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...
As he ate, Caleb's mind shifted, not away from the meal, but deeper into strategy. He needed to control this narrative. Reporting the shootout was necessary, ignoring it would be suspicious. But the way he framed it… the angle… the implication… those would steer Bronte's thinking exactly where Caleb needed it to go.
Divide Bronte and the Pinkertons.
Make them see each other as the cause of the city's unrest.
Force them into conflict.
If Bronte became convinced the Pinkertons were stirring the outlaws and gangs into causing chaos, then the two forces would collide. Mistrust would grow. Lines would be drawn. And the Pinkertons, already stretched thin searching the entirety state of Lemoyne, would lose the cohesive thread they were trying to build.
The Pinkertons' information would age. Rot. Become stale and useless. Their theories would fracture. Their leads would tangle into false trails.
And every day the Pinkertons chase the wrong shadows is another day the Van der Linde gang stays safe. The gang could lie low in Roanoke Valley without being sniffed out prematurely.
Caleb cut another slice of apple, chewing thoughtfully.
He replayed last night's encounter with Connor.
Connor's eyes didn't belong to a clueless agent. They belonged to a hunter onto something. A man who'd seen too many coincidences, enough to build instincts.
Connor was the danger, probably Milton and Ross trusted man.
And if Connor sniffed around Saint Denis…
Caleb needed bigger wolves to keep him busy. He took another bite, thinking over the exact words he'd use. Bronte wasn't a fool.
He respected strength, intelligence, and usefulness. Caleb would need to present things carefully, firm enough to command respect, soft enough to feign loyalty, clever enough to be taken seriously.
As he mulled over, footsteps echoed from the hall.
Two sets.
Slow. Steady. Confident.
Caleb set his fork down, wiped his mouth with the provided cloth, and rose from his seat just as the dining room doors opened.
The butler entered first.
Then—
Angelo Bronte.
Dressed in his fine robe, hair still damp from his bath, the crime lord walked in with a calm, powerful grace that belonged to men who controlled cities, not gangs. His butler walked beside him, carrying a towel and stepping into position behind the head chair.
He paused upon seeing Caleb.
"Ahh…" Bronte spread his arms slightly. "Buongiorno, Signore McLaughlin. A surprise to see you awake so early. And even more surprising to see you here at such an hour."
Caleb stood immediately, offering a polite nod. "Good morning, Mr. Bronte."
"Sit, sit," Bronte waved. "No need for formality among men of business."
Caleb obeyed, sitting as Bronte took his place at the head of the table.
A maid immediately stepped forward to serve Bronte his own breakfast plate while the butler stood dutifully behind him.
Bronte picked up his fork, sliced a piece of sausage, then looked at Caleb with a raised eyebrow.
"Well then, Signore McLaughlin… why have you come today?"
Caleb did not stall.
He leaned slightly forward.
"There was an incident at the Bastille this morning."
Bronte stopped chewing.
His eyes narrowed slightly, but he did not interrupt.
Caleb continued, "Seven outlaws. The Blackbridge Riders. They came into the Bastille demanding to be served for free. The leader held a gun to the bartender and claimed the saloon was theirs now. I stepped in. Took care of all of them. But..."
Bronte set his fork down completely.
"And?" His voice grew serious. "But what, Signore?"
Caleb leaned forward slightly. "This may sound overly suspicious, sir. But the Blackbridge Riders were next on my list to handle. They're normally based far north of the city, near the outskirts. For them to suddenly enter Saint Denis and cause trouble like this, that is no coincidence."
Bronte's expression turned icy.
Silent.
Focused.
Caleb continued with carefully measured tone.
"There must be someone… or a group… feeding them false information. Rumors. Lies about the state of power in the city."
Bronte leaned back slowly, eyes locked on Caleb with new gravity.
"What do you mean by that?" Bronte asked, voice low and serious.
Caleb activated his Acting and Persuasion Skills without hesitation. Posture relaxed, tone smooth, expression thoughtful yet concerned, he spoke with the confidence of a man who understood the city's undercurrents.
"Last night," Caleb said calmly, "I was approached by the Pinkertons."
Bronte's eyes sharpened instantly, a glint flashing behind the gold brown irises.
Caleb continued.
"I did not tell them anything of value," Caleb continued. "But the timing is too convenient. Pressed for details. Looking for anything to use. They're getting desperate, their search for this Van der Linde gang has hit walls. And desperate men… make chaos."
Bronte said nothing.
Caleb leaned in just a fraction.
"I believe the Pinkertons are stirring trouble in Saint Denis."
The butler stiffened.
Bronte's grip on his knife tightened.
Caleb pressed forward while the iron was hot.
"These outlaws causing problems? Gangs getting riled up? The increasing incidents on the streets? It's deliberate. It creates confusion. Makes it easier for the Pinkertons to move unseen, gather information, and operate without notice. The more chaotic the city becomes, the more blind spots they gain."
Bronte stared at Caleb as if reading his soul.
"And you are certain of this?"
"I am certain," Caleb lied with perfect smoothness, "that their behavior last night matches perfectly with what happened this morning. Too many coincidences. Too many moving parts."
Bronte slowly set down both fork and knife.
His face transitioned from annoyance… to contemplation… to something far more dangerous.
A brewing storm.
Caleb watched carefully.
And that's when Caleb knew, Bronte believed him.
Not fully.
But enough.
Enough to tilt the balance.
Enough for the seed to root.
Bronte spoke again, but his voice was no longer calm.
It was cold. Deadly. Sharp enough to cut marble.
"Tell me everything. Every detail. Do not omit a single word."
Caleb recounted the encounter with Connor, every word spoken, every tone, every implication, smoothly weaving it together as if it were natural progression rather than engineered.
He described the morning incident with the Blackbridge Riders, emphasizing their sudden boldness, their claim that "Saint Denis belongs to us now," their certainty Bronte's name held no weight.
Bronte listened with silent fury.
When Caleb finished, Bronte stood abruptly.
"These Pinkertons," Bronte said, voice cold as marble, "think they can come into my city, use it like a chessboard, and play their little games…" He sneered. "…without consequence."
He snapped his fingers sharply.
The butler stepped forward immediately.
"Fetch Guido," Bronte ordered. "Tell him I want a full report on Pinkerton movements by noon."
"Yes, sir." The butler departed swiftly.
Bronte turned back to Caleb.
"You have done me a great service by telling me this. And by handling those Blackbridge dogs inside my Bastille." His smile sharpened. "You make me proud to call you my friend."
Caleb bowed his head slightly. "It's my duty."
He turned, and his expression was calm once more, too calm.
"They wish to destabilize my territory? They wish to use my city for their hunt? No. No, no, no. Saint Denis is not some playground for federal dogs."
He stepped closer to Caleb.
"I will handle the Pinkertons."
Exactly what Caleb wanted.
But he simply nodded. "If you need assistance—"
"I will call."
Caleb inclined his head.
Bronte resumed eating, though the tension in his jaw lingered.
"Stay vigilant, Signore McLaughlin. The days ahead will not be quiet ones."
"I know."
"And as for the Van der Linde gang…" Bronte added, voice smooth but eyes sharp, "…if the Pinkertons are searching, they will slip. They will expose their true intentions. And when they do… I will send word to you to hunt them down. They aren't here but have caused quite the trouble here."
Caleb met his gaze steadily, hiding his true feeling with his skills.
"I understand Mr. Bronte, I will wait for you word."
Bronte gave a thin smile.
"That's good. You should do so."
Caleb returned to his breakfast quietly as Bronte finished his own meal with slightly trembling fingers, evidence of his bottled rage.
The seed was planted.
The fire was lit.
Pinkertons vs. Bronte.
A war of power.
And in war… men reveal things they never intended to.
Caleb finished his water, stood, and offered a respectful nod. "Thank you for breakfast. I'll take my leave."
Bronte waved casually. "Vai, vai. Take care, my friend."
Caleb stood, bowed respectfully, and exited the dining room.
As he left the mansion, walking back toward Morgan, he felt the city shift around him again.
Not from chaos.
But anticipation.
Bronte would move.
The Pinkertons would react.
Connor would be pulled into the clash.
And while titans collided…
Arthur and the gang would vanish deeper into Roanoke Valley, unnoticed, untouched, out of sight.
Perfect.
Caleb mounted Morgan, exhaled through his nose, and guided her away from the estate.
As he rode through the city, he felt eyes on him. Not hostile, just the natural curiosity of people who had heard rumors of McLaughlin, the polite, deadly man who lived in the Bastille and worked with Bronte. His reputation here was unlike anywhere else in the state. In Saint Denis, people didn't just fear him, they respected him.
But respect didn't mean safety.
Not even close.
As he approached a quiet intersection near the tram rails—
He heard gunfire.
Not aimed at him. Not yet.
But close.
Caleb reined Morgan to a halt.
A group of three men, rough looking, armed, were dragging a struggling shopkeeper out of his storefront. The sign above the shop read Marigny Jewelers. The outlaws were shouting, waving guns, threatening to break the man's hands if he didn't open his safe.
Caleb recognized them immediately.
Another splinter of the same outlaw factions creeping into Saint Denis like rats leaving a burning ship.
They were testing Bronte's borders.
Testing the city's weakness.
Testing the Pinkertons' boldness.
And, unintentionally, testing Caleb's patience.
He slid off Morgan silently and approached.
The outlaws didn't notice him until he stepped onto the wooden walkway.
"Hey!" one shouted. "This ain't your business, mister! Walk away!"
Caleb cracked his neck slowly.
"Actually," he said evenly, "it is."
The three laughed.
"Who the hell do you think you—"
Then they recognized him.
Their laughter died instantly.
"Shit… it's him. McLaughlin."
Caleb didn't reach for his gun.
He didn't have to.
His voice alone made them tremble.
"You boys have five seconds to drop your weapons and get the hell out of Saint Denis," Caleb said, gaze cold. "Or you won't leave here at all."
They hesitated.
Caleb didn't.
He took one step closer.
That was enough.
All three men threw their guns to the ground. One tripped over himself running. Another dropped to his knees, begging. The third turned tail and sprinted down the street as fast as his legs could carry him.
Caleb picked up the nearest gun and tossed it into a gutter.
He helped the shopkeeper to his feet.
"You're safe now."
The man nodded shakily. "Th... thank you, Mr. McLaughlin."
Caleb mounted Morgan once more and continued down the road.
But as he turned a corner—
A distant figure watched him.
Tall. Clean shaven. Wearing a long coat. A badge in hi left chest.
A Pinkerton.
Caleb pretended not to notice.
But he did.
He noticed everything.
And he knew the man would report everything he just saw.
Which meant the Pinkertons would become more alert. Which meant Bronte's suspicion would grow faster. Which meant the explosion between them was coming sooner.
Good.
Let them clash.
Let them distrust each other.
Let them tear at each other's foundations.
The more they fought, the safer Arthur and the gang would be. Caleb guided Morgan toward the northern edge of the city, closer to the boundaries where wealthy order began to bleed into industrial grit. He needed to plan his next moves carefully. He needed to manage Bronte's attention. He needed to direct the Pinkertons' paranoia.
...
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 4)
- Blunt Weapon (Lvl 1)
- Sneaking (Lvl 4)
- Horse Mastery (Lvl 4)
- Poker (Lvl 4)
- Hand to Hand Combat (Lvl 4)
- Eagle Eye (Lvl 1)
- Dead Eye (Lvl 3)
- Bow (Lvl 2)
- Pain Nullifier (Lvl 3)
- Physical Regeneration (Lvl 2)
- Crafting (Lvl 3)
- Persuasion (Lvl 4)
- 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: 3,787 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 Braithwaites Land Deed, & 1 Broken Pirate Sword
Bank: -