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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
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Bronte turned back to Caleb, a flicker of his old paranoia returning, but this time, it was directed inward. "For a moment... It makes me think you were actually trying to usurp my position. When they go up againts me with loud voices, I thought you had orchestrated the whole thing to take my throne."
Bronte shook his head, offering a self deprecating laugh. "But seeing how loyal you were... even after being humiliated by my slap in front of everyone... you still defended me. You stepped between me and their anger."
Bronte sighed heavily. "Also, I will apologize for something that is out of your control that I blamed on you. The failure of the mission. Which wasn't fair. Especially about the information of the time shift."
Bronte began pacing, his mind desperately trying to rationalize the horrific tactical failure. "My spies... they have never failed me before. But maybe my spies were bought over by Cornwall, giving them bad information to feed to me. Yes, that must be it. Cornwall knew we were coming."
"No, Boss," Caleb said firmly, taking the blame with a stoic, honorable expression. "Do not make excuses for me. It was I who have given the responsibility of this matter to you. It was my operation. So it is my fault that in the end it failed. I should have anticipated a trap. I will bear the weight of this failure."
Caleb was doing this to the end to completely manipulate Bronte. By taking the blame so willingly, he appeared entirely non threatening, a broken sword rather than a dagger aimed at the Don's back. It made Bronte feel powerful again, allowing the Don to 'forgive' his subordinate, completely blinding him to the reality that Caleb already controlled the surviving army.
And when he thought the conversation was over, and Caleb turned slightly as if to take his leave to rest, suddenly Bronte spoke again. His voice dropped to a cold, venomous whisper that chilled the room.
"They saw me weak, Caleb," Bronte hissed, gripping the edge of the mantle so hard his knuckles turned white. "Vincenzo... Silvio... the rest of those rats. They disrespected me in my own courtyard. Because they will be a poison to my control over this mob and this city. If the other small crime families hear that my own men threatened me and lived... I am finished."
Bronte stepped closer, looking up at his Underboss. "I need them gone, Caleb. All sixteen of them. Quietly. No bodies found. Can you do this for me? Can you cleanse this rot from my house?"
And Caleb inwardly let out a massive, profoundly satisfied smirk. It was a dark, terrifying thrill that rushed through his veins.
Because he knew this was the exact, perfect opportunity he was waiting for to take down Bronte permanently.
By ordering the assassination of the only sixteen elite, battle hardened men left in his organization who were capable of defending him, men who had already shifted their absolute loyalty to Caleb, Bronte was literally handing Caleb the loaded gun and asking him to point it at his own head.
Caleb's max level Acting Skill remained flawless. He didn't smile outwardly. He didn't hesitate. He simply looked at Bronte with the cold, dead eyes of an executioner receiving a contract.
"They are good men, Boss," Caleb said softly, playing the devil's advocate just enough to make his eventual agreement seem reluctant and therefore genuine. "They fought hard tonight."
"They are traitors!" Bronte spat, his paranoia overriding any shred of loyalty. "They are dead men walking! Do it, McLaughlin. This is a direct order from your Don."
Caleb slowly bowed his head. "As you command, Boss. They will disappear. The poison will be removed."
"Good," Bronte breathed, sinking heavily into a leather armchair, looking exhausted but relieved. "You are the only one I can trust, McLaughlin. When this is done, we rebuild. Together."
"Together, Boss," Caleb echoed.
Caleb turned and walked out of the living room. As he stepped back into the hallway, he caught the eye of Giuseppe the butler, who quickly looked away and began furiously dusting a side table.
Caleb walked out the front doors of the mansion and descended the marble steps. The morning sun was finally breaking through the smog of Saint Denis, casting a harsh, revealing light on the bloodstains still dotting the courtyard cobblestones.
He didn't head back to his own estate immediately. He walked down the street to a small, unassuming telegraph office on the corner of the Garden District.
He paid the clerk a silver dollar and drafted a short, encrypted message. It wasn't to the Marlin brothers, and it wasn't to Hosea. It was addressed to Vincenzo, sent to the specific safe house where Caleb knew the survivors were currently nursing their wounds.
The message was simple, utilizing the code phrases he had established with the capos during their previous raids.
'The old dog has contracted rabies. He ordered the cull of the entire pack tonight. Meet me at the warehouse on the docks at midnight. Bring everyone. We remove the sickness.'
Caleb handed the telegram to the clerk, ensuring it was sent immediately.
He walked back out onto the bustling streets of Saint Denis. The city was waking up, merchants shouting their wares, trolley cars ringing their bells, completely ignorant of the massive shift in power occurring in the shadows.
Bronte wanted a quiet assassination. Caleb was going to give him a loud, violent revolution in the coming days.
Caleb spent the rest of the day preparing. He returned to his mansion, completely ignoring Lorenzo's attempts to offer him breakfast. He went straight to his armory. He cleaned his Pump Action Shotgun and Litchfield Repeater, oiling the action until it was buttery smooth. He reloaded his twin Navy Revolvers with high velocity, express cartridges.
As night fell over Saint Denis, Caleb left his mansion through the servant's entrance, avoiding the main streets. He wore a dark, unassuming coat and kept his hat pulled low, blending into the shadows of the industrial district.
He arrived at the designated warehouse near the docks just before midnight. The smell of rotting fish and salty sea air was thick. The warehouse was dark, but Caleb's high perception stats picked up the subtle sounds of movement inside, the clink of a rifle sling, the soft scuff of a boot.
He knocked on the heavy wooden door in a specific, rhythmic pattern.
The door slid open a fraction, revealing the barrel of a repeater, before opening fully. Silvio stood there, his massive frame blocking the entrance, his face grim. He nodded respectfully and stepped aside, letting Caleb enter.
Inside the cavernous, dimly lit warehouse, the sixteen men were gathered. They looked terrible, bandaged, bruised, and exhausted, but their eyes were completely different from the broken men who had retreated from the riverboat. Their eyes were hard, focused, and burning with a cold, absolute hatred.
Vincenzo stepped forward from the shadows. His arm was in a sling, but he held a sawed off shotgun securely in his good hand.
"Is it true, Underboss?" Vincenzo asked, his voice echoing in the empty space. "The telegram. Did Bronte really order it?"
Caleb stood in the center of the men, illuminated by a single, flickering lantern. He didn't use any acting skills now. He spoke with the raw, brutal truth.
"He called you a poison to his city," Caleb stated coldly. "He was terrified of the truth you spoke in the courtyard. He ordered me to execute all sixteen of you. Quietly. So he wouldn't have to look you in the eyes while he betrayed you a second time."
A low, collective growl of pure, unfiltered rage rippled through the gathered mobsters. Men cursed in Italian, racking the slides of their shotguns and checking their revolvers.
"We bled for that man," Silvio rumbled, his massive fists clenching. "We gave him everything."
"And he gave you nothing but a grave," Caleb finished.
The sixteen men, hearing that, let out deep, guttural growls of anger in complete agreement. The flickering lantern light danced across their bruised, soot stained faces, highlighting the absolute betrayal etched into their features. They shifted on their feet, the metallic clatter of their weapons the only other sound in the tense air.
Vincenzo, his wounded arm held tight against his chest in the bloody sling, stepped forward again. He looked at Caleb, his eyes burning with a mixture of reverence and lingering fury.
"We all held ourselves back this morning," Vincenzo rasped, his voice raw. "When Bronte slapped you, Underboss. When that coward struck the man who had actually bled for us... we held back because you told us to. Because you hthemus back, and we respected it."
Vincenzo looked around at the other fifteen men, who nodded grimly. "And we also knew that we are powerless if going against Bronte right then and there. The courtyard was full of his house guards. We would have been gunned down on his front steps."
Vincenzo turned his intense gaze back to Caleb. "But now... he actually ordered you to kill us all. To execute the last real men he has left in this city."
The capo let out a bitter, humorless laugh, shaking his head. "It's fortunate that you, the Underboss, told us. And that you have not decided to follow Bronte's order. Because... because if you had chosen to be his lapdog..." Vincenzo swallowed hard, the memory of the top deck massacre fresh in his mind. "...if you hadn't told us, then all of us here wouldn't know how we died. Because we have seen firsthand your skill. We wouldn't have even heard the shots."
Hearing what Vincenzo said, everyone in the warehouse immediately agreed. The murmurs of assent rippled through the gathered mobsters. Especially Silvio, the massive enforcer who had stood shoulder to- shoulder with Caleb during the terrifying breach of Cornwall's suite.
Silvio crossed his arms, his face a mask of absolute seriousness, fully acknowledging that if Caleb had wanted them dead, they would already be corpses floating in the bayou.
Caleb smiled at them, a warm, genuine expression that contrasted sharply with the cold, damp environment of the warehouse. He didn't use his acting skills for this, he simply let his natural, commanding presence fill the room.
Before saying how he felt about them, Caleb took a step closer, breaking the physical distance between commander and soldier.
"I have thought of you as my brothers since the moment we stepped off those skiffs," Caleb said, his voice dropping to a low, resonant register that commanded absolute silence. "We have gone through a life and death situation together. We bled on that riverboat. I saw you fight. I saw you hold the line."
He looked into the eyes of the men nearest to him. "So, of course, I can't backstab you in the back like that. I am not Angelo Bronte. I do not betray the men who bleed for me."
Caleb paused, letting his gaze drop to the floor for a moment, adopting an expression of profound, honorable regret. "Besides... it was also part of my fault with the losses of our dead brothers. I planned the assault. I relied on Bronte's intelligence. So the failure of the breach... it rests on my shoulders as well."
The reaction was exactly what Caleb had meticulously designed his psychological trap to produce.
Hearing that, the men instantly erupted in a chorus of denial. They wouldn't let their chosen leader take the blame for the old Don's incompetence.
"No, Underboss!" a younger mobster shouted from the back.
"You can't blame yourself for that," Vincenzo insisted, stepping closer, his face intensely earnest. "Since you also worked with the information you got from Bronte's network. You were lied to, just like us! There's nothing you could do about the guard shift or that goddamn machine gun!"
"You put yourself on the line!" Silvio rumbled, his deep voice cutting through the chatter. "You exposed yourself on the balcony to help us all escape safely. You shot the gunner! If you hadn't, we'd all be dead!"
"And you even blew up the riverboat to make a big distraction for our retreat!" another capo added, remembering the massive explosions that had shattered the Malcom as they rowed away. "You crippled Cornwall. You did your job, Underboss. Bronte failed his."
Caleb, seeing this overwhelming display of devotion, was profoundly satisfied internally. Their reaction truly showed that they supported him 100 percent fully. They had become even a bit fanatic, maybe. The sheer, unshakeable loyalty radiating from the sixteen men was palpable, practically vibrating in the air.
And Caleb knew that all of this was not just his clever manipulation, it was heavily amplified because of his newly upgraded Level 3 Leadership Skill. The aura he projected was no longer just an influence, it was a psychological anchor that these traumatized, betrayed men were desperately clinging to. To them, Caleb wasn't just a boss, he was their savior.
Caleb nodded his head slowly, visibly touched by their defense of him. He thanked them for their kind words, his tone solemn and respectful.
"Your loyalty honors me," Caleb said quietly.
Before then, his tone shifted, becoming sharp and tactical. The time for mourning was over, it was time to build the revolution.
"But we must decide our next move," Caleb stated, his eyes sweeping over the group. He asked what would they like to do now.
He offered them the path he had already paved. "I could help you fake your deaths. We disappear you from the streets. And then, from the shadows, we prepare to strike back against Bronte."
Caleb's voice hardened, filled with genuine, righteous anger. "Because I wouldn't be loyal to a man who killed those who are loyal and prepared to die for their leader... just because they stood up against a bad decision he made. A Don who kills his own loyal men to protect his fragile ego is a Don who deserves to lose his crown."
The sixteen men, hearing that, didn't hesitate for a single second. The warehouse erupted in a chorus of fierce, absolute agreement. They violently agreed with the plan that Caleb just said. Faking their deaths was the perfect tactical move; it would make Bronte believe he was safe, while they gathered their strength unseen.
"There are others in the ranks," Vincenzo said, his eyes gleaming with revolutionary fire. "Men who hate Bronte's arrogance. Men who are tired of starving while he drinks imported wine. Once we are 'dead', we can quietly reach out to them. We build an army in the dark."
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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 - 50x50x50)
- Acting (Lvl MAX)
- Alcohol Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Treasure Hunter (Lvl MAX)
- Drugs Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Business (Lvl 2)
- Leadership (Lvl 3)
Money: 3,322 dollars and 60 cents
Inventory: 280,992 dollars and 61 cents, 11 gold nuggets, 74 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, 3 Diamonds, & Important Documents & Deeds Of Cornwall
Bank: -