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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
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When he saw the state of his men, his eyes widened, but then he saw Caleb striding at the front, looking untouched by the carnage. Bronte turned around fully and saw Caleb, welcoming his Underboss McLaughlin back with open arms.
"Ah! Il mio generale!" Bronte exclaimed, rushing forward to embrace Caleb, ignoring the faint smell of gunpowder. He was expressing his immense happiness that the attack was successful.
The telegraph lines from Annesburg might have been cut, but the glow of the fire and the frantic reports from the rail lines had already reached Saint Denis.
"You did it, McLaughlin! You truly did it!" Bronte laughed, a maniacal sound of pure triumph. He looked past Caleb to the battered, bloody survivors standing in the courtyard. His smile faltered for a fraction of a second, but his greed quickly covered it.
Even though the casualties are clearly massive, looking at the fraction of men who had returned, Bronte clapped his hands together. "Such a heavy toll... such brave, brave men. But they have not bled in vain! They have at least caused Leviticus Cornwall a very, very big loss! His mines are ash! His empire are going to burns!"
Bronte turned back to the men, raising his voice so the entire courtyard could hear. "You are heroes of la famiglia! And heroes are rewarded! I promise a big reward for McLaughlin, my brilliant Underboss, and for all you survivors! Gold, promotions, whatever you desire! Alongside generous, life long pensions for the families of those who are dead as a reward for their ultimate sacrifice!"
The survivors, exhausted as they were, managed a weak but grateful cheer for the Don.
As Bronte turned back to him, brimming with arrogant joy, Caleb decided to use this exact chance, while Bronte was high on his perceived victory and completely pliable, as well to ask for permission to leave the city.
"Mr. Bronte," Caleb said smoothly, projecting a tone of business minded dedication. "The victory is ours, but the work never stops. I would like to request permission to go to Valentine for a few days."
Bronte blinked, surprised. "Valentine? In the mud? Why on earth would you want to go there now, my friend? We have a city to celebrate in!"
Caleb smiled, leaning in slightly, using the guise of wanting to buy or invest in that exact restaurant that sold the burgers and fries they had eaten two nights ago.
"I am a man who looks to the future, boss. That restaurant... the one that makes those golden fries and burgers you enjoyed so much. It's a gold mine waiting to be claimed. I want to ride out there personally, negotiate with the owners, and either buy it outright or force a heavy investment on it for the family before someone else realizes its potential."
Even though the restaurant actually completely belongs to Caleb already, managing it through intermediaries and the system, he hid it, of course. It was the perfect alibi.
Bronte's eyes lit up with gluttonous approval, remembering the taste of the food. "Ah! Yes, yes! The brilliant investment! A man after my own heart, always thinking of the coin. Of course, McLaughlin! Take a few days. Go to Valentine, secure this business, and bring back the recipes if you have to! We will serve them in the finest establishments in Saint Denis!"
"Thank you, Mr. Bronte," Caleb said, bowing his head slightly. "I will leave first thing in the morning."
As Bronte turned back to order his servants to bring medical supplies and more wine for the survivors, Caleb turned his face away, letting a dark, cold shadow cross his features.
The excuse had worked flawlessly. He had his permission to leave without raising a single suspicion. Now, he could finally ride west.
He could go back to the hidden homestead at west of Valentine. It was time to descend into the basement, to look into the shadows, and finally check on the fading pulse of Dutch Van der Linde.
At this time, the heavy glass doors of the mansion swung open, and a small army of servants came in, bringing in medical supplies, bandages, carbolic acid, clean linens, and basins of hot water alongside several more trays laden with crystal decanters of fine wine.
Right on their heels, Bronte's own personal doctor and his dedicated medical team arrived, carrying heavy black leather bags filled with surgical tools and morphine.
The courtyard quickly transformed into a high-end triage center. The doctor and his assistants moved swiftly among the battered survivors, stitching up shallow bullet grazes, setting dislocated shoulders, and wrapping burns.
And as the survivors were treated, the pain numbed by the doctor's tonics and the generous pours of vintage Italian wine, the adrenaline of their narrow escape began to morph into a euphoric, boastful energy.
They regaled the tales of what the Underboss had done in the attack spectacularly to their Don. Silvio, grimacing as a nurse tightened a bandage around his shoulder, raised his wine glass with his good arm.
"Don Bronte, you should have seen it," Silvio rasped, his voice thick with awe. "The Pinkertons, they had us pinned in the mud. They brought heavy Gatling guns into the woods. It was a slaughterhouse. But the Underboss... Signor McLaughlin didn't even flinch. He stepped right out into the open fire. I swear to God, it was like time just stopped for him. He shot the gunners right out of their carriages before they could even blink!"
Another surviving made man, leaning heavily against a stone pillar, chimed in, praising him numerous times. "He led from the front, Don Bronte! He blew the sorting facility to the sky, and when the trap was sprung, he carved a hole right through their lines so we could escape. Without his lead, maybe all of us will be dead tonight, and this will be a suicide mission. He is a demon with those revolvers!"
Bronte, who heard that, widened his eyes in genuine delight. He looked at Caleb, who was standing quietly by the edge of the courtyard, sipping a glass of wine, looking entirely untouched by the night's horrors.
"Oh, really?" Bronte asked, a smug, deeply satisfied smile spreading across his face. He puffed his chest out, looking at his assembled men. "Then it shows that I didn't choose the wrong man to be the Underboss, does it?"
All of the surviving capos and made men immediately gave their loud, enthusiastic agreement. "No, Don Bronte! Never!" they cheered, raising their glasses, and of course, not forgetting to praise their Don for the great decision. "A masterstroke, boss! Only you could have found a commander like him!"
Caleb stepped forward, lowering his head in a show of profound, manufactured humility. He thanked everyone for the kind words, his voice smooth and steady. But he didn't stop there, he knew exactly how to play the room. Where he also praised and complimented Bronte, of course, using his max level Persuasion and Acting Skill.
"I only executed the vision that our Don provided," Caleb said, pitching his voice so that every word resonated with deep respect and loyalty. "The men fought like lions because they knew they fought for the greatest family in Saint Denis. The tactical brilliance of the plan was merely a reflection of Mr. Bronte's overarching strategy. Your resources, your absolute support, and the fear your name commands... that is what broke Leviticus Cornwall tonight. I am merely the sword, you, Mr. Bronte, are the hand that wields it."
Because of his maxed out system skills, this flattery worked far more effectively compared to the clumsy, transparent praises done by the capos and made men. It didn't sound like sycophancy, it sounded like the objective, undeniable truth spoken by a seasoned warrior.
Bronte laughed at this, a loud, booming sound that echoed off the mansion walls, absolutely loving it. He clapped Caleb on the shoulder, his rings digging into Caleb's duster. "Well spoken, my Underboss! Very well spoken!"
This atmosphere of bloody celebration continued for a while, the men drinking and sharing exaggerated war stories, until Bronte finally ended it. Seeing that the eastern sky was beginning to lighten with the first touch of dawn, and after seeing that all of the survivors had been treated and bandaged by the medical team, the Don waved his hands.
"Enough for tonight!" Bronte declared. "Go back home! Rest your bodies, count your blessings, and be ready when I call upon you again. You have done the family proud."
The men slowly filtered out of the courtyard, limping toward the front gates where carriages had been summoned to take them to their respective safehouses. Caleb, maintaining his role as the diligent second-in-command, was of course the last to go.
Before leaving, he turned to Bronte, his expression hardening into a mask of serious, calculating business. He said to Bronte politely that he suggested the Don that they should fortify Saint Denis for now.
"Mr. Bronte," Caleb advised quietly, "we have struck a fatal blow to his infrastructure, but Cornwall is a wounded, rabid animal now. We need to recuperate our losses. And we must anticipate in case there's an attack from Cornwall. A revenge attack. A man with his ego will not let this slight go unanswered, and he will be burning his entire funds on his hand currently to hire an army if he has to."
Bronte, hearing that, nodded his head slowly, his smile fading into a look of serious consideration. He saw the wisdom in the counsel. He expressed his agreement with Caleb's suggestion.
"You are right, as always, McLaughlin," Bronte said, placing his hands on his hips. "I will have the street soldiers double their patrols. We will lock down the docks and the train stations. Let the rich tycoon throw his money at our walls, we will break his mercenaries just as we broke his mines."
Bronte then patted Caleb's arm and told him to not worry about the city's defenses for the next few days. "Go, my friend. Go and bring that restaurant to the family. Secure the investment. I wanted to taste those delicacies again, those... burgers and golden fries. It's good if they aren't too far. It will be a fine addition to our portfolio."
"It will be done, Mr. Bronte," Caleb promised.
And after that, Caleb left the mansion. He walked out to the front courtyard where Morgan was waiting, resting quietly. He mounted the mare and rode out of the gates, navigating the quiet, dawn lit streets of the Garden District to go back to his own mansion in the north of Saint Denis.
The ride was short, the cool morning air a sharp contrast to the smoke and fire of Annesburg. When he approached his sprawling Victorian estate, the Bronte men who stood guard there immediately recognized his silhouette and opened the heavy wrought iron gates for him without a word of challenge, standing at strict attention as he passed.
After he got off his horse near the grand steps, he handed Morgan's reins to the newly hired stable boy, Marco.
"Brush her down, Marco. And don't forget the apples," Caleb instructed gently but firmly.
"Yes, Signor McLaughlin, right away!" the boy promised, leading the tired but proud horse toward the pristine stables in the back.
Caleb then turned and climbed the marble steps, entering into the mansion. The grand foyer was immaculate. His butler, Lorenzo, was already waiting for him just inside the main double doors, standing perfectly straight despite the early hour.
"Welcome back to the mansion, Signor," Lorenzo greeted him, bowing his head respectfully. He took one look at Caleb's soot stained, blood flecked duster, but his professional demeanor never wavered.
Caleb thanked him, slipping off his coat and handing it to a waiting maid who appeared like a ghost from the hallway. Before moving further into the house, he asked, "Is there anything to report while I was gone, Lorenzo?"
The butler shook his head, his hands clasped neatly behind his back, saying, "Nothing to report for now, Signor. The staff has been instructed on their duties, and the perimeter has been quiet. A few ledgers arrived from the downtown rackets, which I have placed on your desk for your review at your convenience."
Caleb nodded his head at that, satisfied that his new household was running like a well oiled machine. "Good," he said, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension of the long night. "I would like to have some breakfast first. Something heavy. Before then, draw a hot bath. And then I am going to sleep."
He paused, looking at the grandfather clock ticking softly in the corner. "Because in the afternoon, I will go and ride toward Valentine to do some business. I need my strength."
Hearing that, Lorenzo nodded his head immediately and said, "Understood, sir. I will have Giuseppe prepare the food immediately, sir, and I will have the girls prepare the bath upstairs." The butler hesitated for a brief fraction of a second, his logistical mind spinning, before asking politely, "If I may ask, Signor, how long will you be handling your business in Valentine? So that we may prepare the household for your return."
Caleb considered the timeline. He needed to check on Dutch, spend some time with Mary-Beth and the gang to ensure their morale was holding, and perhaps tweak a few of his legitimate business operations in town while he was there to maintain his cover story.
Caleb responded, saying, "Maybe four days. To the longest, more than a week. Keep the guards on high alert while I am gone. If Cornwall makes a move on the city, you lock this house down."
"It shall be done, Signor."
After that, Caleb walked into the lavish dining room and waited for his breakfast. He didn't have to wait long.
Within fifteen minutes, Giuseppe hurried out of the kitchen, serving it for him on a silver platter. It was a massive, hearty spread, thick cuts of cured ham, half a dozen fried eggs, roasted tomatoes, and a loaf of freshly baked bread, accompanied by a pot of strong black coffee.
Caleb ate it with relish, his high stats demanding fuel after the immense exertion of the ambush, the Dead Eye usage, and the long ride back. Every bite tasted like a small victory. After he finished, wiping his plate clean with the last piece of bread, he went upstairs to take a bath to clean himself up. The copper tub was already filled with steaming water, scented faintly with cedar oil.
...
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 - 50x50x50)
- Acting (Lvl MAX)
- Alcohol Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Treasure Hunter (Lvl MAX)
- Drugs Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Business (Lvl 2)
- Leadership (Lvl 2)
Money: 3,322 dollars and 60 cents
Inventory: 250,992 dollars and 61 cents, 11 gold nuggets, 70 gold bars, 1 Double Action, 1 Schofield, 2 Colm's Schofields, 1 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, 1 Senator Pendleton Sealed Envelope, Proof Of Marlin-Thorne Firearms Co., 10 Dynamites, 1 LeMat, 1 M1899, 1 Carcano, & 1 Ownership deed of Doyle's Tavern
Bank: -