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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
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Arthur walked over to the desk. The massive, scarred enforcer didn't say a word. He just reached across the mahogany wood and gripped Caleb's hand in a bone crushing, fiercely loyal handshake. It was a silent vow of absolute brotherhood.
Caleb smiled, a warm, completely composed expression that acted as a perfect counterweight to the sheer, crushing magnitude of the federal threat they had just been discussing. He squeezed Arthur's calloused hand, returning the bone crushing grip with equal strength, completely unfazed by the anxiety radiating from his two oldest friends.
"There is absolutely no need to worry," Caleb said smoothly, his voice dropping into a low, profoundly reassuring cadence. He looked back and forth between the massive enforcer and the silver haired patriarch. "Let me be the one to handle all of it. You two have spent your entire lives carrying the weight of this family's survival on your shoulders. You've plotted, you've fought, and you've bled to keep us one step ahead of the hangman. It is my turn now. You just focus on managing the men and securing the streets. The political maneuvering belongs entirely to me."
Hosea and Arthur stared at him for a long, heavy moment. The deeply ingrained paranoia of the outlaw lifestyle, the instinct that told them to saddle their horses and ride into the mountains at the first mention of the federal government, fought a brief, desperate battle against their absolute trust in the man standing before them.
But Caleb had never failed them. He had delivered a palace, a corporate empire, and a secure future. Slowly, the tension drained from their broad shoulders. They nodded their heads in silent, profound agreement, entirely willing to place their lives and their freedom in his remarkably capable hands.
With the matter officially transferred to the Don's jurisdiction, Hosea adjusted his grip on his silver headed walking cane, and Arthur gave Caleb one final, appreciative pat on the shoulder. The two veteran outlaws then turned and took their leave of the study, pulling the heavy, brass studded oak doors shut behind them with a soft, definitive click.
Caleb stayed behind in the absolute silence of the mahogany paneled room. He walked slowly around the massive central desk and stepped up to the towering bay windows that overlooked the sprawling, meticulously manicured front gardens of the estate.
He slipped his hands into the pockets of his dark trousers, his sharp blue eyes tracking the movement of the armed mafia sentries patrolling the wrought iron perieter gates far below.
He knew exactly what time it was. It was time, once again, for the waiting game.
Caleb possessed limitless capital, an army of ruthless enforcers, and a brilliant, supernaturally enhanced mind, but he also understood the fundamental truth of high-level political extortion: you could not rush a trapped animal without risking it chewing off its own leg to escape.
He was waiting for Senator Pendleton to receive the summons, process the sheer terror of the situation, and come to him. He had cast the bait into the darkest, most corrupt waters of the American political system, and now, he simply had to wait for the line to pull taut.
And so, the days passed after that incredibly consequential afternoon.
Caleb did not simply sit idle while waiting for the politician to arrive. He was a man of relentless, terrifying industry. He spent his time extensively reviewing the massive, highly complex progress of the Italian mob being completely converted from a crude, street level extortion syndicate into a polished, legitimate, and untouchable corporate business.
It was a monumental task.
For decades under Angelo Bronte's archaic and paranoid rule, the capos had operated like brutal feudal lords, collecting dirty money from terrified shopkeepers and running illegal, blood soaked gambling dens.
Caleb was actively forcing them into the light. He was laundering their operations, turning protection rackets into highly paid, legally binding "private security contracts," and transitioning illegal gambling rings into heavily taxed, licensed, and immensely profitable high society casinos.
However, a transition of this magnitude was never without its friction. There were men within the organization, stubborn, brutal old guard capos who missed the simple, violent days of Bronte's rule, who balked at the new corporate structure.
They didn't want to wear clean suits, keep ledgers, or answer to a man who demanded absolute, bloodless efficiency over random acts of terror.
Those that did not want to fall into his authority, those who foolishly believed they could skim from the Don's new legitimate fronts or openly defy his edicts, were swiftly and permanently neutralized.
And all of this brutal, highly necessary internal cleansing was done with John and Javier acting as his special messengers.
Caleb had placed the two lethal outlaws at the absolute forefront of this conversion. They were the leaders of those operating on the front lines of the syndicate's restructuring. When a rogue capo operating a warehouse down by the eastern docks decided to withhold his weekly earnings, John and Javier did not send a strongly worded letter.
They simply walked into the warehouse, the heavy doors closing behind them. They moved with a terrifying, synchronized lethality born from years of surviving desperate frontier gunfights.
Javier's smooth, blindingly fast knife work and John's devastating, unapologetic proficiency with a repeater rifle ensured that the Don's terms were clearly understood. They were not mobsters, they were wolves unleashed among street dogs.
Within a matter of days, the remnants of the old resistance completely shattered, terrified into absolute submission by the Don's two special enforcers. The empire fell perfectly into line.
It was at this precise time of unparalleled operational success that Antonio's intelligence network finally bore fruit. Pendleton's reply finally came back.
The report delivered by the estate's head butler was highly detailed and incredibly amusing to Caleb's strategic mind.
The Senator, it turned out, was actually completely out of the capital. He was all the way across the state lines, conducting some shady, highly lucrative political business down in the rapidly developing port town of Blackwater when he had physically received the intercepted message from Caleb's couriers.
According to the informants, the moment Senator Pendleton read the name on the sealed missive, the color had completely drained from his face. He had suddenly, violently remembered that he owed a massive, life altering favor to the 'bounty hunter' McLaughlin.
But what had truly sent the politician into a spiral of absolute, cold-sweat panic was the realization of who Mr. McLaughlin had become in the intervening months. The man who had bought his gambling debts was no longer just a well dressed gun for hire, he was the man who had violently ripped the throne from Angelo Bronte to become the new, terrifying iron fist ruler of the Saint Denis underworld.
The report confirmed that Pendleton was currently en route, in a desperate, panicked hurry no less, having chartered a private, high speed train car to bring him across the state lines to answer the Don's summons before he could be perceived as ignoring it.
When Caleb received this highly anticipated report, he was sitting out on the sprawling, sun drenched eastern balcony of the mansion, enjoying some rich, freshly brewed morning coffee with Mary-Beth.
The contrast between the violent, ruthless machinations of his underworld empire and the absolute, pristine peace of his domestic life was beautiful.
Mary-Beth was sitting across from him at a small wrought iron table, wearing a light, flowing morning gown, the morning breeze gently rustling the pages of the leather bound notebook she was writing in.
The air smelled of sweet jasmine and the dark, roasted aroma of the premium coffee imported from Guarma.
Antonio had stepped out onto the balcony, presenting the silver tray bearing the decoded telegram. Caleb picked it up, taking a slow sip from his porcelain cup as his eyes scanned the text.
Caleb nodded his head, incredibly satisfied when he received the news. The fish was on the hook, and it was reeling itself in out of sheer, unadulterated terror.
He lowered the telegram and looked up at his impeccably dressed head butler. He knew that the key to manipulating powerful, arrogant men was to completely disarm them with overwhelming hospitality before applying the vise.
"The Senator is arriving today, Antonio," Caleb said smoothly, setting his coffee cup down on its saucer. He told the butler to prepare some exceptionally good quality food and drinks for the Senator's arrival. "I want the absolute finest spread you can assemble. Bring up the vintage, fifty year old brandy from the cellar, arrange a platter of imported caviar, and ensure the study is impeccably arranged. We are going to make the good Senator feel like he is a beloved, highly respected guest of honor."
Antonio, possessing a flawless understanding of the Don's psychological warfare, simply bowed deeply. He nodded his head at that, receiving the order with total professionalism.
"It shall be done to your exact specifications, Don McLaughlin. The kitchens will begin preparations immediately."
The day progressed, the humid heat of the Lemoyne afternoon slowly giving way to the cooler, more comfortable shadows of dusk.
It was in the late afternoon that the Senator finally arrived at the Garden District mansion.
Caleb had timed his appearance perfectly. He did not wait inside the study like a typical mob boss demanding an audience. Instead, Caleb waited for him down at the very base of the sweeping marble stairs of the mansion's front porch, projecting the image of a gracious, welcoming host rather than an underworld dictator.
The heavy, iron studded perimeter gates of the estate were pulled open by the armed guards, and a lavish, dark lacquered carriage pulled by two sweating, exhausted thoroughbreds rolled into the circular driveway.
The wheels crunched loudly against the pristine white gravel before the vehicle jerked to a halt right in front of the marble steps.
When the carriage stopped, the door was practically thrown open before the driver could even climb down from the box. Out came Senator Pendleton.
The politician looked exactly like a man who had spent the last eight hours having a silent, continuous panic attack. He was an older, slightly portly man wearing an incredibly expensive, tailored charcoal suit, but the collar of his shirt was wilted with nervous sweat, and his silver hair was slightly disheveled from the frantic journey.
The moment his polished leather shoes hit the gravel, Pendleton spotted the tall, imposing, immaculately dressed figure of Caleb waiting for him. The Senator immediately rushed forward, pasting a wide, frantic, and entirely transparent smile onto his flushed face.
He greeted Caleb enthusiastically, reaching out with both hands and shaking his hand at an incredibly fast, almost desperate rate.
"Don McLaughlin! My god, sir, what an absolute, profound pleasure it is to see you again!" Pendleton exclaimed, his voice slightly breathless, instinctively utilizing the Don's underworld title to show absolute submission. "I received your invitation while I was conducting some tedious political business in Blackwater, and I simply dropped everything! I chartered a train immediately! I hope I haven't kept you waiting long!"
Caleb smiled, a smooth, completely unbothered, and highly charming expression that only seemed to make the Senator sweat even more. Caleb returned the greeting, his grip firm and steady against the politician's trembling hands.
"Senator Pendleton. It is a genuine pleasure to welcome you to my home," Caleb said, his rich baritone voice echoing pleasantly across the quiet courtyard. "You haven't kept me waiting at all. I appreciate you making the journey on such short notice. The roads from West Elizabeth can be quite unforgiving."
Before the Senator could launch into another frantic apology, Caleb gestured grandly toward the towering, palatial facade of the mansion. He invited the Senator to enter inside to the mansion, playing the role of the perfect, aristocratic host.
As they walked up the marble steps and entered together through the heavy double doors, Pendleton's eyes darted nervously around the grand, chandelier lit foyer.
He took in the sheer, unimaginable wealth of the estate, the imported Persian rugs, the massive oil paintings, and the terrifyingly disciplined, heavily armed mafia sentries standing quietly in the shadows of the corridors. The reality of exactly who he owed a life debt to was crashing down upon his political shoulders.
Caleb could practically smell the fear radiating from the man. He knew that a terrified politician was unpredictable and prone to making irrational, defensive mistakes. He needed Pendleton calm, compliant, and deeply grateful.
As they walked side by side down the plush, carpeted hallway toward the private study, Caleb decided to immediately completely disarm the man's worst fears.
Caleb turned to him, keeping his voice light and conversational, and told the Senator to rest easy.
"I can see the tension in your shoulders, Senator," Caleb murmured, offering a knowing, deeply reassuring smile. "Please, relax. You are a guest in my home. I know exactly what you are thinking. You are wondering when the hammer is going to drop. You are wondering if I called you all the way here to extort you for the keys to the state treasury."
Pendleton swallowed hard, his face turning pale as Caleb perfectly voiced his deepest, most horrifying anxieties.
"Let me put your mind entirely at ease," Caleb continued, his tone shifting into one of absolute, gentlemanly sincerity. "I am a man of my word. I told you on that riverboat that I would ask for one favor. But I assure you, I wouldn't use the favor that you owe to me for something that will cause you to lose your position in the Senate. I am not going to ask for something that will cause you to lose your political power, or your life... or all three of them simultaneously."
Hearing all of that incredibly specific, highly targeted reassurance, the Senator practically sagged with sheer relief. The crushing weight that had been pressing on his chest since he left Blackwater finally began to lift. Pendleton nodded his head awkwardly, pulling a silk handkerchief from his pocket and dabbing at his sweating forehead while frantically thanking Caleb for thinking of him and his political safety.
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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 MAX)
- Sneaking (Lvl MAX)
- Horse Mastery (Lvl MAX)
- Poker (Lvl MAX)
- Hand to Hand Combat (Lvl MAX)
- Eagle Eye (Lvl MAX)
- Dead Eye (Lvl MAX)
- Bow (Lvl MAX)
- Pain Nullifier (Lvl MAX)
- Physical Regeneration (Lvl MAX)
- Crafting (Lvl MAX)
- Persuasion (Lvl MAX)
- Mental Fortitude (Lvl MAX)
- Cooking (Lvl MAX)
- Teaching (Lvl MAX)
- Trilingual Language Proficiency - G, I, & C (Lvl MAX)
- Inventory System (Permanent - 100x100x100)
- Acting (Lvl MAX)
- Alcohol Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Treasure Hunter (Lvl MAX)
- Drugs Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Business (Lvl MAX)
- Leadership (Lvl MAX)
Money: 2,772 dollars and 60 cents
Inventory: 284,392 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, 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: -