Arthur wanted to calm Dutch down, but by then, Bronte had already gone still.
Dutch released his grip. Bronte didn't move.
Arthur looked at the frenzy in Dutch's eyes and felt a strange sense of unfamiliarity—but in the end, he said nothing.
Bronte wasn't dead yet. He had only passed out from choking on water.
Madness flickered in Dutch's eyes. He had come here tonight intending to kill Bronte from the start.
"Arthur, my boy… what is it you wanted to say?"
Dutch didn't rush to shove Bronte into the water. Instead, he calmly took out a cigar, lit it, and drew in a slow, satisfied breath.
The taste of revenge was intoxicating.
Despite his earlier outburst, Dutch had noticed Arthur's hesitation.
As a "father," he felt it was time to teach his son something.
Arthur hesitated. He might occasionally needle Dutch, but contradicting him now would openly challenge his authority.
"Dutch… maybe we don't have to kill him. He's rich, isn't he?"
"We could get more money out of him. Maybe we wouldn't even need to rob the bank."
"Then we take a boat somewhere no one knows us. Tahiti. Grow mangoes…"
Arthur hadn't finished when Dutch cut him off sharply.
"Arthur, what are you saying? Do you even hear yourself?!"
"You want to turn us into kidnappers? Have you abandoned our ideals?"
Dutch was a man of belief. He worshipped the image of Robin Hood—robbing the rich, never preying on the poor.
He committed crimes for money, yes—but kidnapping?
That was something he despised. Loathed. Considered beneath them.
It sounded contradictory, but that was the creed Dutch believed in—the line the Van der Linde Gang had drawn between themselves and other gangs all these years.
Arthur fell silent.
Hosea, who had meant to speak up as well, remained quiet.
Dutch held his cigar and let his gaze sweep over every man on the boat.
One by one, they lowered their heads.
Dutch was satisfied.
He was still the undisputed leader of the Van der Linde Gang.
He took another drag from his cigar—then gave Bronte a shove.
The unconscious man slipped into the dark water.
The ripples caught the attention of nearby alligators.
The boat drifted farther away.
Soon, a scream cut through the night—then stopped abruptly.
The pain must have woken Bronte as the alligators tore into him, dragging him beneath the surface.
Under the moonlight, the water briefly bloomed red before the blood thinned and vanished into the swamp.
"Alright, boys. Take it easy. Our enemy's paid what he owed."
"Now we move on to the final plan."
"The last one. I promise."
"I've already arranged a ship. Once this job's done, we'll have enough money to pay for passage—and start a brand-new life."
Under Dutch's speech, the Van der Linde Gang seemed to pull together once more.
...
Bronte had disappeared.
The news sent ripples through Saint Denis.
Early the next morning,
Martelli arrived at the Land mansion.
"I'm sorry, sir is still resting. You'll have to wait a moment,"
the maid, Elisa, said calmly, as if she didn't notice the anxiety on Martelli's face.
Martelli was in a hurry, but he didn't dare rush matters. He forced a stiff smile.
"My apologies, Miss Elisa. Please don't disturb Mr. Land's rest. I'll wait in the sitting room."
Elisa smiled. This time, she didn't bother explaining that she was only a maid.
As Mr. Land's personal maid, people treated her with a certain respect.
And explaining herself over and over again was exhausting anyway. No matter how many times she clarified, visitors still addressed her as Miss Elisa.
"Would you like some coffee or hot tea, Mr. Martelli?"
"Thank you, I'll just wait."
Martelli had no mind for tea.
Only two words filled his thoughts—take over.
Of course, that depended on Bronte being confirmed dead—or never reappearing.
For that, he needed Davey's help.
About half an hour later—
Ding.
The bell rang.
Elisa came over and said, "Mr. Land should be awake now."
She went upstairs to assist him with washing and dressing.
The mansion came alive.
The chef began preparing breakfast.
Freshly baked brioche, sliced and spread with a thin layer of foie gras.
Honey-brushed croissants. Perfectly poached eggs. Yorkshire ham.
Someone hurried off to bring in freshly drawn milk to serve with oats imported from Provence.
Upstairs,
Davey had already been awake for some time.
He hadn't come down earlier because he was on the telephone with Abbas, discussing what had happened the night before and the current situation in Saint Denis.
Even though Davey already knew that Bronte—now in Dutch's hands—was most likely dead.
After washing up with Elisa's assistance and getting dressed, Davey finally came downstairs.
"Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Martelli."
...
If you'd like to support my work and unlock advanced chapters, you can follow me on p-@-treon.
p-@-treon/GhostParser (40 Chapters Ahead)
You can also follow as a free member to read a few advanced chapters.