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The buildings shifted again as he rode deeper into the city's heart. Apartments grew more lavish, arched windows, ornate balconies, flower pots lining the sills. The streets smelled faintly of perfume, tobacco, and fresh bread. Well dressed merchants and wealthy residents walked with measured leisure.
A stark contrast to the muddy outskirts he had just traveled through.
Finally—
The Bastille.
Tall windows. A polished sign. Red curtains visible through the glass. Even from the outside, the sound of refined piano music floated softly into the street.
Caleb dismounted and hitched Morgan to the nearest post before stepping inside.
The moment he pushed through the doors, he was greeted by a wave of warm light, elegant chatter, and the sweet scent of liquor and perfume.
Fancy patrons filled the room, men in finely tailored suits, women in dresses adorned with jewels and feathers. Elegant working girls laughed softly at tables. The piano in the corner played a graceful tune, far more refined than anything in a saloon out west.
And immediately—
Heads turned.
Recognition clicked in their eyes.
Caleb hadn't even taken three steps before a pair of patrons rose from their seats.
"Well I'll be damned, it's McLaughlin! You've returned!"
"Where've you been, friend? Thought you left Saint Denis for good!"
More voices chimed in as the crowd recognized him. Conversations paused. Several glasses were raised. And soon nearly the entire saloon was welcoming him back, calling out his alias—
McLaughlin. The polite, deadly, refined bounty hunter.
Caleb smiled inwardly and activated his Acting Skill.
His posture shifted subtly, straighter back, calm confidence, refined gestures. His expression softened into the charming politeness expected of a man with reputation and class. His voice changed slightly, gaining a smoother cadence with just the right hint of humility.
He became McLaughlin.
"Good to see you all as well," Caleb replied with a charming nod, returning each greeting in equal refinement. "Had some matters to attend to out of town, some personal matters. But it's good to be back."
The patrons smiled, satisfied, and conversations resumed as Caleb made his way to the bar.
Behind the counter stood Ezra, the young Black bartender with sharp eyes and a permanent air of quiet respectability. He brightened when he saw Caleb approaching.
"Well, well. Look who decided to come back," Ezra said with a grin. "Welcome home, Mr. McLaughlin."
Caleb opened his mouth to greet him properly—
But Ezra suddenly set a shot glass on the counter.
And poured whiskey.
Caleb blinked. "You remember my order?"
Ezra smirked knowingly. "Of course I do. But I ain't the one who insisted."
He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice.
"The prestigious owner of the Bastille told me that if you ever returned, I was to give you a whiskey immediately… and tell you that he waits for you at his mansion."
Caleb's hand froze halfway to the glass.
Bronte.
Of course.
"Will do," Caleb said calmly, raising the shot in acknowledgment. "Thanks for the heads up."
Ezra nodded.
Caleb emptied the glass in one smooth motion, set it down gently on the polished counter, and turned toward the door without another word.
The moment he stepped outside, he mounted Morgan with practiced ease.
Time to see Bronte.
He guided her west, weaving through the busy streets of Saint Denis. The scent of cigars and horse manure mixed with bakery sweets. Steam hissed from pipes. A streetcar dinged its bell. Citizens strolled leisurely while gangsters lingered at corner alleys.
And as Caleb neared the wealthy western district, the scenery changed again.
The roads became cleaner. Houses turned into villas. Wrought iron fences enclosed gardens blooming with imported flowers. Lanterns hung from polished lampposts. The air carried the faint scent of lavender and expensive cologne.
Then he reached the gates of Angelo Bronte's mansion.
Italian men in tailored vests and rolled sleeves stood guard around the property. Some held shotguns. Others leaned against the walls, smoking cigars. All radiated quiet menace.
When they spotted Caleb riding up, their eyes sharpened, but then softened with recognition.
They allowed him through.
One man stepped forward to take Morgan's reins. "I'll hitch her, Signore McLaughlin."
Caleb dismounted smoothly. "Thank you."
With weapons still at his sides, now permitted, as part of Bronte's crew, he approached the mansion steps.
The butler opened the door the moment he reached it.
"Good afternoon, Mr. McLaughlin," the older gentleman said politely. "The padrone is expecting you. Please follow me."
Caleb nodded.
The butler led him through the lavish interior, marble floors, velvet rugs, paintings of Italian countrysides, chandeliers gleaming like captured stars. They passed through a dining hall, a lounge, and a hallway lined with classical busts.
Then finally—
They stepped out onto the back patio overlooking the swamp.
And there—
Sitting comfortably in a cushioned chair, holding a fishing rod pointed toward the water, was Angelo Bronte.
The don glanced back at the sound of footsteps.
His lips curled into a slow smile, heavy with both charm and hidden teeth.
"Ahh… Signore McLaughlin," Bronte said in his thick Italian accent. "Finally, you return. I was beginning to think you had forgotten our deal… and your work arrangements."
Caleb activated his Acting Skill and Persuasion Skill simultaneously.
The shift was subtle, but powerful.
His expression softened into professional sincerity, posture respectful but not submissive, tone refined yet warm.
"Forget you, Mr. Bronte?" Caleb replied smoothly. "Never. I apologize, I had some personal arrangements to handle out of town. Matters that required my full attention, now all of that is finished that's why I returned."
Bronte's eyes gleamed with interest.
"Ahh… personal matters." He reeled his line in slightly, gaze fixed on Caleb like a patient judge. "That is very good. Very honest. I appreciate honesty, Signore. In my business, trust is everything, yes?"
Caleb nodded. "Of course."
Bronte set the rod aside and stood, brushing his coat lightly.
"Then come. We have much to discuss. You disappear for days, and the city begins to whisper. My men begin to wonder. And I—" he placed a hand on Caleb's shoulder, "—I begin to miss my reliable new friend."
Caleb gave a slight, refined smile. "I'm here now. And ready to work."
Bronte's smile deepened.
"Bene. Then let us talk about what you have missed… and what Saint Denis will soon become."
He gestured for Caleb to walk with him deeper into the garden path, surrounded by orchids, trimmed hedges, and imported lemon trees.
As they walked, Bronte spoke low.
"You have returned at a very important time. The police commissioner is… eager to discuss certain favors. The mayor has concerns. And there are newcomers in the city. Dangerous newcomers. Not cowboys. Not outlaws." His voice hardened. "Pinkertons."
Caleb's heartbeat slowed.
Pinkertons. Already sniffing around.
Bronte continued, "And I, my dear McLaughlin, need someone I can trust. Someone who can handle… delicate matters. Someone who can move between two worlds, the civilized and the uncivilized."
He stopped walking.
Turned.
Faced Caleb fully.
"You can do this for me, yes?"
Caleb met his gaze without faltering.
"I can."
Bronte smiled like a satisfied wolf.
"Bene. Then let us begin."
But the don wasn't finished. "You arrived just in time," he added quietly.
Caleb raised an eyebrow at Bronte's last statement, the slightest shift in expression but perfectly calibrated, McLaughlin's brand of refined curiosity rather than Caleb Thorne's private suspicion.
"And what exactly do you mean by that, Mr. Bronte?" he asked smoothly, keeping his voice low and polite, as though asking the price of a bottle of wine instead of something that could get a man killed.
Bronte exhaled slowly, almost theatrically, like a stage actor preparing the room for a revelation. He placed both hands behind his back, clasping them lightly as he resumed walking down the manicured garden path. Caleb followed at his shoulder.
"The newcomers I mentioned," Bronte said, "these Pinkertons, how do I put this delicately?" His eyes glinted. "They do not dare go against me. Not truly. Not openly."
Caleb nodded once, a picture of calm understanding, though inside he felt the world shift. He'd seen the future of this gang. He knew what the Pinkertons would become. But McLaughlin? McLaughlin was hearing this for the first time.
Bronte continued, voice lowering like a smooth knife sliding from its sheath. "In fact, they were… very polite. They asked my permission to search around Saint Denis for certain low life criminals." He smiled dryly. "This… Van der Linde Gang."
Caleb kept his expression perfectly controlled, Acting Skill compensating for every flicker of recognition that would have betrayed another man. "Mm," he hummed lightly. "I've heard rumors."
"Rumors," Bronte echoed with distaste. "Yes. But rumors attract flies. And the Pinkertons are flies with wallets, badges, and rich employers. They snoop around places I do not like. They ask questions that are none of their business. And they are, technically, private detectives working for the rich and the government."
He stopped walking again. Turned to face Caleb fully.
"And I have many enemies among the rich and the government."
Caleb understood instantly what Bronte was implying.
"You're concerned," he said, voice even, "that your enemies might pay them… for information gathered in places they shouldn't be."
Bronte grinned sharply, pleased. "Precisely. You understand perfectly what I mean by this, yes?"
Caleb inclined his head respectfully.
"I do."
"And?" Bronte asked, raising an eyebrow.
Caleb let a breath pass, calculated and thoughtful, and then replied. "Of course, Mr. Bronte. I understand full well what you mean by that. So tell me, how would you like me to handle these newcomers in town?"
Bronte's smile slowly widened. "Ahh, Signore McLaughlin… you ask all the right questions."
He resumed walking, leading Caleb toward a shaded pavilion of carved stone, draped in trailing vines. The two men stepped beneath it, where sunlight broke into soft patterns on the tiled floor.
Bronte gestured with a lazy hand. "I would like you to do what your position allows you to do best. To be my eyes and ears on the ground. To observe these newcomers. To handle… certain types of situations… however you see fit." He gave a small shrug. "I trust your judgment as a professional."
Caleb nodded once. "Understood."
"But," Bronte continued, lifting a finger, "I would like to maintain a good partnership with these Pinkertons. They have… uses. They bring money. Influence. And as long as they are not paid by my enemies, they may even be a benefit to me."
Caleb absorbed that carefully. "So you want me to keep watch. Manage situations. But not provoke open conflict."
"Bravo." Bronte clapped his hands once, delighted. "You grasp it perfectly."
"I'll keep my eyes and ears open," Caleb promised. "And I'll act accordingly to your interests in this beautiful town you've built."
Bronte threw his head back and let out a rich, pleased laugh.
"Bene! Bene! Bene!" His voice echoed across the garden.
Caleb didn't flinch. McLaughlin never flinched.
Bronte placed a hand on Caleb's shoulder again, firm, proprietary, approving. "If you ever need anything," he said warmly, "go to Guido. Weapons. Favors. Money. Whatever you may need to do your work."
Caleb nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Bronte."
He stepped back, preparing to take his leave.
Bronte turned away as if dismissing him, but then stopped abruptly.
"Oh. And, signore McLaughlin?"
Caleb paused mid step and looked back.
Bronte smiled with a sharpened edge. "Please keep the streets clean of certain unsavory outlaws who recently arrived. They think they can do whatever they want. Even carve their own territory here in Saint Denis." His voice lowered dangerously. "If you can clear them out, I would appreciate it."
Caleb nodded once. "Of course, Mr. Bronte. I'll handle them. Consider them already taken care of."
"Molto bene," Bronte murmured. "Go, then. Saint Denis welcomes you back."
Caleb bowed his head slightly, refined, elegant, perfectly in character.
Then he turned and walked out of the garden, back through the mansion interior, his steps light and measured as McLaughlin's persona flowed perfectly through him.
But the moment the front gates closed behind him—
Caleb Thorne, not McLaughlin, exhaled with the weight of the future pressing down on his shoulders. Because now the web was tightening. Bronte. The Pinkertons. Saint Denis. And soon, the Van der Linde Gang would connect to all of it. He mounted Morgan, patted her neck, and began riding toward the heart of the city again. Time to think. Time to plan. Time to get ahead.
...
Name: Caleb Thorne
Age: 23
Body Attributes:
- Strength: 7/10
- Agility: 7/10
- Perception: 8/10
- Stamina: 7/10
- Charm: 7/10
- Luck: 8/10
Skills:
- Handgun (Lvl 4)
- Rifle (Lvl 4)
- Firearms Knowledge (Lvl 4)
- Past Life Memory (Lvl MAX)
- Knife (Lvl 3)
- Blunt Weapon (Lvl 1)
- Sneaking (Lvl 4)
- Horse Mastery (Lvl 4)
- Poker (Lvl 4)
- Hand to Hand Combat (Lvl 3)
- Eagle Eye (Lvl 1)
- Dead Eye (Lvl 3)
- Bow (Lvl 2)
- Pain Nullifier (Lvl 3)
- Physical Regeneration (Lvl 2)
- Crafting (Lvl 3)
- Persuasion (Lvl 3)
- Mental Fortitude (Lvl MAX)
- Cooking (Lvl 4)
- Teaching (Lvl 2)
- Trilingual Language Proficiency - G, I, & C (Lvl MAX)
- Inventory System (Permanent - 10x10x10)
- Acting (Lvl 4)
- Alcohol Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Treasure Hunter (Lvl MAX)
- Drugs Resistance (Lvl MAX)
Money: 3,798 dollars and 10 cents
Inventory: 112,142 dollars and 61 cents, 11 gold nuggets, 65 gold bars, 1 Double Action, 1 Schofield, 2 Colm's Schofields, land deed (Parcel), 1 Mauser, 1 Semi Auto Pistol, 1 Lancaster Repeater, 1 Old Wood Jewelry Box, 1 F.F Mausoleum small brass key, 1 Ruby, & 1 Broken Pirate Sword
Bank: -