If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead, be sure to check out my Patreon!!!
Go to https://www.patreon.com/Tang12
...
Bronte had become a name of power in this city by playing both sides, criminal and benefactor, feared and respected. Caleb knew that he have some many maneuvers with the grace of a nobleman and the viciousness of criminaks, using reputation and fear as equally sharp tools. That was something Caleb wanted to have... and as he have planned, he wanted to take it for himself.
Because in the near future, he would make Bronte's seat to be empty. And Caleb Thorne, McLaughlin to Saint Denis for now, intended to sit in it.
He imagined it, Bronte out of the picture, Saint Denis under his influence. The docks, the smugglers, the gambling halls, all answering to him. Legitimate businesses used as fronts to cover his operations. Influence among the elite, untouchable by the law, while quietly controlling the very crimes they thought they eradicated.
And beyond Bronte, there was another name that burned in his mind, Leviticus Cornwall. The wealthy industrialist who'd tangled with the Van der Linde gang, whose greed stretched across railroads and oil fields. Caleb hadn't forgotten the man's arrogance, his willingness to crush anyone in his way. A grudge was a dangerous thing, and Claeb had certainly earned his.
Caleb's eyes flicked up toward the skyline of Saint Denis, where the smokestacks rose and the afternoon sun turned the steam into gold. If he wanted to rise beyond bounty hunting, beyond crime, he'd have to dismantle men like Cornwall, step by step.
And it would start here, with reputation, legitimacy, and careful manipulation.
Leclerc mistook Caleb's silence for modest surprise. The chief chuckled, patting him on the shoulder. "Ah, don't overthink it, my friend. If the mayor wants to make a show of it, I'll send a couple of my men to the Bastille to inform you. Enjoy the attention while you can, eh?"
Caleb blinked out of his thoughts, offering a small, amused chuckle. "Heh, sure thing, Chief. I'll be waiting."
Leclerc nodded approvingly. "Good. And do yourself a favor, get those grazes looked at. You might think you're made of iron, but Saint Denis air makes wounds fester faster than you'd believe."
Caleb smiled faintly, hiding the truth. His wounds were already closing, faint pink lines replacing what had been bloody grazes not long ago. His Physical Regeneration Skill worked quietly beneath the surface, sealing muscle and knitting skin faster than any doctor could. Still, he nodded. "Will do, Chief. I'll get it seen to."
With that, he tipped his hat, grabbed his bounty papers and payment, then turned to Morgan. The mare pawed at the cobblestones impatiently, flicking her tail. Caleb mounted up with a practiced motion, reins firm in hand.
"Take care, McLaughlin!" Leclerc called after him. "You've earned a bit of peace, at least until the next band of fools comes crawling out of the bayou."
Caleb gave a lazy wave. "Don't count on peace, Chief. Never lasts."
He nudged Morgan forward, and the mare started trotting down the bustling main road. The city was alive again, workers, carriages, children running between stalls, the steady clang of blacksmith hammers from somewhere up the street.
People glanced at him as he passed, whispers following in his wake. Some nodded in respect. Others watched in wary silence. His reputation was spreading already.
It took nearly half an hour to reach the Bastille. By the time he arrived, the sun was high overhead and the streets shimmered with heat. He dismounted, leading Morgan to the stable out back, brushing her neck affectionately.
"You did good today, girl," he murmured. "You earned your rest."
Morgan snorted softly, as if in agreement. Caleb unstrapped his gear, checked his weapons, then headed inside.
The Bastille, his temporary home in the city, was quiet today. A few familiar faces nodded to him as he entered, and the bartender, still Ezra, raised a brow. "Back from your other bounty hunting already, Mr. McLaughlin?"
Caleb tossed 5 dollars onto the counter. "A bottle of whiskey and a glass. Job's done. Hackshaw Gang's finished. I'll take a bottle and something warm to eat."
Louis whistled low. "The whole gang? You don't waste time, mister. Word will spread fast."
"That's fine by me," Caleb said simply, taking his drink and heading upstairs.
Inside his rented room, the sunlight poured through the shuttered window, illuminating dust motes drifting lazily in the air. Caleb set his gear down carefully, repeat er, revolvers, lasso, and peeled off his coat. The grazes were faint now, almost gone. He flexed his arm experimentally, satisfied.
"Physical Regeneration... worth the things I do to gain it," he muttered.
He then drink slowly, mind turning. The possibility of being recognized by the mayor wasn't something he could ignore. Public recognition could act as a shield, a way to keep lawmen from sniffing too close to his true dealings. If he became a celebrated name in Saint Denis, a bounty hunter of honor, it would give him freedom to move in higher circles. Bronte would see the value in that.
And speaking of Bronte...
Caleb leaned back in his chair, exhaling softly. The Italian crime lord would surely have heard of his success by now. Word traveled fast in Saint Denis, especially when it involved a man who had just dismantled one of the city's most troublesome gangs.
It wouldn't be long before Bronte's men came calling.
The thought made Caleb smirk. The first half of Bronte's payment was already his, but now that the job was done, the rest was due, and perhaps more than that. Bronte respected results, and Caleb had delivered far beyond what was expected.
He changed into his Deauville Outfit, something sharp enough to make an impression, but not ostentatious as well. The kind of look a man of quiet authority would wear. If Bronte invited him to his manor, it wouldn't do to appear unkempt.
He then goes to cleaned his weapons, and poured himself another small glass of whiskey. As he sat by the window, he watched the city move below, the carriages, the vendors, the distant sound of a brass band near the square.
Then came the knock.
Three sharp raps against his door.
Caleb's eyes flicked up, and a faint grin tugged at his lips. Right on time.
He rose and opened the door. Standing there were the two italian men in tailored suits, the same Bronte's associates who goes to meet him before, both carrying themselves with the unmistakable confidence of men who worked for power.
The older of the two gave a polite nod. "Mr. McLaughlin. Signor Bronte sends his regards. He requests your presence at the manor this evening, for dinner and... discussion."
Caleb nodded once. "Tell him I'll be there."
"Excellent," the man replied. "A carriage will arrive for you at sundown."
They tipped their hats and left as smoothly as they had come.
Caleb closed the door, that grin spreading wider. Things were moving fast, faster than even he anticipated. Bronte inviting him personally wasn't just courtesy, it was clearly an oppurtunity being extended to him.
And Caleb intended to take that with flying colors.
He took a long pull from his whiskey and leaned back against the window frame. The golden light of the city stretched across his face, catching the steel glint in his eyes.
In his mind, pieces began to fall into place, Leclerc, Bronte, the mayor, the growing whispers of his name on the streets. He could use it all.
His identity wasn't just a bounty hunter anymore here in Saint Denis. He was building something.
By the time the sun dipped below the rooftops, the city was aglow in warm lantern light, carriages rattling across cobblestones. The sound of laughter drifted from the bars below. Caleb, freshly cleaned and armed discreetly beneath his coat, stepped outside just as a black carriage rolled up.
The driver tipped his hat. "For you, mister. Signor Bronte awaits."
Caleb climbed in without a word. The city passed by in golden blur, the architecture, the canals, the faint music of a nearby soirée. The closer they got to Bronte's district, the more refined the surroundings became.
When the carriage finally stopped, it was before the same grand manor framed by wrought iron gates and gas lamps. The Bronte estate. A butler escorted him through marble halls, past oil paintings and velvet drapes, to the dining chamber where Bronte sat, cigar in hand, his smile faint but knowing.
"Ah, Signor McLaughlin," Bronte said smoothly, rising from his seat. "You have been quite busy, I hear. The Phantom, gone. That slippery Chen Lei, gone. And the Hackshaw Gang, gone. The city speaks of you like a hero. Come, sit. You must tell me everything."
Caleb smiled, taking the offered seat. "Nothing much to tell, really. Just a job well done."
Bronte chuckled, eyes glinting. "Modesty, a rare trait in men who can kill eight armed criminals and still smile about it. You are efficient, Signor McLaughlin. I like that. Saint Denis needs men like you... and so do I."
Caleb met his gaze evenly. "Previously you said you had a second half of the payment, Mr. Bronte."
"Of course." Bronte gestured, and one of his men placed a pouch of money on the table, a hefty sum, clearly more than agreed upon. "For efficiency. For loyalty. And for potential."
Caleb took it silently, weighing the pouch before setting it aside. "Generous, thank you Mr. Bronte.."
"Realists must reward real work," Bronte said. "And I believe you are a man who understands reality. Tell me, McLaughlin, have you ever considered something... greater? Not just hunting bounties, but controlling the flow of what you hunt?"
Caleb tilted his head slightly, lips curling in the faintest smirk. "That depends, Mr. Bronte. What exactly are you offering?"
Bronte leaned forward, cigar smoke curling around his sharp features. "Power, McLaughlin. Power and protection. You could do very well in Saint Denis, if you choose to align with the right people."
Caleb met his gaze, silent but thoughtful. He had no intention of serving another man forever, but for now, aligning with Bronte was the smart move. The Italian would open doors, and in time, Caleb would walk through them all.
He raised his glass, the candlelight flickering between them. "Then I suppose we should drink to business, Mr Bronte."
Bronte's smile widened. "To business, indeed."
The crystal glass clinked softly as both men took a drink. The red wine shimmered faintly in the golden candlelight between them, a smooth vintage that lingered like velvet on the tongue. Bronte's eyes gleamed over the rim of his glass, studying Caleb with the quiet, assessing sharpness of a man who had built an empire by reading others.
After setting the glass down, Bronte leaned back comfortably in his chair, exhaling a slow trail of cigar smoke that curled and danced toward the ceiling.
"Well then," he said, his accent rich and deliberate, "since you have spoken so, I take it that you are indeed interested in something more... permanent, sì? Not like these bounty huntings, these one-time affairs for coin and applause."
Caleb met the older man's gaze evenly, his tone calm but direct. "If what I said before was too vague Mr. Bronte, then let me be clear, yes, I'm interested. Bounty hunting isn't a stable life. You make good money, sure, but it's always temporary. Working under you, Mr. Bronte… that sounds like an opportunity worth taking."
Bronte's lips curved into a delighted grin. He tapped his cigar against the edge of a crystal ashtray, embers scattering faintly. Then, with infectious enthusiasm, he exclaimed, "Meraviglioso! Meraviglioso! Meraviglioso!"
He repeated the word three times, each one bursting with satisfaction, as though the sound itself pleased him deeply. "I knew, from the moment I first heard your name whispered in the streets, that you were a man who understood potential when he saw it."
Caleb offered a faint, knowing smile. "I try to see opportunity where it shows itself."
Bronte chuckled, then turned slightly and snapped his fingers. "Guido! Vieni qui, per favore!"
Hearing that name, Caleb's expression remained composed, but inwardly, surprise flickered through him. Guido Martelli. The right hand man of Angelo Bronte himself.
A name whispered in Saint Denis' underworld with equal parts respect and fear. Caleb had heard talks about him after wandering around Saint Denis, Martelli was the man who made Bronte's promises real, the one who cleaned messes, collected debts, and ensured loyalty. Efficient, ruthless, and as sharp as the boss he served.
...
Name: Caleb Thorne
Age: 23
Body Attributes:
- Strength: 7/10
- Agility: 7/10
- Perception: 8/10
- Stamina: 7/10
- Charm: 7/10
- Luck: 8/10
Skills:
- Handgun (Lvl 4)
- Rifle (Lvl 4)
- Firearms Knowledge (Lvl 4)
- Past Life Memory (Lvl MAX)
- Knife (Lvl 3)
- Blunt Weapon (Lvl 1)
- Sneaking (Lvl 4)
- Horse Mastery (Lvl 4)
- Poker (Lvl 4)
- Hand to Hand Combat (Lvl 3)
- Eagle Eye (Lvl 1)
- Dead Eye (Lvl 3)
- Bow (Lvl 2)
- Pain Nullifier (Lvl 3)
- Physical Regeneration (Lvl 2)
- Crafting (Lvl 3)
- Persuasion (Lvl 3)
- Mental Fortitude (Lvl MAX)
- Cooking (Lvl 4)
- Teaching (Lvl 2)
- Germanic Language Proficiency (Lvl MAX)
- Inventory System (Permanent - 10x10x10)
- Acting (Lvl 3)
- Alcohol Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Treasure Hunter (Lvl MAX)
Money: 3,655 dollars and 20 cents
Inventory: 104,369 dollars and 72 cents, 11 gold nuggets, 64 gold bars, 1 Double Action, 1 Schofield, 2 Colm's Schofields, 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
Bank: -