Chapter 278 - 281
Chapter 278: This Is Mac
Dutch was preparing his revenge, getting ready to eliminate Bronte.
Davey, meanwhile, was preparing to take over Bronte’s power.
Once Bronte was dead, according to Mafia rules, the heir would be Guido Martelli. Davey had no intention of grooming Guido Martelli—he planned to bring him under control instead. But that control couldn’t be out in the open. The Italian Mafia would never allow it.
“Mac, what have you been up to lately?”
In the living room of the Land mansion, Davey had Mac called in. The moment he saw him, he started scolding him without preamble.
Mac shrank back instinctively. He really was afraid of his older brother.
“I haven’t done much, Davey.”
“Just… occasionally… uh, a few small things. Nothing important.”
“It won’t affect anything, right? Nothing serious.”
Mac was clearly no smooth talker. Lying didn’t come naturally to him.
Davey let out a cold laugh. “I’d rather you soaked yourself in hot coffee every day.”
“Look at you now. What’s the difference between you and street trash?”
“Kidnapping. Extortion. Protection rackets. Running casinos.”
“Oh, right. You’ve upgraded, haven’t you? No more drinking hot coffee—now you’re selling it.”
Davey had been extremely busy lately. Ever since the gambling ship incident, he hadn’t paid much attention to Mac.
And Mac had grown increasingly reckless.
Strictly speaking, Saint Denis now had a new gang—the Mac Gang.
Kidnapping and extortion? He was genuinely doing it. Saint Denis was full of wealthy businessmen from the East, people who had come looking for investment opportunities. Mac had them kidnapped, then demanded ransom from their families back East.
Even the casino profits weren’t enough anymore. He had partnered with Martelli in the women’s business as well.
Hearing Davey’s accusations, Mac suddenly bristled.
“Listen, Davey. You should have Donal get better information.”
“I am in the hot coffee business—with Martelli.”
“But I never forced them. Those women had no way to make a living. If they didn’t do this, what else could they do?”
“I protect their business. I only take a small cut. I don’t strip them clean like other gangs do.”
“They’re grateful to me, Davey.”
“As for the people I kidnapped—they’re no saints. The money they make is covered in blood.”
“I thought I was bad. Turns out there are worse people than me—men in fine suits doing things that are downright monstrous. Strip away their polished image and they’re more depraved than I am.”
“Oh, Davey, you should see it. They don’t even spare little girls.”
“Even a bastard like me can’t stomach that.”
Davey replied calmly, “That’s exactly why you’re standing here talking to me instead of lying somewhere with broken legs.”
“I want you to give up these businesses, Mac.”
He didn’t want Mac too deeply entangled in the underworld. It would be better if he focused on the security company instead.
It wasn’t that Davey intended to abandon all gang operations—bootlegging alone brought enormous profits. Once Prohibition came, it would become even more lucrative.
But he had plenty of men. There was no need for his own brother to take the risks.
Mac saw things differently.
“Davey, my brother.”
“I know you want me to live better. Be some kind of success. Rub shoulders with the elite.”
“But like you said, I’m a complete bastard. I’ve got no interest in any of that.”
“I’m used to this life. Back when I followed Dutch, pulling robberies—that kind of thing made my blood race.”
“Let me do what I enjoy.”
“Can you do that for me, Davey?”
“I’m happy like this.”
Davey fell silent for a moment.
The Callander brothers had never been saints.
This was the real Mac.
“Alright, Mac.”
“Since you’ve made up your mind, I respect your choice.”
“But you have to promise me one thing—get married as soon as possible.”
“There are only two of us left in the Callander family.”
At the word “married,” Mac jumped like a startled rat.
“Oh, oh, oh—come on, Davey.”
“Listen to yourself. You’re joking, right?”
Davey shook his head. “I’m not joking.”
“This year. No later than next year. You’re getting married.”
“Understand something—I’m not negotiating.”
“You can do whatever you want with the rest of your life. I won’t stop you.”
“But on this, there’s no room for discussion.”
“If you refuse, I’ll personally dismantle everything you’re building.”
“Your businesses with Martelli.”
How does a man learn responsibility?
A woman is one part of it. A child is another.
Only when you become a father do you truly understand what responsibility means.
Mac sighed helplessly under the pressure. “Alright, Davey. I promise.”
“But I’ll need time. This isn’t something you rush.”
Davey nodded. “I’ll give you time.”
“And tell Martelli something for me. I’ve received word that Bronte may be planning to move against him.”
“What he’s been doing won’t stay hidden forever.”
“Tell him to prepare. He doesn’t have much time.”
“Once Bronte confirms the truth, he should know exactly what that means.”
“Of course, he’s your friend. If he’s willing to cooperate with me…”
“Maybe I can lend him a hand.”
...
Chapter 279: Sowing Discord
Martelli had done quite a few things behind Bronte’s back.
That included skimming off large sums of money that originally belonged to Bronte.
In the mafia, that sort of thing wasn’t uncommon.
But if Bronte ever found out, Martelli would be as good as dead.
In the original storyline, after Bronte’s death, Martelli became the new leader of the Saint Denis Mafia. Unfortunately, his business ability was nowhere near Bronte’s level.
He gradually withdrew from the political arena and allowed the once high-society Saint Denis Mafia to fall into the state of an ordinary street gang.
In the original game, John later finds Charles making money in underground boxing, and the one running those fights is Martelli. That alone says enough about his capabilities. Bronte would never rely on organizing underground boxing to make money. His channels were broader and far more profitable.
Something as low-level as underground boxing would never have interested Bronte in the first place.
If Bronte hadn’t been killed by Dutch, with his ability, he absolutely could have built the Bronte family into a renowned name in Saint Denis.
After leaving the villa, Mac went to find Martelli.
Saint Denis Grand Hotel.
This was the main base shared by Mac and Martelli.
Mac told him everything Davey had said.
Mac’s thinking was simple—he truly regarded Martelli as a friend.
“Is this true, Mac?”
“You wouldn’t lie to me, right? And Davey wouldn’t lie to you, would he?”
Martelli’s composure wavered.
If Bronte learned about what he’d done, he would definitely send someone to kill him.
“Get a grip, Martelli. Davey wouldn’t lie to me, and I wouldn’t lie to you.”
“We’re friends, aren’t we?”
“If I hadn’t argued with Davey, he probably wouldn’t have told me any of this.”
“Face it, Martelli.”
Mac believed Davey had told him because he was working with Martelli.
They were brothers. There was no way Davey would just stand by and watch his business fall apart.
“You argued with Davey?”
“What happened, Mac?”
“You know this matters to me. I need to understand exactly what’s going on.”
Though shaken, Martelli still had his doubts.
He knew Davey and Bronte didn’t get along. Their relationship was nothing like it appeared on the surface—behind closed doors, both of them wanted the other dead.
So it was entirely possible that this was a trap Davey had set for him.
Mac didn’t think much of it and simply told him about Davey planning to shut down his operations and push him into marriage.
“Honestly, Martelli, sometimes I think I’m a fool.”
“My brother Davey—he’s opened so many factories, hired thousands of workers, and he’s still expanding.”
“He’s even got a security company with hundreds of men. He wants me to run it.”
“But I don’t think I’m cut out for it. And I don’t like that kind of life.”
“Compared to that, casinos and women make me happier.”
“So tell me, Martelli—am I an idiot?”
Head of a security company, or boss of a small gang—any fool would know which one to choose.
But Mac was exactly that kind of fool.
Listening to Mac lay bare his frustrations, Martelli truly believed him.
The bootlegging business had earned Davey a mountain of dollars. With so many factories and a security company under his control, it was true that businesses like casinos and brothels were beneath someone of Davey’s stature.
That made it perfectly reasonable for Davey to pass this information along to Mac.
“What should I do, Mac? Work with Davey?”
“If he’s willing to help me, I’ll never forget the favor.”
“We’re friends, right, Mac?”
“Help me.”
Even as the second-in-command, Martelli knew the truth. If Bronte made a move against him, the men below would stand with the boss, not him. He wouldn’t stand a chance.
“Don’t worry, Martelli.”
“Davey’s different from us. He’s smart. He’s got vision.”
“He’ll know how to help you.”
“I’ll talk to him about your situation.”
“Just wait for my good news.”
Mac thumped his chest confidently as he made the promise.
“Thank you, Mac.”
Martelli spoke from the heart.
He was also grateful that he had befriended Mac.
Davey and Bronte were enemies. By all logic, they shouldn’t have gotten along so well.
But somehow, the two of them were cut from the same cloth. Over time, their friendship had become sincere.
...
Davey had been extremely busy these past few days, caught up in endless social engagements.
Using the connections brought by Pinkerton, he met with members of high society—attending banquets, drinking, chatting.
Getting Trappett appointed as the new Chief of the Saint Denis Police Department to replace Benjamin would not be easy.
There were many power brokers operating behind the scenes, each with their own interests and preferred candidates.
In most cases, the new chief wouldn’t be promoted from within the department. More likely, someone would be transferred in from the eastern United States.
And whoever that was would almost certainly have their own backers.
The competition was fierce.
After all, the position of Chief of the Saint Denis Police Department was extremely lucrative.
There was also the matter of making Jean Marc mayor.
In the original storyline, Arthur didn’t kill Marc, which allowed him to expose the mayor’s crimes and force his resignation.
But now, the political landscape in Saint Denis had already shifted in subtle ways. Whether Marc could smoothly take office as mayor was still uncertain.
And lobbying on Marc’s behalf also meant building political goodwill, paving the way for better cooperation in the future.
Davey didn’t believe Jean Marc would be ungrateful.
Jean Marc was an idealist. He wanted to make Saint Denis a better place.
And that was exactly what Davey wanted as well.
They shared the same political goal.
...
Chapter 280: Abducting Bronte
That night,
Rue Flavienne in Saint Denis was still brightly lit.
This was the domain of the wealthy. No rich man cared about the small cost of lighting—being stingy about that would only make him look cheap.
Bronte Manor.
Backyard.
A small boat carried Dutch, Arthur, Bill, Lenny, and Sean MacGuire.
They had come from Lagras.
The boatman, Thomas, once owed Dutch a favor. At Dutch’s request, he ferried them quietly into the rear of Bronte Manor.
Thomas agreed readily.
Bronte was his enemy as well.
“Good luck,” Thomas said as the boat pulled in behind the estate.
“Thanks.”
Dutch answered, then led the Van der Linde Gang toward the manor, moving in silently.
Inside the estate,
Bronte was resting in his second-floor bedroom.
He had never imagined the Van der Linde Gang would dare move against him. In his view, they should have been too busy saving themselves by now.
Damn rats. Even that didn’t finish you off.
For some reason, he couldn’t sleep. He got up and lit a cigar, thinking about how to deal with Davey.
He had heard something recently.
Davey seemed to be getting close to Pinkerton.
Perhaps I should speak with Benjamin tomorrow about the Pinkerton matter.
Pinkerton had already contacted Benjamin and obtained temporary law enforcement authority in Saint Denis. Normally, that process wouldn’t move so quickly, but Bronte had used his connections to speed it up.
Still, he had no intention of letting Pinkerton grow too close to Davey.
Once he was done using Pinkerton, it would be time to deal with Davey as well.
Even if Davey was sending him large sums of dollars every single day.
Everything is going perfectly.
Bronte smiled and crushed out his cigar, preparing to return to bed.
At that moment—
Bang!
A gunshot rang out sharply.
“What’s going on? What the hell is that?”
Bronte shouted angrily. The shot had come from the backyard.
His men at the door rushed in.
“Mr. Bronte, something’s happened. We’ll take care of it immediately.”
“Then move!” Bronte barked. “Whoever it is, turn him into a sieve!”
There were more than fifty mafia members stationed in the manor—no small security force.
Guards flooded toward the backyard.
Bronte wasn’t overly concerned.
What he didn’t realize was that he was facing the very men behind the Blackwater heist.
He had numbers—but these were city gangsters.
How could they compare to hardened outlaws from the western plains?
Like farm pigs versus wild boars.
Gunfire erupted in rapid succession.
Dutch and Arthur carried most of the firepower. At that distance, they could raise a gun and land a headshot almost every time.
Sean MacGuire, Bill, and Lenny might not have been master sharpshooters, but they were far deadlier than mobsters who wore guns at their waists yet barely fired them all year.
The manor guards were quickly forced back.
Before long, Dutch and the others had pushed their way to the doors of Bronte’s mansion.
“Useless! Useless!”
“I pay you all this money—are you completely useless?!”
Bronte roared, panic creeping into his voice.
He hadn’t expected the attackers to break through so quickly and reach his doorstep.
Gunshots soon rang out right outside his room.
Then came a familiar scream.
His butler.
They were already at his door.
Bronte hurried to a drawer and pulled out a pistol. Glancing around the empty room, he decided to hide beneath the bed.
Footsteps approached. Someone entered his bedroom.
Bronte sprang up from beneath the bed, raised the pistol, and pulled the trigger.
Click. Click. Click.
Only then did he realize the gun wasn’t loaded.
It had been too long since he’d used one.
In this city—
Or rather, since arriving in Saint Denis—Bronte had never needed to fire a gun himself. Others did that for him.
He usually kept the gun and the ammunition separate in the drawer.
He had forgotten.
Damn it!
Bronte cursed and hurled the pistol.
Arthur instinctively ducked. The gun struck Sean MacGuire squarely in the head.
“Ah!”
Sean cried out.
“It’s you!”
The moment Bronte saw Arthur’s face, he recognized him. Then he saw the gun in Arthur’s hand.
“Alright, alright—sorry, my friend, I…”
Arthur’s revolver was already aimed at his head.
“No—name your price. Everyone has a price.”
Arthur said nothing, simply raising the gun steadily.
Seeing he wasn’t moved, Bronte quickly raised both hands.
“Alright, alright—don’t do this, sir.”
“I surrender! I surrender! I—”
Sean MacGuire, now recovered and furious, stepped forward and drove a hard punch into Bronte’s head.
Bronte collapsed unconscious.
“Should we kill him?” Sean asked.
“No. Take him to Dutch,” Arthur replied.
Arthur bent down, hoisted Bronte over his shoulder, and said,
“I think Dutch wants to have a word with you, Mr. Bronte.”
But Bronte couldn’t hear him. Sean’s punch had already knocked him out cold.
At this point, Arthur didn’t believe Dutch intended to kill Bronte.
Ransom would probably be the better option.
And to a large extent, that was what Dutch was thinking as well.
Backyard.
Together, they loaded the unconscious Bronte onto the boat.
Thomas immediately began rowing away.
This was Saint Denis’s wealthy district.
Gunfire here would inevitably draw a heavy police response.
Officers who usually took their time answering calls would move with remarkable speed when it came from the homes of the rich.
...
Chapter 281: Dutch’s Madness
Bronte was a proud man, with that distinctly Italian arrogance.
He looked down on Dutch.
Even if Dutch had pulled off the Blackwater heist, Bronte still held him in contempt. A small-time outlaw with a bit of notoriety—how could he possibly be compared to someone like him?
Even Davey wasn’t someone Bronte truly took seriously.
The power of the Mafia was not something a newly risen figure from the West could rival. If Bronte truly wanted Davey dead, all he had to do was pay the price and call in men from within the Mafia.
When it came to assassination, they were professionals.
Back in Sicily, the Mafia didn’t just control the local economy—they openly ran for mayor and city council positions. They formed election committees, pushed their own members into parliament, and took control of portions of military and political power.
They could influence policy, bend government institutions to their will, and protect their criminal interests.
With that kind of force behind him, as the “godfather” of Saint Denis, why would Bronte think highly of Dutch?
A simple trap had nearly wiped out the Van der Linde Gang.
In the end, though, Bronte had underestimated Dutch’s madness.
He never expected Dutch to storm into his mansion and abduct him outright.
Now—
The boat had already left Saint Denis and reached Lagras, a swamp crawling with alligators.
Earlier, Sean MacGuire had knocked Bronte unconscious.
“Wake him up.”
Dutch calmly lit a cigar—one he had brought specifically for this moment.
He intended to present his most gentlemanly side.
To make Bronte see clearly that he was now a prisoner.
Sean used the small bucket Thomas normally used for fish, scooped up river water, and dumped it over Bronte’s head.
Bronte jolted awake, still dizzy and disoriented.
Dutch took a slow puff of his cigar and said with satisfaction,
“Oh, look who it is. The great man of Saint Denis. Mr. Bronte, isn’t it?”
“So tell me, Mr. Bronte—should we ransom you… or do something else?”
Dutch felt a surge of revenge, a deep satisfaction swelling in his chest.
The once-arrogant Bronte should now be begging him like a stray dog.
At this point, Dutch no longer truly intended to kill him.
Perhaps at first he had.
But they needed money. And Bronte had plenty—tens of thousands of dollars.
Enough that they wouldn’t even need to rob a bank.
Dutch hesitated slightly.
If the ransom succeeded, should they still rob the bank?
But without a grand heist, there would be no earth-shattering spectacle.
He didn’t want to slink out of Saint Denis quietly.
Maybe he should leave the city with a bang. Let everyone know—
He, Dutch van der Linde, was the greatest outlaw in the West.
Convincing Hosea would take some effort.
But soon, Dutch wouldn’t have to worry about that at all.
Bronte gradually came to his senses and glanced around the boat, quickly understanding his situation.
Yet Dutch’s words made him relax.
From Dutch’s tone, he could tell—this was about money, not murder.
That gave Bronte confidence.
“You’re pathetic.”
His voice was calm, full of disdain.
“Oh? I’m pathetic?” Dutch asked.
“You can’t even control your own men.”
Dutch knew immediately—Bronte was referring to Davey.
The name struck him like a knife.
Davey was the last person he wanted mentioned. Yet here Bronte brought him up.
Compared to Davey’s current success, the Van der Linde Gang was like sewer rats, constantly fleeing Pinkerton pursuit.
“Whoever kills him and lets me go gets one thousand dollars.”
Bronte spoke with complete confidence.
One thousand dollars.
Surely that would tempt them.
Bronte was stingy. Even now, he wasn’t willing to offer a cent more.
He thought a thousand was enough.
Arthur, Bill, Lenny, and Sean remained silent.
Sean even looked angry.
One thousand dollars? Did he take them for beggars?
Sean had risked his life over one hundred and fifty thousand dollars in Blackwater.
And now a mere thousand was supposed to make them betray Dutch?
What a joke.
“Well? Anything else to say?”
Dutch’s voice trembled with suppressed fury.
He could feel Bronte’s contempt. It reignited the anger that had almost faded.
Bronte sensed danger.
But backing down now would make him look weak—and he couldn’t allow that.
“They’re even stupider than you.”
Dutch’s eyes turned feral.
“That’s right.”
In that instant, Bronte realized he had gone too far.
“The police will find you,” he snapped. “The police dogs are already on their way.”
That did it.
Dutch’s mind flooded with rage.
A dull pain throbbed in his head—the injury he’d suffered fleeing the tram station robbery.
The pain only made him more unstable.
He no longer cared about ransom.
“Oh, yes. You’re right.”
“You’re absolutely right.”
Dutch stepped forward and grabbed Bronte by the throat.
“Those police dogs… they’re good at sniffing out filth, aren’t they?”
“So we’d better get rid of the filth.”
He shoved Bronte’s head underwater.
Bronte struggled wildly, trying to beg for mercy, but water poured into his mouth, choking him with terror.
“Are your Pinkerton friends coming to save you?!”
“You disgusting worm!”
Dutch’s voice cracked with hysteria.
He pulled Bronte up briefly.
Bronte gasped desperately, trying to speak—but before he could catch his breath, Dutch forced him under again.
“Call them! Tell them to come save you!”
“Call them! Call them!”
Bronte’s struggles grew weaker.
Bill and Lenny frowned.
Sean hesitated, then looked toward Arthur.
The Dutch before them was terrifying.
No matter how dire things had been before, Dutch was always calm, always composed.
They had never seen him like this.
Arthur noticed Sean’s glance. He hesitated for a moment—
Then opened his mouth, preparing to calm Dutch down.
--
Author's Note
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