If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead, be sure to check out my P-Tang12!!!
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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
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The hull groaned, a terrifying, metallic screech that echoed across the river, as the center of the ship buckled and began to take on massive amounts of dark, freezing water. Flames licked high into the foggy sky, turning the river into a burning mirror.
"Jesus Mary and Joseph," Silvio breathed, his eyes reflecting the roaring inferno, resting the oars on his knees as he stared at the destruction in absolute awe.
"The boat of the king is dead," Caleb said coldly, watching the multi hundreds of thousands dollar asset sink into the mud. "Row, Silvio. Let's go meet the survivors."
Caleb and Silvio then rowed the boat toward their previous location where they had arrived near Annesburg before splitting up from Bronte's army for the attack plan.
They navigated through the thick fog, the glowing inferno of the sinking riverboat providing a hellish backlight. They reached the muddy banks of Roanoke Ridge, dragging the small dinghy onto the shore.
Further up the embankment, hidden within the dense line of pine trees, the remnants of the Italian mafia had gathered.
When they regrouped, the reality of the meat grinder was stark and horrifying. From the initial 50 men who had ridden out of Saint Denis with fire in their bellies, there were remaining around 15 men.
Meaning there were 35 deaths. Thirty five loyal soldiers of the Bronte family had been left bleeding out on the lower decks of the Malcom, or had drowned in the dark waters of the river.
The survivors were a pitiful sight. They were covered in soot, blood, and mud. Some were nursing shattered arms, others were staring blankly into the fog, completely consumed by the trauma of the slaughter they had just barely escaped.
Vincenzo, his shoulder wrapped tightly in a bloody rag, looked up as Caleb and Silvio approached. The capo's eyes were hollow, filled with a crushing despair.
"Underboss," Vincenzo rasped, his voice breaking. "We... we were slaughtered. The Pinkertons and mercenaries, it's like they knew exactly where we were coming from. The shift change... it was a lie. They were waiting for us with a machine gun. If you hadn't shot that gunner from the balcony... none of us would be standing here."
Vincenzo looked around at the meager fifteen men. "We lost so many brothers. And Cornwall... did you get him?"
Caleb looked at the broken men. This was the crucible. This was the moment he had sacrificed thirty five lives to orchestrate. He stepped into the center of the group, his expression a masterpiece of shared grief, simmering rage, and profound sorrow.
Caleb tried to rouse their spirit up, but he did it by feeding their anger and aiming it precisely where he wanted it to go.
"Cornwall managed to flee," Caleb lied, his voice thick with a heavy, mournful gravel. "Silvio and I breached the top deck, but the Pinkertons and mercenaries overwhelmed the suite. Cornwall who was traumatized by my actions, managed to flee by getting himself thrown overboard into a small steam boat during the fight. The mission... the mission was technically a failure and also a small success."
Caleb paused, letting his gaze sweep over the shivering, bleeding men. He activated his newly upgraded Level 3 Leadership Skill, ensuring every word resonated deep within their shattered psyches.
"But this failure and small success come at what cost?" Caleb demanded, his voice trembling with perfectly manufactured rage. He also subtly put in the words that all of these massive, devastating losses are Bronte's fault.
Of course, he utilized his max level Persuasion and Acting Skill to make sure he could influence them fully.
"Look at yourselves," Caleb said, stepping closer to Vincenzo, placing a comforting, strong hand on the wounded capo's good shoulder. "Look at the blood on your hands. Thirty five of our brothers. Gone. Because the intelligence we were given by the Don's personal spies was completely, fatally wrong."
Caleb shook his head, looking disgusted. "Boss Bronte assured me the shift change was at midnight. He assured me the lower decks would be clear. He sent you, he sent us, into a blind trap. And where was he? Sitting in his velvet chair in the Garden District, sipping fine wine, while you boys were getting chewed to pieces by a Maxim gun."
The words hit the exhausted men like physical blows. The grief in their eyes began to harden into something sharp and volatile.
"I tried to save the plan," Caleb continued, his voice dropping to a passionate, hoarse whisper. "I broke cover on the top deck. I exposed myself to save you from that machine gun because I will never let my brothers die for a mistake made by an arrogant old man who has forgotten what it means to bleed in the streets."
Caleb took a step back, standing tall in the fog, projecting an aura of absolute strength and unyielding loyalty to the men on the ground.
"Angelo Bronte sent us here to die for his ego," Caleb stated, letting the silence hang heavy in the air. "But we survived. We survived because we fought for each other."
He then subtly shifted their loyalty to him. The psychological manipulation was flawless. Where everyone felt exactly what Caleb wanted them to feel. They felt betrayed by Angelo Bronte, disgusted by his incompetence and his cowardly isolation.
And simultaneously, they felt a profound, fanatical devotion to Caleb, the Underboss who had bled with them, the Underboss who had stepped out of the shadows to save them from the machine gun, the leader who actually valued their lives.
Vincenzo slowly pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the agony in his shoulder. He looked at Caleb, the hollow despair in his eyes replaced entirely by a burning, absolute loyalty.
"Bronte is a fool," Vincenzo spat, blood staining his teeth. "He is weak. You are the only reason any of us are breathing, Underboss. We follow you. Only you."
The other fourteen men murmured their fierce agreement, nodding their heads, clutching their weapons tighter. Silvio, standing behind Caleb, crossed his massive arms and nodded as well. The transition was complete. Bronte's army no longer belonged to Bronte. It was Caleb's private legion now.
"Bandage your wounds," Caleb ordered softly, his voice echoing with the comforting authority of a true king. "Gather the horses. We are going home."
And under Caleb's lead, they mounted their horses and climbed into the remaining wagons. They left the burning wreckage of the Malcom sinking into the mud of Annesburg, and they rode back to Saint Denis.
The ride south was completely silent, but the atmosphere had entirely changed. It wasn't the silence of a defeated army retreating in shame. It was the cold, focused silence of a pack of wolves returning to their den to challenge the old alpha. Caleb rode at the front of the column on Salazar, his hand resting casually on his Pump Action Shotgun.
The wealth of Leviticus Cornwall was securely tucked away in his dimensional inventory. The billionaire himself was fleeing into permanent, traumatized exile. And the Italian mafia of Saint Denis are beginning to slowly transformed over to him on a silver platter by the very men Bronte had recruited to protect it.
The dense fog of the river eventually gave way to the heavy, smog filled air of the city as dawn began to threaten the eastern horizon. The gas lamps lining the cobblestone streets flickered, casting long, wavering shadows as Caleb and his group of loyal men now, finally reached Saint Denis.
They didn't break formation. They rode in a tight, protective cluster, heading toward Bronte's mansion in the west side of the city.
As they turned onto the wide, manicured avenue leading to the Garden District, the sheer devastation of their numbers became starkly apparent.
Reaching back there with much more less men than when they went out, the convoy looked like a ghost ship. The three covered wagons were mostly empty, carrying only the most severely wounded, their groans echoing in the quiet morning air.
Bronte's men that were stationed on guard in and around Bronte's mansion were surprised by this look. The guards at the heavy iron gates stepped back, their hands dropping from their rifles as they stared in disbelief at the fifteen battered, soot stained survivors riding in behind the Underboss.
There was no triumphant cheering, no captured billionaire dragged in chains. Just the smell of blood, burnt powder, and absolute defeat.
Caleb brought Salazar to a halt near the grand marble steps. When Caleb got down off his horse, followed by the other men who painfully dismounted and helped the wounded from the wagons, the heavy double doors of the mansion swung open.
Bronte at this time came out with a huge smile on his face. He was still wearing his immaculate silk suit, holding a crystal glass of fine cognac.
He had been waiting up all night, pacing the floors, thinking that Caleb will of course return with a big success.
To a man like Angelo Bronte, insulated by wealth and power, the tactical realities of a raid didn't matter. He didn't care of the cost needed to achieve that success, he only cared about seeing Leviticus Cornwall broken at his feet.
"Ah! McLaughlin!" Bronte's voice boomed across the courtyard, eager and triumphant. "Where is he? Bring the fat pig to me!"
But as Bronte descended the first few steps, the dawn light hit the courtyard, revealing the horrific truth. When he saw the pitiful sight of Caleb, whose coat was smeared with (fake) blood and soot, and what remains of the men he sent, the smile on his face vanished instantly. The crystal glass in his hand trembled.
He walked down the remaining steps, his face draining of color, before asking Caleb, his voice dropping to a harsh, panicked whisper. "What is this? What have happened here? Where is Cornwall?"
Caleb, of course, already had his max level Acting and Persuasion Skill fully engaged. He let his shoulders slump just a fraction, projecting the image of a devastated, utterly exhausted commander who had given everything he had.
Caleb began responding to Bronte, his voice a hoarse, ragged rasp. "Everything was going well for me and Silvio who went with me, Boss. We managed to bypass the lower decks. We scaled the paddlewheel and breached his private suite perfectly."
Caleb paused, letting out a heavy, rattling breath, ensuring the gathered guards and the fifteen survivors were hanging on his every word.
"But we didn't got anything of importance," Caleb continued, shaking his head bitterly. "We searched the suite, but the safe was empty. No documents, no land deeds, no golds or money. He must have moved them. And Cornwall... he had an emergency escape plan we didn't know about."
Bronte's eyes widened in horror. "An escape plan?"
"We had him," Caleb lied flawlessly, his voice thick with frustration. "We had him by the throat. Until Cornwall manages to slip away at the last moment. As I and Silvio were fighting off a massive wave of Cornwall's elite personal guard that stormed the suite, he threw himself over the balcony and into a waiting steam launch. We couldn't stop him without being gunned down ourselves."
Caleb turned slowly, gesturing to the fifteen bleeding men standing behind him. "And for the rest of the men... Boss, they have sacrificed themselves to become the distraction you ordered. But it turns out it was more of a trap for them."
Bronte stared at the survivors, his jaw working silently.
"The shift information provided to me by you, Boss," Caleb said, his voice ringing with a subtle, accusatory edge that Vincenzo and the others picked up on immediately, "who you got from your personal spies at Annesburg... was completely wrong. The Pinkertons and mercenaries didn't change shifts at midnight. They look like actually waiting for them."
Caleb stepped closer to Bronte, his height and presence dominating the older man. "And they also had another functioning Gatling gun which was used to slaughter the men in the lower decks. The men never stood a chance in that chokepoint. It was a massacre."
Caleb pointed to himself, a smear of dirt on his cheek adding to the dramatic effect. "And it only stopped because I managed to shoot the one that used the gun in time from the balcony above. I had to break my own cover to save what was left of our men."
Bronte, who heard that, was absolutely surprised. He staggered back half a step as if physically struck. He felt like the world is coming crashing down around him.
The catastrophic reality of the situation slammed into the Don. Because not only did Caleb not get any valuable stuffs to offset the massive cost of the war, he had lost 35 elite men. These weren't just street thugs, they were what's left of the backbone of his most trusted and skilled men. His enforcement arm was entirely broken.
And also the biggest losses, the realization that turned Bronte's blood to ice, which was that Cornwall actually managed to slip away.
"He... he got away?" Bronte whispered, his voice trembling with sheer, unadulterated terror.
"He fled south, Boss," Caleb confirmed grimly.
Bronte's mind raced. Even if he was traumatized, the rich tycoon could still come back. With his limitless resources, Cornwall could regroup in Saint Denis and bring the full, crushing weight of the federal government against him. The Pinkertons would swarm the Garden District before the week was out.
The terror rapidly metastasized into blind, irrational fury. The narcissism of the mob boss couldn't handle the crushing weight of his own failure, so he violently projected it.
So in anger, Bronte lashed out. He actually slapped Caleb in the face.
SMACK!
The sound echoed sharply across the silent courtyard. It wasn't a powerful blow, Bronte was a middle aged man who have become weak due to enjoying his lavish lifestyle, and Caleb's high strength stats barely registered the physical impact, but the sheer disrespect of the action was monumental.
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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: -