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"Yes, Padrone." The butler bowed and withdrew. Bronte waved Caleb to the plush chair opposite his own. "Sit, sit. You have the look of a man who has seen my soul and lived to tell the tale." He chuckled, swirling the deep red wine in his crystal glass.
Caleb took the offered seat, settling into the opulent comfort without relaxing. He waited as Bronte restarted the gramophone at a lower volume, a gentle backdrop of strings and tenor now filling the room.
The butler returned swiftly with a second glass, a fresh bottle, and a silver platter laden with delicate meats, cheeses, and olives. He poured for Caleb before disappearing once more.
"So," Bronte said, leaning forward, his dark eyes sharp with interest. "The Old Madonna. My little church in the swamp. What do you think of my… vault?"
Caleb took a sip of the wine, rich, complex, undoubtedly worth more than most men earned in a month. He set the glass down.
"It's well chosen," Caleb said evenly. "Remote. Disguised. Defended by disciplined men. For its purpose, it's excellent."
Bronte's smile widened as he drink from his glass. "I knew you would appreciate it."
Caleb accepted the wine but did not drink yet. "I conducted a full audit, as requested. Inventory, records, security, and morale."
"Ah." Bronte leaned back, clearly enjoying this. "From the beginning. Tell me everything. Do my boys sleep at their posts? Are the numbers fiction? Speak plainly."
Caleb nodded his head and began his report, he was methodical, structured, leveraging his Business skill to present the information not as gossip, but as a professional assessment.
"Security is disciplined and protocol driven," he started. "Luca runs a tight operation. The perimeter alarms are basic but effective for the environment. The guard rotations are consistent, and they challenge all approaches, as they did with me."
"The physical storage behind the bars is orderly and, according to the ledgers I cross referenced, accurately inventoried. Marco the bookkeeper is meticulous. There's no evidence of pilfering or creative accounting. The system, as it stands, is robust."
Bronte listened, his expression one of satisfaction. "Bene. This is what I pay them for."
"However," Caleb continued, his tone shifting slightly to that of a consultant identifying an area for improvement, "there is a human factor risk. The location is profoundly isolated. The men are loyal, but the loyalty is maintained by routine and remuneration. Morale is… flat. They miss the city, their families. Prolonged isolation in that damp quiet can make a man's mind wander, make him susceptible to discontent or carelessness."
Bronte's brows drew together. "You think they would betray me?"
"Not actively. Not now. But vigilance is a muscle. It atrophies without stimulation. My recommendation would be to implement a rotating leave system. One or two men, every weekend, granted time in the city. It breaks the monotony, gives them something to look forward to, and reinforces that their service is valued beyond a paycheck. A rested, content guard is a sharper, more loyal guard. In the long term, it strengthens your security, it doesn't weaken it."
Bronte leaned back, swirling his wine thoughtfully. He studied Caleb for a long moment, not as a subordinate, but as a strategist evaluating another.
"You see deeper than just guns and locks. You see the engine within, not just the armor." He took a decisive sip. "I agree. We will do this. Luca will arrange the schedule. Your recommendation shows foresight." He raised his glass in a small toast. "To foresight."
Caleb raised his own glass, the unspoken promotion in the air now almost tangible. He had successfully positioned himself not as a mere enforcer, but as a thinker, a planner.
"There is one more thing," Bronte said, setting his glass down with a soft clink. "The cellar. You asked about it?"
"I noted it. Luca said access is restricted to you and Mr. Martelli. I did not inquire further. Some doors are meant to stay closed for auditors."
A flash of pleasure crossed Bronte's face. Caleb had demonstrated both curiosity and discretion.
"Esattamente. Some treasures are not for counting, only for knowing. But your awareness of it is noted."
He paused, then his expression grew animated. "But enough of dusty chapels! We have more immediate and… enjoyable business. Tomorrow evening. My riverboat, the Grand Korrigan, sails. I hosted my his stake tournamentd. High stakes poker and blackjack. The buy in is 1,000 dollars."
Caleb kept his face neutral, though the sum was staggering. "A rich man's game."
"The richest," Bronte corrected, his eyes gleaming. "Merchants, bankers, a state senator or two, some plantation owners from Lemoyne, even a few bored heirs from back east. And, of course, our friend Leviticus Cornwall has been known to send a representative when he cannot attend himself, to show he is not afraid of my waters."
The mention of Cornwall was like a spark on tinder. This wasn't just a card game, it was a political and economic theater.
"As we discussed when you first proved your worth to me," Bronte continued, "I want you to be my player. Your mind is sharp, your demeanor is unreadable. You have the look of a serious man, not a dilettante. You will sit at that table. You will play to win. But more than that, you will listen. These men, when they are drinking my champagne and losing their money, they talk."
"They boast. They let secrets slip. I want you to be my ears. Gather whatever you can, business ventures, political leanings, weaknesses, scandals. The more you win, the more they will respect you, and the more they will talk to impress you. And the more you win," he smiled, "the more you keep. A twenty percent cut of your net winnings is yours. And a bonus of 5,000 dollars if you bring me particularly useful… leverage."
The offer was audacious. It placed Caleb at the very heart of Bronte's intelligence gathering apparatus, in a setting where a single misstep could cost a fortune or reveal his hand.
But the potential rewards were immense. The cut of winnings could be huge. The bonus was substantial. And the information… the information could be priceless, both for Bronte and for Caleb's own, separate plans.
"It's a delicate position," Caleb said, thinking aloud. "Win too much, too fast, and I become the mark, the man to beat. Win too little, and I'm ignored."
"Which is why you are perfect," Bronte said confidently. "You know how to balance on the edge. Be formidable, but not invincible. Be wealthy, but not obscene. Let them think they almost have you. That is when they reveal themselves."
Caleb nodded slowly, as if weighing the risk. Then he met Bronte's gaze. "I'll do it. What's the dress code?"
Bronte laughed, a rich, full bodied sound. "Formale. The very best. I will have my tailor visit you at the Bastille in the morning with his inventory. You will look the part of a prosperous gentleman of industry. Because that is what you are becoming."
He stood up, signaling the meeting was over. "Rest tonight. Prepare your mind. Tomorrow, you play for more than money. You play for the future of this city."
Caleb stood as well, shaking Bronte's offered hand. The grip was firm, the trust palpable. "I won't let you down, Mr. Bronte."
"I know you won't."
The butler appeared to escort Caleb out. As he walked back through the silent, lavish halls, Caleb's mind was already analyzing the new battlefield. The poker table on the Grand Korrigan. It was a nest of vipers, each with their own poison.
But he had advantages they couldn't conceive of, a system enhanced mind, a preternatural calm, his max level Poker Skill, and a mission that went far beyond filling his pockets.
He returned to the Bastille, the weight of the coming game settling alongside the plans for the chapel, the lodge, and the war between titans.
Caleb slept deeply, the kind of sleep that came not from comfort but from exhaustion earned by sustained vigilance.
Saint Denis murmured beyond the walls of the Bastille, carriages, distant laughter, the hum of a city that never truly rested, but none of it reached him. His mind, so often racing ahead of the present, finally allowed itself to go still.
The knock dragged him back.
It was sharp and insistent, rapped directly into the wood of his door with professional confidence rather than apology. Caleb's eyes opened immediately. No confusion, no panic, just awareness. He lay still for half a second, listening.
Another knock followed, polite but firm.
He exhaled slowly and reached for his pocket watch on the nightstand. The brass lid flipped open with a soft click.
7:00 A.M.
"Damn it," he muttered, letting out a low, frustrated groan that had more weariness than anger in it.
The knock came again.
Caleb swung his legs off the bed and stood, rolling his shoulders once as if settling into himself. "Just a moment," he called out, voice level but rough with sleep.
He pulled on his boots first, movements practiced and economical, then reached for his gun belt, buckling it around his waist. The weight of the revolver was familiar, grounding. Only then did he step to the door and open it. The sight that greeted him was a vignette of Saint Denis opulence.
The man at the center was Italian, middle aged, immaculately dressed in a tailored suit of dark charcoal with subtle pinstripes that caught the light just enough to be noticed.
A monocle rested against his right eye, held in place by a fine chain that vanished into his vest pocket. His mustache was thin, carefully waxed into a neat pencil line, giving him the air of a man who took pride in precision.
Flanking him were two young women, both dressed in elegant, tasteful dresses in soft pastel tones, their hair neatly styled and their expressions attentive but reserved. At their feet, arranged with careful symmetry, were several large suitcases, leather bound, reinforced at the corners, and clearly expensive.
"Buongiorno, Signor McLaughlin!" the man chirped, his accent melodic. "My most sincere apologies for the early hour. I am Vincenzo Moretti, at your service. Mr. Bronte has commissioned me to ensure you are… perfetto for this evening's event. Time, alas, is a luxury we do not have."
Caleb rubbed the sleep from his eyes, the pieces clicking into place. The tailor. Bronte's promise. He stepped back, opening the door wider. "Right. Of course. I was told you will come, please come in."
Vincenzo bustled in, snapping his fingers. The two assistants followed, hauling the heavy cases with practiced ease. They took over the room with a silent, efficient energy, transforming it into a sartorial workshop.
One case was opened to reveal a hanging rack of suits in dark wool and fine linen. Another disgorged boxes of shirts, ties, and cravats. A third held shoes polished to a mirror shine, and the fourth contained tools, measuring tapes, and pins.
"Now, Signor," Vincenzo said, circling Caleb with a critical eye, tape measure already dangling from his neck. "We must find the silhouette that speaks your new language. You are not a dandy. You are a man of substance, of… quiet power. We have options. The Regal, with broad shoulders, making a statement. The Classic, which was timeless, unimpeachable. The Elegant, with it's sleek, modern style, suggests a sharp mind." He paused. "Which calls to you?"
Caleb, still waking up, shook his head. "You're the artist, Vincenzo. The one that suits me best. Something that says I belong at the table, but I'm not there to decorate it."
Vincenzo's monocle glinted. "Ah! The Statement of Belonging. I understand perfectly." He clapped his hands. "Maria, Chiara, the midnight blue worsted, the charcoal herringbone, and the black broadcloth with the subtle stripe. And the shoes. We begin."
...
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: 3,471 dollars and 10 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
Bank: -