, not looking was one thing, but looking was an absolute shock. Those Saint Denis dignitaries he had fought and schemed with his entire life, the revered heads of each powerful family, were now lying on the cold, hard ground, their legs beaten black and blue, swollen and grotesque. They groaned constantly, a low, collective moan of agony, which made Signor Bronte's own legs ache with a terrifying phantom pain, a sympathetic pang that promised a similar fate.

Too f*cking ruthless! he thought, his eyes wide with morbid fascination and rising dread.

These former Saint Denis dignitaries, once so grand and untouchable, no longer possessed their past grandeur; each lay on the ground like a broken, discarded doll, utterly defeated, resembling nothing so much as a dead dog.

And Mr. Van der Linde, looking out at the floor completely covered with the bruised and broken forms of Saint Denis's most powerful dignitaries, finally allowed himself a triumphant smile. He clapped his hands together with a sharp, echoing sound, stood up from the sofa with an air of absolute command, and began his long-awaited speech, his voice resonant and clear.

"Gentlemen! Hello everyone, I am Dutch Van der Linde." He spread his arms wide in a sweeping, encompassing gesture, as if embracing them all. "We are all old acquaintances, so there's no need for excessive introductions. No need for pleasantries."

He leaned forward slightly, his eyes gleaming. "In short, the main reason I invited you all here today is to resolve a singular, pressing issue. Recently, too many people have been targeting me, trying to trip me up, which is not good and severely hinders the development of our Hope Ranch." He shook his head, a feigned look of disappointment on his face. "And if we don't develop well, we can't pay salaries, and if we can't pay salaries, my people can't eat, which is very bad, after all, food is paramount to the people! A man needs to eat!"

He paused, letting his words sink in, then a hard, determined glint entered his eyes. "So I decided to try a physical approach, to use a more direct method, and uproot your foundations, tear down your power, so that no one in Saint Denis can threaten me anymore, and I can develop in peace. That's why I invited you all here tonight." His gaze swept over the prone figures, lingering on each one, a chilling confirmation of his intent.

"I hope everyone can understand!" He concluded, his voice smooth, almost mocking.

"I have already drafted the relevant documents; you just need to sign them. Starting tomorrow, you will be able to continue living happily in Saint Denis like Signor Bronte." He gestured dismissively towards the humiliated clown. "As for the precise content of the documents, you don't need to know too much; in short, it's certainly not good for you." He smiled, a cold, predatory baring of teeth.

"And now, gentlemen," Dutch concluded, his voice suddenly sharp, snapping like a whip, his hand gesturing towards the waiting gunmen, "prepare to sign the documents!"

Damn Van der Linde! a silent collective thought echoed among the battered dignitaries. He's not even bothering to hide it anymore, just directly speaking his mind, laying bare his tyrannical intentions. This is simply too arrogant! Too audacious!

As Mr. Van der Linde gave the order, a murmur of suppressed anticipation rippled through the gunmen. They immediately moved, forming pairs, their movements brisk and efficient. Each pair took out pre-prepared agreements and approached the dignitaries on the ground, forcibly pressing them to sign their names and make their official marks, their hands guiding the pens with unyielding force.

"No! Dutch Van der Linde, what do you mean by this?!" The patriarch of the Miller family, despite his pain, struggled to raise his body, his face bruised but his eyes burning with indignation and hatred. He stared at Dutch, who still sat calmly on the sofa, and bellowed a threat, his voice raw. "I'm telling you, this is illegal! The United States Federal Government will not let you get away with this!"

During his enforced rest, as he lay battered, he had already figured it out, piecing together Dutch's strategy: Dutch hadn't killed them directly, surely because he didn't want to bear any direct responsibility for murder, so United States Federal law must still have some deterrent effect on him. It was their only leverage.

Originally, he hadn't wanted to resort to this kind of open threat, hoping for a more subtle resolution, but now he had no choice. Dutch was already forcing them to sign documents that would strip them of everything; if he didn't speak up now, his family's hard-won property, his legacy, would become someone else's! This was utterly unacceptable; he would rather be beaten to death than agree to such a humiliating fate!

However, more people among the battered crowd remained silent, their expressions a mix of pain and a subtle, almost unholy, pleasure. They exchanged brief, knowing glances, a shared understanding passing between them.

Signing documents? they thought, a silent, contemptuous scoff resounding in their minds. A joke. So-called documents could never truly become unbreakable shackles to restrain the other party. Dutch Van der Linde was simply terrifyingly naive to think so!

Now they had signed, yes, a forced signature, but as long as they were allowed to leave safely, that document would mean absolutely nothing, a worthless piece of paper. And his Van der Linde Gang would then face the full, unbridled wrath of all the Saint Denis dignitaries, a collective vengeance that would dwarf any petty personal vendetta! Their silent defiance, their secret plotting, simmered beneath their bruised exteriors.