Introducing another dark force when Saint Denis already had one? Mr. Bronte had played this game for too long; he wasn't a fool. He knew precisely what it meant. It was brutally simple: the city's upper crust had clearly grown weary of their insatiable Mafia don, feeling the suffocating grip of his escalating power.
So, they were dragging in an outside dog, hoping to "drive a tiger to swallow a wolf" and, in the ensuing chaos, completely reshuffle Saint Denis's dirty deck. Just as a whale's fall nourished the entire ocean floor, so too did the downfall of a powerful figure bring new life, and new opportunities, to these voracious social vultures.
Mr. Bronte's frown deepened, a livid line etched into his face. Mr. Martelli, hovering nervously beside him, practically shrinking into his tailored suit, dared a whisper in Italian: "Boss, do you need me to…"
"No! That would shatter the rules, Mr. Martelli, you imbecile! You'll get me killed!" Bronte snapped, his voice a low, dangerous growl. He slammed the newspaper he'd been clutching onto the polished table, the thud echoing the thunder of his irritation. In truth, breaking rules was practically Bronte's second language.
His sudden, uncharacteristic caution wasn't about some moral compass; it was because Camille Morgan, the icy matriarch of J.P. Morgan, had just departed Saint Denis. His informants had been quite specific: she'd spent an entire day with this Dutch Van der Linde. That tidbit alone made him afraid to even breathe rashly.
If old man Cornwall could summon the army to machine-gun him and his for a week, J.P. Morgan himself could simply utter a few words, and the Italian Mafia headquarters would have Bronte expelled faster than he could say "fuggedaboutit."
The head of his own family would personally deliver him, gift-wrapped, to the nearest alligator pond. So, yes, the mere shadow of Camille Morgan ensured that Mr. Bronte wouldn't dare resort to his usual underhanded tricks. Not yet, anyway. The real truth was simpler: it wasn't time for underhanded tactics.
The risk was simply too high for so little gain. Therefore, rather than confrontation, his current strategic impulse leaned towards absorption. He would simply swallow the Van der Linde Gang whole, expanding his own empire while simultaneously derailing the insidious plans of those insufferable elites.
"Alright, Dutch Van der Linde!" Bronte's eyes, glinting with cunning, gazed out through the window at the sprawling, oblivious villa district. "Get my suit ready; tonight's banquet is about to begin."
As the sun bled from the sky, twilight draped Saint Denis, and the city, a living jewel, began to ignite its nocturnal splendor. Brilliant gaslights flared on both sides of the avenues, painting the wealthy district in a shimmering glow. Police patrols, omnipresent, were like uniformed shadows, escorting the opulent nightlife of the city's elite.
Villas and courtyards blazed with light, their extravagance mocking the very concept of "expensive electricity bills." For the truly wealthy, their homes became luminous monuments, lit all night long as if to defy the coming dawn.
"Hya!"
A sharp crack of a whip, and three luxurious carriages, gleaming like dark jewels, surged forward, their wheels rumbling over the cobblestones. Poor souls lingering on the street instinctively recoiled, their gazes clinging to the carriages with a mixture of envy and bitter resentment.
Inside, the ten members of the Van der Linde Gang, crammed into their opulent transport, were a symphony of nervous energy and giddy excitement.
Laughter and joyous chatter filled the air, particularly from Arthur, John, and Hosea, who, squeezed into their newly tailored, classic suits, felt like pigs in polished armor. These were rare, almost alien garments for them, and this was their maiden voyage into the gilded, suffocating world of high society. Excitement, mixed with a healthy dose of awkwardness, was practically radiating off them.
Marko, also trussed up in a suit, was practically vibrating. This was, by his own ecstatic estimation, his first truly high-class banquet. Years of humble obscurity, of being dismissed as a crackpot, had bottled up an immense well of anticipation. He kept anxiously patting his suit, checking his hair, constantly muttering, "Is anything amiss? Do I look like a common ruffian?"
Arthur and John, who'd endured the indignity of trimming their wild hair and beards into something vaguely civilized, caught each other's eye and burst into guffaws.
"Oh, well, compared to Marston," Arthur chortled, running a hand over his surprisingly smooth chin. He unconsciously adjusted the pistol, now uncomfortably tucked into his waistband without a proper holster. "You almost look… human!"
John, his face reddening, shot back, "Shit, Arthur! You look like a goddamn bear in that suit!"
"Hahahahaha," Hosea chuckled, raising a hand, his eyes twinkling as he silenced their bickering. He was sitting opposite Dutch, enjoying the spectacle. "John, you should truly take notes from Arthur on this particular skill."
"Alright, children, enough with the squabbling," Hosea continued, his tone shifting to something more serious, though a hint of amusement still played on his lips. "Tonight, you boys need to focus on protecting our ladies. And pay attention: once we're inside, no stealing, no robbing, no killing, and for God's sake, no cursing like drunken sailors. Try to project goodwill, gentlemen. As much as your… natural inclinations… allow."
"Oh, well, Hosea," Arthur feigned innocence, throwing his hands up in mock exasperation. "This is my first time at such a fancy shindig!"
"I attended quite a few in my younger days," Hosea mused, a nostalgic smile touching his lips. "And I assure you, there were always plenty of things to… acquire… inside." He winked.
"Oh ho ho," Dutch chimed in, a bottle of red wine appearing in his hand. He began pouring it into several waiting glasses, a sly grin spreading across his face. "Then don't go stealing this time, Hosea. I'd rather not return to find you've 'acquired' Mr. Bronte himself and moved him into our carriage, hahaha!"
"Hahahahaha…"
Laughter erupted, filling the luxurious carriage, a bizarre blend of outlaw grit and aristocratic finery. Everyone raised their glasses in a toast, a silent, defiant celebration of their impossible journey. As the wheels turned, the carriage rolled slowly to a halt before tonight's grand, imposing venue: Lemieux Manor.
Lemieux Manor, the sprawling ancestral home of the Lemieux Family, anchored firmly in Saint Denis's opulent district, was more than just a villa; it was a veritable complex, a testament to the Lemieux Family's immense wealth and enduring status.
The current mayor resided within its walls, but he was merely a figurehead, not the true power. The family's real influence was wielded in the state assembly of Lemoyne, a fact that explained Henry Lemieux's unlikely rise to mayoral power. It was also why, even after a certain mission went spectacularly awry later on, he managed to step down gracefully, avoiding prison entirely—a chilling testament to the Lemieux Family's unshakeable grip.
At this moment, Lemieux Manor was a pulsating heart of power. Important figures from every corner of Saint Denis, and indeed, the entire state of Lemoyne, had already descended upon it, ready to play their games under the glittering chandeliers.