Time, indifferent, churned onward. The Van der Linde Gang, a fleeting whisper in the grand tempest of history, a mere ripple in the ocean of empires, was utterly insignificant. A footnote, perhaps, if they were lucky, in the annals of an era defined by titans.
Yet, even this microscopic ripple had snagged someone's attention.
Nestled deep within the silken webs of Saint Denis's wealthiest district, a sprawling, opulent villa stood as a monument to concealed power. Black-suited security, like grim, silent sentinels, were strategically placed around its perimeter, their presence a subtle menace promising swift retribution. The villa itself devoured land, boasting manicured front and back gardens, a gurgling, artfully sculpted fountain, and a gleaming swimming pool that shimmered under the sun. Inside, the decor dripped with an ostentatious luxury that reeked of ill-gotten gains and iron-fisted control.
To own such a fortress in Saint Denis demanded more than mere wealth; it demanded status, forged in blood and influence.
And the man who sat at the heart of this gilded cage? None other than Angelo Bronte, the undisputed overlord of Saint Denis's criminal underworld, a name whispered with a mixture of awe and simmering resentment.
Bronte. The name itself conjured images of smug arrogance and hypocrisy. He would charm you to your face, his laughter echoing in your ears, only to dissect you in vicious Italian whispers the moment your back was turned.
This was the man: a chameleon of deceit, a predator cloaked in false cordiality. He had reigned as Saint Denis's crime boss for far too long, letting the absolute power curdle into a toxic brew of arrogance and ingrained prejudice. He simply no longer knew how to humble himself, how to bend. And truthfully, given the sheer, suffocating reach of his influence, he scarcely needed to.
As long as the city's other prominent families understood their place, as long as they didn't dare to cross his meticulously drawn lines, Mr. Bronte truly was the uncrowned king of Saint Denis. The police department? A puppet on his strings, its highest echelons riddled with his operatives.
The mayor? His personal pawn. And publicly, he paraded as a benevolent capitalist, a grand philanthropist, his name plastered across every charity drive.
Covertly, he was Saint Denis's largest, most insidious criminal enterprise; if not the entire state of Lemoyne, then certainly within the city limits, he presented himself as the ultimate, unquestionable authority.
Of course, that was all a self-serving fantasy. A comforting lie he told himself.
America, then as now, was a capitalist beast, and no amount of gutter-spawned mafia influence, no matter how brutal, could ever truly stand against the colossal might of industrial capital.
Oil, sugarcane, steel—these were the true engines of the nation, sustaining millions. Bronte, a parasitic levee-dweller, compared to a titan like Mr. Cornwall, was a flea on an elephant's back. Cornwall's power was unimaginable; coal barons had their own private armies, fighting bloody wars over mere mines. An oil magnate like Cornwall would have legions, not just to protect his wells, but to seize entire oil fields.
Bronte might be a god in Saint Denis, and Cornwall might toss him a few crumbs to grease the wheels, but if those two truly clashed, Cornwall wouldn't hesitate. He'd unleash his influence, call in the damn army, and have them machine-gun Bronte's entire family with Maxims for a week straight.
And the Saint Denis Police Department, Bronte's greatest pride, would be utterly silent, not a single peep of protest escaping their bribed lips.
The "other families" in Saint Denis—the Heidi Family, who controlled the city's electrical grid; the Lemieux Family, who held Lemoyne's railways in their iron grip—were the real powerbrokers.
They might give Bronte a respectful nod, send him more "gifts" to keep their interests intertwined, but they certainly weren't afraid of his Mafia. They merely placated him to avoid his petty, venomous tactics. This, then, was the true measure of Mr. Bronte. He wasn't weak, not by a long shot, but his power was relative. In a darkly ironic twist, Bronte's current existence was precisely the kind of "transition state" Dutch had envisioned for the Van der Linde Gang if his arms dealing plan crumbled: to evolve into a full-blown Mafia. It was the ultimate destination for most ambitious gangs.
And at this very moment, the self-proclaimed king of Saint Denis's underworld was lounging on his ridiculously plush sofa, puffing on a cigar, his lips pursed as he conversed in clipped Italian with Mr. Martelli, his second-in-command, who stood stiffly beside him.
"Are you saying… the Van der Linde Gang is currently housed in the old residence of the Lemieux Family?" Bronte's voice was a low murmur, his gaze fixed calmly on the newspaper in his hand, though his fingers tapped a restless rhythm on the armrest.
"Yes, Signore," Martelli replied, his head bowed, his tone cautious, almost subservient. "Dorothea also escorted several women from their gang into the Lemieux villa. They haven't emerged." Martelli had learned caution the hard way; Bronte's arrogance had, over the years, twisted his personality, making his inner thoughts as inscrutable as a locked vault. The pressure on his second-in-command was immense.
Bronte's eyes, narrowed to slits, finally lifted from the newspaper. He sat upright, a sudden, unsettling stillness in his posture. He muttered, almost to himself, a low, cynical chuckle escaping him. "The Van der Linde Gang. Interesting. The clowns who robbed Blackwater of a hundred and fifty thousand dollars, instead of contenting themselves with rustling cattle on the western plains, have somehow transformed into… western clothing store owners? And they've even managed to worm their way into the high society of Saint Denis! It seems Mr. Dutch Van der Linde is a man who simply cannot be satisfied with cows, eh?"
Bronte's laughter, a harsh, mirthless bark, filled the room. Martelli, ever vigilant, quickly joined in, a forced, unconvincing chuckle. The moment Bronte's laughter abruptly ceased, so did Martelli's, like a switch had been flipped.
Bronte, for all his monstrous pride, possessed a cunning intellect. He respected power, even if he feigned cordiality with those he deemed beneath him. The very fact that he could feign courtesy to the despised desperados of the Van der Linde Gang spoke volumes about his shrewdness.
Now, with the gang's baffling transformation—a gang that had stolen a fortune and then, inexplicably, charmed its way into Saint Denis's elite—it was clear. This was no longer mere disdain. It genuinely suppressed his inner pride, forcing him to take the Van der Linde Gang, and specifically its leader, very seriously. Such a gang, with its sudden, impossible shift in fortunes, clearly had a calculating mind behind it, and Mr. Bronte never, ever underestimated a smart man.
"So, what exactly does the Lemieux Family hope to gain from this… association?" Bronte mused aloud, his fingers now drumming a frantic, almost agitated beat on the sofa armrest, making Martelli visibly stiffen. "Those crude scumbags!"
Bronte fell silent, but his eyes, darting restlessly, revealed a mind working at a feverish pace. Saint Denis was no stagnant pond; every high-ranking player sought to devour the businesses of their rivals.
Bronte might sit atop the heap, but his perch was precarious. The higher one climbed, the greater the fall. He lived in a constant state of impending catastrophe: either perfect calm, or a storm that would obliterate him entirely
And the Van der Linde Gang's arrival in Saint Denis, coupled with the baffling behavior of the city's wealthy elite, sent a visceral shiver of unease down his spine. A gang of desperadoes, fresh off a massive robbery, swaggered into Saint Denis, openly bought factories, hired workers, yet no one dared to stop them.
No one seized the chance to crush them for glory or profit. Instead, everyone—everyone—was trying to befriend them, an unsettling undercurrent of acceptance pulling them into high society. This was an anomaly. An extreme, unsettling anomaly.