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(A/N: I hope everyone give my new novel Skyrim a chance and added it to their library, also give power stones on Skyrim!)
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"Since after capturing that Smeets guy from the Green Turtle saloon in the slums," the guard confided, "the man doesn't let out any information whatsoever after being interrogated. Tougher than he looked. The boss... he decided to take out Cornwall's dogs that we managed to uncover, hit them hard last night. But the boss isn't satisfied yet with it. He thinks we're missing the head of the snake."
Caleb nodded his head slowly. "I see. So Smeets was a dead end."
"Stone wall," the guard confirmed. "Mr. Martelli's sweating bullets trying to get him to talk, but nothing."
Caleb thanked him for the information, his face betraying nothing, while inwardly thinking this could be the perfect chance. It was an opportunity to make himself look even more good in front of Bronte.
If Martelli was failing to extract info, and Bronte was flailing in the dark, Caleb could step in as the beacon of clarity. It would make it like he is the only one he could trust and rely on, not even Guido Martelli, his right hand man, could be relied upon by him anymore in handling this matter.
Caleb pushed past the gates and walked up the pristine marble steps of the mansion. The heavy oak doors were opened by Bronte's butler who looked terrified, scurrying away as soon as Caleb stepped into the foyer.
The interior of the mansion was cool and smelled of expensive cigars and lemon polish. Caleb could hear shouting coming from the drawing room, Bronte's voice, shrill and biting, followed by the low, apologetic murmur of Guido Martelli.
Caleb didn't wait to be announced. He strode down the hallway, his boots clicking rhythmically on the parquet floor. He stopped at the double doors of the drawing room and pushed them open.
Angelo Bronte was pacing by the fireplace, a glass of brandy in his hand despite the early hour. Guido Martelli stood by the desk, looking haggard, holding a bloodied handkerchief.
Bronte spun around as the doors opened, his eyes flashing with irritation that quickly morphed into a sharp, predatory interest when he saw who it was.
"Signor McLaughlin!" Bronte exclaimed, throwing his hands up in a gesture that was half welcoming, half accusatory. "Finalmente! The ghost returns! I have send my men turning the entire state to contact you secretly, maledizione, and now you suddenly stroll in like you own the place."
Caleb walked into the room, letting the heavy doors close behind him. He didn't flinch at Bronte's tone. He activated his Acting Skill, allowing a look of weary determination to settle on his features, the look of a man who has been in the trenches while the generals argued in the castle.
"I am sorry for that, Mr. Bronte," Caleb said, his voice smooth, calm, and utterly convincing. "I was following a lead that why I have been under."
Bronte narrowed his eyes, stepping closer. "A lead? It's better be good! Because I am here dealing with... incompetenza?" He shot a withering glare at Martelli, spitting the word out. "We capture this Smeets, this... organizer, and he gives us nothing. Niente! Silence! It is an insult."
"Smeets knows nothing," Caleb said dismissively, walking past Martelli without a glance and pouring himself a glass of water from the pitcher on the side table. "He was a cutoff, Mr. Bronte. A blind drop. You could peel his skin off inch by inch, Mr. Bronte, and he wouldn't talk because he has nothing to say. He took orders from a courier he never saw."
Martelli bristled, his face flushing. "And how would you know that?"
Caleb turned, locking eyes with Bronte, fully dare to ignore the right hand man completely. "Because while you were hunting down and then interrogating on Smeets, I was tracking a new source. The reason I went dark was that I picked up a tail near Annesburg. An ex army specialist. High level. A real diavolo."
The room went silent. Bronte's anger paused, suspended by curiosity. "A specialist?"
"Leviticus Cornwall isn't just hiring thugs anymore," Caleb lied effortlessly, blending the truth of Ferris with a narrative that served him. "He brought in a fixer from New York to coordinate a strike against your operations here. I had to go to ground to verify the threat and... neutralize the immediate danger to your supply lines."
Caleb tapped his temple. "I didn't want to use the telegraph. If they have a specialist, they're tapping the wires. You know I came back only when I had solid intelligence, Mr. Bronte."
Bronte placed his drink down, his interest fully piqued. He walked over to Caleb, looking him up and down, noting the dust on his coat and the heavy weaponry. "You neutralized the danger? Da solo?"
"The coordinator is gone," Caleb said, the euphemism landing perfectly. "But what I found on him and from Bronte's own documents is more important. The silence from Smeets? It was a stall tactic."
Caleb reached into his inventory, to the observers, it looked like he was reaching into the deep of his satchel, and pulled out a folded the dossier he gotten which was marked with the words Saint Denis - Operations, and combined with his Persuasion Skill imbued it with the weight of gold.
"Cornwall isn't retreating," Caleb said, handing the dossier to Bronte. "He's planning a synchronized assault. He thinks you're distracted by the witch hunt, chasing shadows like Smeets. He wants you paranoid. He wants you looking at your own men while he moves on the waterfront."
Bronte dossier the paper, his eyes scanning the scribbles. He saw was that it was a mercenary roster, there's names, numbers, and points of origin. And he saw the objective, which was to re establish foothold in dock district, eliminate Bronte operatives. "Illungomare... my imports and smuggling."
"Exactly," Caleb said, stepping closer, looming slightly. "Mr. Martelli here is doing good work cleaning up the streets," he threw a patronizing bone to the underboss, "but that's just street cleaning. You need to look higher, Mr. Bronte. Cornwall is playing a game of attrition. He wants to cut off your revenue first before dealing with you."
Bronte crushed the paper in his hand, his face reddening, not with panic, but with a focused fury. "That... maiale capitalista. That industrialist pig. He was the one who chaklnegd me with this mess by bringing Pinkerton's and chaos to my city, interrupts my business, and thinks he can starve me out? Che audacia!"
"He thinks you're predictable," Caleb said softly. "He thinks you'll torture the small fry and miss the big picture. I suggest we prove him wrong."
Bronte looked at Martelli, then back at Caleb. The contrast was stark. Martelli was the brute force, the hammer that had failed to crack the nut of Smeets. Caleb was the scalpel, the intelligence, the man who had seen the threat before it arrived.
"Guido," Bronte snapped, waving his hand dismissively. "Get rid of Smeets. He is useless to me. Inutile! Feed him to the gators. Via!"
"Boss, I can still—" Martelli started, desperate to regain ground.
"Do as I say!" Bronte shouted, slamming his hand on the desk, the sound echoing like a gunshot. "Basta! Signor McLaughlin has brought me real intelligence. You have brought me a mute organizer and a headache. Vattene!"
Martelli's jaw tightened, his eyes darting hatefully now toward Caleb, no past respect, but he bowed his head. "Yes, Don Bronte." He turned and marched out of the room, the heavy doors thudding shut behind him.
Bronte exhaled, adjusting his cuffs, smoothing out the silk of his jacket. He looked at Caleb with a newfound appreciation, a dangerous kind of affection. "You continue to surprise me each time, Signor McLaughlin. You disappear, I worry. You return, and you bring me the head of the snake on a platter. Eccellente."
"I just want to ensure business flows smoothly, Mr. Bronte," Caleb said, his tone deferential but firm.
"Yes, yes. Smoothly." Bronte poured himself another drink, swirling the amber liquid. "This assault on the docks. When do you think it will happen?"
"Soon," Caleb lied, his voice low. "We have a window to prepare. But we need to be smart. If we rush in, we show our hand. I propose we set a trap. Let Cornwall's men think the docks are vulnerable. When they move in..."
"We crush them," Bronte finished, a cruel smile playing on his lips, his eyes dancing with malicious delight. "We slaughter them like cattle. Li massacriamo tutti."
"Precisely."
Bronte chuckled, the sound dry and humorless. "You have a wicked mind, my friend. Mi piace. I like you more and more. You are not like the others."
He gestured to the chair opposite his desk, his demeanor shifting from tyrant to gracious host. "Sit, Signor McLaughlin. Drink. We have planning to do. And tell me... this specialist you dealt with. Did he suffer?"
Caleb sat, resting the pump action shotgun and litchfield repeater against the arm of the velvet chair. He allowed a small, cold smile to touch his lips, mirroring the mobster's cruelty.
"He didn't have time to," Caleb said. "Professional courtesy."
Bronte laughed, delighted, clapping his hands together. "Civiltà! Civilization! Even in murder, we must have standards. Bravo."
As Bronte began to ramble about the superiority of Italian culture and the boorishness of Americans, peppering his speech with flowery Italian adjectives, Caleb relaxed slightly into the chair.
The seed was planted. Martelli was sidelined. Bronte and Cornwall was focused exactly where Caleb wanted him, away from the Van der Linde gang and squarely on a collision course with each other on the docks attacks.
Caleb would have to manufacture an strike team eventually, or perhaps frame a shipment of Cornwall's oil as the target, but that was a problem for tomorrow. For now, he was the King's Hand, and the city of Saint Denis was his to maneuver.
After that, Caleb remained in the study for what felt like an eternity.
After around an hour of talking with Bronte, Caleb realized that navigating the ego of a crime lord was infinitely more taxing than navigating a minefield.
The conversation proved to Caleb to be more exhausting compared to all of the sneaking around and looking for information he had done in the last forty eight hours.
Physical exertion he could handle, his stats were high, his stamina nearly boundless. But the mental gymnastics required to keep Angelo Bronte feeling brilliant, while simultaneously steering him toward a cliff, was a drain on his very soul.
Thankfully, he have his max skilled Acting and Persuasion Skill. Without them, he might have slipped, might have let a flash of annoyance cross his face when Bronte interrupted him for the tenth time to brag about a minor victory from five years ago.
Instead, the skills engaged automatically, smoothing his tone, adjusting his posture to one of rapt attention, and calculating the exact right compliments to feed the beast.
He could make Bronte more happy and depended on him, and he leaned into it. Since he usually doesn't have much time to talk with Bronte, as after talking about business he was typically dismissed with a wave of a hand, his skills usually couldn't make the Don fully depends on him.
Previous meetings were transactional, get the job, do the job, get paid, and get appreciation and trust, talked a bit then leave.
But this? This was bonding. This was cementing his place not just as a tool, but as a confidant. Now he have the chance so why not do it? He wove stories of military discipline that mirrored Bronte's desire for order, and he nodded sagely at Bronte's xenophobic rants about the "uncivilized" nature of the American wild.
By the time the grandfather clock in the corner chimed, Bronte was in high spirits, his earlier fury at Martelli completely forgotten. "You have given me much to think about, amico mio," Bronte said, standing up. He walked over to a heavy mahogany cabinet. "Loyalty and intelligence... a rare combination in this city."
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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: 3,370 dollars and 60 cents
Inventory: 255,392 dollars and 61 cents, 11 gold nuggets, 70 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, 1 Senator Pendleton Sealed Envelope, Proof Of Marlin-Thorne Firearms Co., 10 Dynamites, 1 LeMat, 1 M1899, & 1 Carcano
Bank: -