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Minutes stretched like hours. Then, slowly, the tide turned, causing the attackers to faltered. One group broke for their horses. Another scrambled back toward the carriages. "Don't let 'em regroup!" someone shouted in Italian accented French.
Caleb leaned out and fired again, dropping a rider mid mount. The horse screamed and bolted away riderless.
A carriage lurched as its driver was shot, crashing into another and blocking the retreat.
Still, some of the assailants managed to escape, riding hard down side streets, disappearing into Saint Denis's waking maze.
When the last shots faded, an eerie silence fell in the docks.
Smoke drifted lazily over the dock.
Smoke hung in the air, acrid and heavy. Blood darkened the planks, pooling between boards, streaking toward the river. Several bodies lay motionless, weapons fallen from slack hands.
Caleb lowered his repeater slowly, scanning for threats.
None moved.
Only then did he become fully aware of the aftermath.
Guests and clients huddled behind crates and overturned luggage, faces pale, eyes wide with shock. Some sobbed quietly. Others stared blankly at the carnage.
A man lay dead near the gangplank, blood pooling beneath him, his fine coat ruined.
Another moaned softly, clutching his leg, breath coming in panicked gasps.
Bronte's men were regrouping, checking each other, dragging the wounded back.
Caleb exhaled through his nose, a tight, controlled breath.
His expression hardened.
This was going to cause problems.
Big ones.
Bronte would lose his mind when he heard. A massacre on his doorstep, on one off his prized ventures, with his elite guests caught in the crossfire? The fallout would be immense, political pressure, police scrutiny, rival opportunists circling like vultures.
And Caleb was still here.
He exhaled through his nose.
He couldn't stay in Saint Denis much longer now. Not without drawing heat he didn't need. His original three day plan was already stretched thin, and this, this would force his hand.
He'd need to convince Bronte. Persuasion. Acting. A clean exit, framed as necessity rather than retreat.
But first—
He slung the Litchfield over his shoulder and walked toward one of the fallen assailants.
The man was still alive, though barely. He lay on his side near a shattered crate, blood soaking through his coat, each breath wet and ragged. His eyes snapped toward Caleb as he approached, terror flickering inside his eyes.
Caleb crouched beside him, rifle resting casually against his knee.
"What," he said calmly, "were you thinking?"
The man tried to spit, but only blood dribbled from his lips. "Go to hell."
Caleb's expression didn't change. His Acting skill slid into place, projecting cold authority without overt threat. His Persuasion wrapped the words in inevitability.
"You're dying," he said simply. "You know that. You can either die knowing your name disappears with you, or you can die having traded it for something useful."
The man's breathing hitched.
"Who sent you?" Caleb asked.
Silence.
Caleb shifted slightly, enough that the man could see the rifle more clearly. "You don't owe them loyalty anymore. They're already gone."
A flicker of anger, then despair.
"…Cornwall," the man rasped.
Caleb's eyes narrowed a fraction. "Leviticus Cornwall?"
The man shook his head weakly. "Not him. His… dogs. The ones he doesn't leash."
That was interesting.
"Names," Caleb pressed.
The man coughed, blood spraying. "Didn't say. Paid through brokers. There's also some Pinkertons… who teach our deal. They said Bronte was… getting too bold."
There it was.
Not an official move. A deniable one. Cornwall probing, testing, and destabilizing.
Caleb straightened slowly.
"Anyone else involved?" he asked.
The man's eyes glazed. His head lolled.
He was gone.
Caleb stood, face hard.
This wasn't just escalation. It was a message.
And Cornwall had just fired the first shot of a war that would burn Saint Denis from the inside out.
He turned back toward the dock, already shaping the lie he would tell Bronte, how he'd emphasize survival, loyalty, and necessity. How he'd frame his departure not as retreat, but as strategy.
Morgan was gone, but she would circle back. She always did.
Bronte's mansion was what awaited him.
The stench of cordite and blood seemed to cling to Caleb as he stood amidst the settling dust. Before he could even summon Morgan, the captain of the dock guards, a grizzled man named Salvatore with a fresh graze on his cheek, approached him.
Several of Bronte's men approached him as the last echoes of gunfire finally died away, boots crunching over splintered wood and spent casings. They moved carefully, weapons still drawn, eyes sweeping the docks with the ingrained habits of men who had survived too many ambushes to relax quickly.
"Signor McLaughlin," Salvatore said, his voice thick with relief and residual adrenaline. He clasped Caleb's shoulder briefly, a gesture of profound gratitude. "Grazie. If you hadn't been there… madonna. They would have rolled right over us."
His gaze flicked around the dock as he spoke, taking in the ruined crates, the fallen bodies, the wounded guests being tended to where they lay. His jaw tightened. "The boss… he will not be happy when he hears of this."
Caleb's gaze swept over the ruined dock, the expensive carnage. "No," he agreed, his tone grim. "He won't be. But you and your men held your ground under fire. That counts for something."
He turned his full attention to Salvatore, his Acting skill already weaving a narrative of shared responsibility. "Don't worry. I'll report to him personally. I was the player, but I was also part of the security detail by my presence. This failure is as much mine to explain as anyone's. You were ambushed. No one could have predicted a brazen attack like this in the docks, where everyone knew the Grand Korrigan is going to dock."
Salvatore's weary face lit with hope. "You would do that? Take some of the heat?"
"It's the truth," Caleb said, offering a tight, reassuring smile. "And the truth that keeps good men in their jobs is the best kind. Right now, your priority is those guests. Make sure the wounded are tended to, the dead are covered respectfully. The less scandal in the newspapers tomorrow, the better for all of us. If anyone else dies from this, even I won't be able to soften Mr. Bronte's temper."
Salvatore nodded vigorously, the weight on his shoulders visibly lightening as tension drained visibly from the man's shoulders. He let out a long breath, relief cutting through the shock and anger.
"Sì, sì. Of course. Thank you, Signor. We will handle it here." He turned, barking orders in rapid Italian, his men snapping to with renewed purpose.
Caleb stepped away as the operation began to stabilize. He raised two fingers to his lips and whistled, sharp and familiar.
Morgan didn't come immediately.
He frowned slightly, then he spotted Morgan trotting back toward him through the thinning smoke, ears forward, eyes bright, utterly unbothered by the chaos she'd fled minutes earlier.
Caleb shook his head despite himself. "You got a nerve," he muttered affectionately.
She stopped in front of him, huffing once, tail swishing. 'Danger gone. You're here. Let's move,' her posture seemed to say.
He mounted up, the familiar leather of the saddle a grounding sensation. "Let's go see the lion in his den, girl," he murmured, patted her neck affectionately.
Morgan snorted and turned west, hooves clopping steadily as they left the ruined docks behind.
The ride through Saint Denis felt different.
The city was awake now, not in its usual lazy, decadent way, but sharp and uneasy. Word of gunfire traveled faster than truth. Shutters were closed. Doors barred. Policemen clustered in nervous knots, hands resting on batons and holsters, unsure who they were meant to face.
By the time they reached the opulent west side, the usual languid security had been replaced by a visible, armed cordon. Guards patrolled the perimeter with shotguns, their eyes scanning the streets.
He dismounted and hitched Morgan at the post, giving her another pat. "You earned that treat later," he murmured.
The gates were closed, but at the sight of Caleb, they swung open instantly. The guards at the door didn't even think of stopping him.
Inside, the atmosphere was thick with tension.
The front doors stood open, Bronte's men stationed in pairs along the walls.
Caleb barely made it three steps into the foyer before the butler hurried toward him, face drawn with worry, with his hand practically wringing. "Signor McLaughlin! Thank heavens. The master is in the main living room. He is… molto agitato. Signor Martelli is with him."
Caleb nodded. "Of course."
As he moved deeper into the mansion, Bronte's voice carried clearly through the corridors, loud, furious, and laced with wounded pride.
"…DISGRACE! A MACCHIA ON MY NAME! IN MY CITY! ON MY RIVERBOAT! I AM MADE TO LOOK LIKE A FOOL! THEY WILL LAUGH! CORNWALL WILL PISS ON MY DOORSTEP AND CALL IT RAIN!"
Guido Martelli's lower, placating tones were a futile counterpoint. "…we will find who did this, Boss. We will make examples…"
Caleb paused at the threshold, taking a deliberate breath. He activated his Acting skill, preparing to project the perfect blend of weary competence, loyal concern, and controlled anger.
His Persuasion skill hummed, ready to shape Bronte's fury into a usable tool. He felt the latent weight of his enhanced Charisma and Luck stats, a silent prayer that they would steer the coming storm.
He pushed the door open.
The scene was one of operatic rage. Bronte stood in the center of the lavish room, his face florid, a crystal glass shattered at his feet, staining an imported rug with expensive liquor. Guido Martelli stood by the fireplace, his expression a mask of frustrated calculation that broke into a hidden subterfuge as Caleb entered.
Bronte spun, his eyes bloodshot. For a second, pure, undiluted fury was directed at the newcomer. Then recognition flooded in, followed by a torrent of desperate demand.
"McLaughlin! Finalmente!" he bellowed, striding forward. "Tell me! The docks! My riverboat! My guests! What in the name of all the saints happened?!"
Caleb didn't flinch. He met Bronte's gaze squarely, his own expression one of grim exhaustion and resolve. He didn't speak immediately, letting the silence after the shout hang for a beat, forcing Bronte to listen.
"The Grand Korrigan is fine, Mr. Bronte. A few bullet holes in the siding, nothing that can't be repaired," Caleb began, his voice steady, factual.
"The guests… there are casualties. Some dead, more wounded. It's bad. But it could have been a massacre if your men hadn't held fast, and if the attackers' primary target hadn't been drawn."
Bronte's eyes narrowed. "Primary target? What primary target?"
"Me," Caleb said simply. "It wasn't a random attack on your operation. It was a hit. They waited for the tournament to end, for the crowd to disperse just enough. Their focus was on the man who had just taken a fortune from Cornwall's table and humiliated his representative. They were there to kill me, and to send a message by doing it on your dock, in the most public way possible."
He let that sink in. He was reframing the narrative. This wasn't a failure of Bronte's security, it was a deliberate, personal provocation by Cornwall against Bronte's newest and most successful asset. The dead guests were collateral damage in a war aimed at them.
Guido Martelli scoffed. "Convenient. To make it about you. Perhaps it was just rivals, or a botched robbery."
Caleb turned his cold gaze on Guido. "The dying words of one of the shooters weren't about robbery, Signor Martelli. They were about Cornwall. About 'his dogs.' And about leftover Pinkertons, bitter over Milton's death, seeing an opportunity to stir the pot."
He looked back at Bronte. "This was Cornwall's answer to my win. And to your partnership with me. He's not just coming for your business, Mr. Bronte. He's declaring war on your face. He tried to slap you in front of everyone who matters in Saint Denis."
...
Name: Caleb Thorne
Age: 23
Body Attributes:
- Strength: 8/10
- Agility: 8/10
- Perception: 9/10
- Stamina: 8/10
- Charm: 8/10
- Luck: 9/10
Skills:
- Handgun (Lvl MAX)
- Rifle (Lvl MAX)
- Firearms Knowledge (Lvl MAX)
- Past Life Memory (Lvl MAX)
- Knife (Lvl MAX)
- Blunt Weapon (Lvl 2)
- Sneaking (Lvl MAX)
- Horse Mastery (Lvl MAX)
- Poker (Lvl MAX)
- Hand to Hand Combat (Lvl MAX)
- Eagle Eye (Lvl 2)
- Dead Eye (Lvl 4)
- Bow (Lvl 3)
- Pain Nullifier (Lvl 4)
- Physical Regeneration (Lvl 3)
- Crafting (Lvl MAX)
- Persuasion (Lvl MAX)
- Mental Fortitude (Lvl MAX)
- Cooking (Lvl MAX)
- Teaching (Lvl 3)
- Trilingual Language Proficiency - G, I, & C (Lvl MAX)
- Inventory System (Permanent - 10x10x10)
- Acting (Lvl MAX)
- Alcohol Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Treasure Hunter (Lvl MAX)
- Drugs Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Business (Lvl 1)
- Leadership (Lvl 1)
Money: 3,465 dollars and 60 cents
Inventory: 192,892 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, & 1 Milton's Safety Deposit Key
Bank: -