Bronte was a proud man, with that distinctly Italian arrogance.
He looked down on Dutch.
Even if Dutch had pulled off the Blackwater heist, Bronte still held him in contempt. A small-time outlaw with a bit of notoriety—how could he possibly be compared to someone like him?
Even Davey wasn't someone Bronte truly took seriously.
The power of the Mafia was not something a newly risen figure from the West could rival. If Bronte truly wanted Davey dead, all he had to do was pay the price and call in men from within the Mafia.
When it came to assassination, they were professionals.
Back in Sicily, the Mafia didn't just control the local economy—they openly ran for mayor and city council positions. They formed election committees, pushed their own members into parliament, and took control of portions of military and political power.
They could influence policy, bend government institutions to their will, and protect their criminal interests.
With that kind of force behind him, as the "godfather" of Saint Denis, why would Bronte think highly of Dutch?
A simple trap had nearly wiped out the Van der Linde Gang.
In the end, though, Bronte had underestimated Dutch's madness.
He never expected Dutch to storm into his mansion and abduct him outright.
Now—
The boat had already left Saint Denis and reached Lagras, a swamp crawling with alligators.
Earlier, Sean MacGuire had knocked Bronte unconscious.
"Wake him up."
Dutch calmly lit a cigar—one he had brought specifically for this moment.
He intended to present his most gentlemanly side.
To make Bronte see clearly that he was now a prisoner.
Sean used the small bucket Thomas normally used for fish, scooped up river water, and dumped it over Bronte's head.
Bronte jolted awake, still dizzy and disoriented.
Dutch took a slow puff of his cigar and said with satisfaction,
"Oh, look who it is. The great man of Saint Denis. Mr. Bronte, isn't it?"
"So tell me, Mr. Bronte—should we ransom you… or do something else?"
Dutch felt a surge of revenge, a deep satisfaction swelling in his chest.
The once-arrogant Bronte should now be begging him like a stray dog.
At this point, Dutch no longer truly intended to kill him.
Perhaps at first he had.
But they needed money. And Bronte had plenty—tens of thousands of dollars.
Enough that they wouldn't even need to rob a bank.
Dutch hesitated slightly.
If the ransom succeeded, should they still rob the bank?
But without a grand heist, there would be no earth-shattering spectacle.
He didn't want to slink out of Saint Denis quietly.
Maybe he should leave the city with a bang. Let everyone know—
He, Dutch van der Linde, was the greatest outlaw in the West.
Convincing Hosea would take some effort.
But soon, Dutch wouldn't have to worry about that at all.
Bronte gradually came to his senses and glanced around the boat, quickly understanding his situation.
Yet Dutch's words made him relax.
From Dutch's tone, he could tell—this was about money, not murder.
That gave Bronte confidence.
"You're pathetic."
His voice was calm, full of disdain.
"Oh? I'm pathetic?" Dutch asked.
"You can't even control your own men."
Dutch knew immediately—Bronte was referring to Davey.
The name struck him like a knife.
Davey was the last person he wanted mentioned. Yet here Bronte brought him up.
Compared to Davey's current success, the Van der Linde Gang was like sewer rats, constantly fleeing Pinkerton pursuit.
"Whoever kills him and lets me go gets one thousand dollars."
Bronte spoke with complete confidence.
One thousand dollars.
Surely that would tempt them.
Bronte was stingy. Even now, he wasn't willing to offer a cent more.
He thought a thousand was enough.
Arthur, Bill, Lenny, and Sean remained silent.
Sean even looked angry.
One thousand dollars? Did he take them for beggars?
Sean had risked his life over one hundred and fifty thousand dollars in Blackwater.
And now a mere thousand was supposed to make them betray Dutch?
What a joke.
"Well? Anything else to say?"
Dutch's voice trembled with suppressed fury.
He could feel Bronte's contempt. It reignited the anger that had almost faded.
Bronte sensed danger.
But backing down now would make him look weak—and he couldn't allow that.
"They're even stupider than you."
Dutch's eyes turned feral.
"That's right."
In that instant, Bronte realized he had gone too far.
"The police will find you," he snapped. "The police dogs are already on their way."
That did it.
Dutch's mind flooded with rage.
A dull pain throbbed in his head—the injury he'd suffered fleeing the tram station robbery.
The pain only made him more unstable.
He no longer cared about ransom.
"Oh, yes. You're right."
"You're absolutely right."
Dutch stepped forward and grabbed Bronte by the throat.
"Those police dogs… they're good at sniffing out filth, aren't they?"
"So we'd better get rid of the filth."
He shoved Bronte's head underwater.
Bronte struggled wildly, trying to beg for mercy, but water poured into his mouth, choking him with terror.
"Are your Pinkerton friends coming to save you?!"
"You disgusting worm!"
Dutch's voice cracked with hysteria.
He pulled Bronte up briefly.
Bronte gasped desperately, trying to speak—but before he could catch his breath, Dutch forced him under again.
"Call them! Tell them to come save you!"
"Call them! Call them!"
Bronte's struggles grew weaker.
Bill and Lenny frowned.
Sean hesitated, then looked toward Arthur.
The Dutch before them was terrifying.
No matter how dire things had been before, Dutch was always calm, always composed.
They had never seen him like this.
Arthur noticed Sean's glance. He hesitated for a moment—
Then opened his mouth, preparing to calm Dutch down.
--
...
(40 Chapters Ahead)
p@treon com / GhostParser