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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But no one knew the truth except for him, the disgraced Bronte, and Guido, who was currently rotting in the swamps. Guido was dead and couldn't defend himself. And Bronte was locked in a dark cellar, even if he screamed the truth until his lungs bled, he wasn't going to be believed, since he was entirely seen as a treacherous, cowardly liar now. Caleb held the absolute monopoly on the truth.
And with his MAX level Persuasion Skill wrapping around the lie, it became reality.
Of course, this earth shattering revelation caused a huge shock in the warehouse. The sheer magnitude of Bronte's supposed villainy was too much to process calmly. Everyone was angry. The air crackled with a violent, electric tension.
Even Vincenzo and Silvio, who had stood by Caleb through the riverboat massacre, were utterly blindsided by this. They had respected Guido Martelli. To hear that Bronte had framed him just out of pure jealousy and paranoia pushed them over the edge.
So they showed their indignation and anger loudly. Silvio punched the corrugated iron wall of the warehouse, leaving a massive dent in the metal. "The absolute snake!" Silvio roared. "He had Guido murdered over his own insecurities!"
Vincenzo cursed violently in Italian, gripping his shotgun so hard his knuckles turned white. "He manipulated us all. He played us against each other while he sat on his throne counting his gold."
Where the others down in the ranks did the exact same. The captive loyalists, realizing they had been defending a monster who would have gladly sacrificed them to protect his own ego, threw their hands up in disgust.
And they began to say that it's actually good riddance that Bronte was violently disposed of.
"Let him rot in the cellar!" one of the captives shouted.
"He deserves worse for what he did to Guido and the brothers in Annesburg!" another agreed fiercely.
The sentiment swept through the warehouse like wildfire. The mutiny was no longer seen as a chaotic rebellion, it was viewed as a holy, righteous cleansing of a corrupted empire. And standing at the center of it all, the reluctant, honorable savior, was Caleb.
"He's finished!" a loyalist declared, stepping forward and looking directly at Caleb. "And we say it is a blessing that the Underboss McLaughlin has become the new boss! We need a man who leads from the front, not a coward who hides in the dark and kills his own!"
The energy in the room coalesced into a single, unified point of absolute devotion.
One by one, the fifteen captive men dropped to their knees on the dusty wooden floorboards of the warehouse. They didn't do it out of fear, as they used to do for Bronte. They did it out of profound, burning respect.
They pledged their loyalty to someone like him, a leader who actually cared about them, the foot soldiers and the made men.
"We are yours, Don McLaughlin," the man with the bandaged head swore, looking up at him with fanatical devotion. "Our guns, our blood, our lives. Point us at your enemies, and we will tear them apart."
Caleb Thorne stood amidst the kneeling men, flanked by his massive enforcers, the morning sun casting a golden halo around his silhouette. He looked down at the men he had completely manipulated, broken, and rebuilt into a fiercely loyal private army.
His max level skills had worked with terrifying perfection. He hadn't just conquered the Italian mafia; he had completely rewritten its history, its loyalties, and its soul.
"Rise, brothers," Caleb commanded softly, his voice echoing with the absolute power of an undisputed king. "The old family is dead. Today, we build a new empire. And we build it together."
The men rose to their feet, their eyes burning with revolutionary fire, ready to follow the Don into the fires of hell itself. The hostile takeover of the mob of Saint Denis was officially, irreversibly complete.
The heavy, corrugated iron doors of the warehouse groaned as they were pulled wide open, allowing the full, brilliant light of the morning sun to spill into the dusty interior. Caleb turned and walked back out into the salty, humid air of the commercial docks, bringing all of the newly converted men out with him.
They filed out into the sunlight, squinting, their faces bruised and stained with the soot of the previous night's battles. Yet, their posture was entirely different. They no longer carried the slumped, defeated look of captured prisoners of war. They walked with their heads held high, their shoulders squared, radiating the dangerous, revitalized energy of men who had just been given a new, holy purpose.
Caleb stood by the edge of the wooden pier, the churning waters of the river at his back. He looked over the fifteen men, his gaze sweeping across their hardened faces. He raised his hand, commanding their absolute attention.
"Listen to me carefully, brothers," Caleb instructed, his voice cutting clearly through the ambient noise of the seagulls and the distant steam horns of the riverboats. "The war of the night is over, but the work of the day has just begun. I want you to go out into the city and secure the assets belonging to the family."
"Move to the betting parlors, the smuggling warehouses, the high end tailors, and the brothels. Relieve any of Bronte's remaining loyalist guards of their posts. Tell them the old Don is gone, and the new regime has taken the throne. If they surrender, disarm them and send them home. If they fight... you know what to do."
The men nodded grimly, their hands resting instinctively on the grips of their holstered revolvers and the stocks of their shotguns.
Caleb took a step forward, his blue eyes locking onto them with piercing intensity, reminding them to hold their promise and the words they had sworn inside the warehouse just minutes ago.
"Remember what you pledged to me in the dark," Caleb said, his tone shifting from tactical commander to a visionary leader. "Because now, the new Don is in town. Things are going to change, and they are going to change rapidly. I expect absolute loyalty, and in return, you will have my absolute protection. You will be protected from the Pinkertons, from rival gangs, and from the poverty that the old man forced you to live in."
He walked slowly down the line of men, his max level Leadership Skill wrapping around them like an invisible, unbreakable tether.
"You will become more successful than you ever dreamed under the old regime," Caleb promised, his voice a low, hypnotic rumble that ignited their ambitions. "As long as you keep your word and stand by me, I will bring changes that will benefit us all."
"We are not just going to be street thugs extorting pennies from terrified shopkeepers anymore. We are going to make our business much more legal. We will buy the storefronts. We will launder the money through legitimate banks. We will weave ourselves into the very fabric of Saint Denis, so deep that we become untouchable."
Caleb paused, letting the magnitude of his vision sink into their minds. "I will reduce the chance of the Saint Denis police ever interfering with your work. The Chief of Police will works for me. The Mayor will works for me. You operate with precision, you keep the blood off the main streets, and the law will look the other way. We are moving out of the mud and into the business world."
Hearing that, the sheer scope of Caleb's ambition washed over the men. They weren't just fighting for survival anymore; they were fighting for an empire of wealth and absolute security. All of them nodded their heads in fervent agreement, their eyes shining with a fanatical, unwavering dedication to their new Don.
"Go," Caleb commanded softly. "Take our city."
The men dispersed immediately. They turned and left, on foot of course, melting away into the bustling morning crowds of the docks, moving like shadows to execute Caleb's will and secure his vast, newly acquired empire.
Caleb watched them go for a moment before turning away. Alongside Vincenzo and Silvio, he walked back toward the immaculate, black lacquered carriage that was waiting nearby, the four pristine white horses stamping their hooves impatiently against the cobblestones.
Silvio pulled the heavy carriage door open, allowing Caleb to step up into the luxurious, velvet lined interior, before the giant enforcer and the wounded capo climbed in after him.
As Caleb settled into the plush seat, resting his hands on his knees, he leaned forward and slid the small wooden partition window open. He looked up at the driver, a loyal man who had driven Bronte for years but had quickly seen which way the wind was blowing.
"Go to the Bastille Saloon next," Caleb ordered smoothly.
The driver tipped his hat. "Right away, Don McLaughlin."
The driver snapped the reins, and the heavy carriage lurched forward, leaving the smell of rotting fish behind as it rolled smoothly toward the more affluent, bustling commercial center of Saint Denis.
Inside the cabin, the rhythmic clatter of the horses' hooves echoed softly. On the ride there, Silvio, sitting opposite Caleb with his massive arms crossed over his broad chest, furrowed his heavy brow in curiosity.
"Boss," Silvio asked, his deep voice rumbling in the confined space. "Why are we heading to the Bastille right now? Why a saloon?"
Caleb leaned back, resting his head against the velvet cushions, a calculating glint in his eyes. He says he wanted to promote someone to become the one in charge of the saloon.
"The Bastille is one of our most lucrative fronts, Silvio," Caleb explained, his tone measured and strategic. "It launders a massive amount of our smuggling revenue. But the man currently running it is a snake who was blindly loyal to Bronte's coin. I need to rip the old roots out completely. I need someone in charge there who we can trust implicitly."
Caleb looked out the window at the passing city. "I am going to promote someone who will definitely repay what I did for him. Someone who owes his entire livelihood to me. Power isn't just about holding a gun to a man's head, Silvio. True power is elevating a man from the dirt, handing him a power, and knowing he will spend the rest of his life making sure your position is secure."
Hearing that profound, manipulative philosophy on leadership, both Silvio and Vincenzo nodded their heads in deep respect. They marveled at the sheer, calculating intellect of their new Don. He was always three steps ahead, playing a game of chess while the rest of the underworld was playing checkers.
They soon reached the Bastille Saloon. The carriage rolled to a smooth halt in front of the ornate, gilded double doors of the establishment. The Bastille was a place of high class vice, catering to the wealthy merchants and corrupt politicians of Saint Denis. Even in the mid morning, it was open, serving expensive coffee and early day liquor to men in fine suits.
Caleb got down from the carriage, his boots hitting the polished cobblestones. He adjusted the lapels of his charcoal suit, making sure not a speck of dust from the warehouse lingered on him, before being followed by Vincenzo and Silvio.
The three of them entered into the Bastille.
The air inside was thick with the smell of stale bourbon, imported cigars, and expensive perfume. The crystal chandeliers hung low over the polished mahogany bar and the green-felt poker tables.
As Caleb walked into the main room, his presence immediately drew attention. The morning patrons, a mix of wealthy gamblers, off duty lawmen, and city bureaucrats, turned to look at him. Seeing him, several of them raised their glasses or tipped their bowler hats, calling out and greeting him.
"Morning, Mr. McLaughlin!" one man called out from a card table.
"Good to see you, Poker King!" another patron shouted with a grin.
To them, he was McLaughlin, the charming, terrifyingly skilled poker king and the famous, incredibly lethal bounty hunter who occasionally rolled into town to collect massive payouts.
They greeted him with the respect due to a dangerous, wealthy celebrity, completely and utterly not knowing that he had violently ascended in the shadows. They had no idea that the man nodding back at them had become the Underboss, and also now the absolute Don of the dominant crime family, entirely replacing Angelo Bronte just hours prior.
The dramatic irony was palpable, and Caleb reveled in it. Caleb smiled at the patrons in response to their greetings, offering a polite, charismatic tip of his hat, playing the role of the affable gunslinger flawlessly.
He moved through the tables, his eyes scanning the room until he saw Ezra behind the long mahogany counter. Ezra, the hardworking, unassuming bartender who had been wiping down glasses and pouring drinks since the day Caleb first set foot in this city.
Caleb approached the counter. Ezra looked up, a genuine smile breaking across his tired face.
"Mr. McLaughlin!" Ezra greeted him warmly, tossing his rag over his shoulder. "Good morning to you, sir. The usual whiskey, or perhaps something lighter for the morning?"
"Good morning, Ezra," Caleb said, leaning his forearms against the polished wood of the bar. He glanced around the room quickly, ensuring no one was paying too close attention to their conversation. "No drinks today. But I do need a favor. Can we speak in private upstairs in my room?"
Ezra looked slightly confused by the serious tone but didn't hesitate. He nodded his head. "Of course, Mr. McLaughlin. Give me just a moment to lock the till."
Then Caleb raised a hand, signaling for a passing waiter.
"Fetch Monsieur Lemieux for me, please," Caleb instructed the waiter. "Tell him Caleb Thorne requires his presence upstairs. Immediately."
The waiter scurried off toward the back offices. A few moments later, the manager came out. Lemieux was a slick, weasel like man with a thin mustache and expensive, tailored clothing that he bought by skimming off the top of Bronte's profits.
When the man came out and saw Caleb standing by the bar, his entire demeanor shifted. He immediately became very respectful, practically bowing as he approached.
Lemieux, unlike the patrons, was deeply entrenched in the mob's network. He knew exactly who Caleb was, and more importantly, he knew the terrifying rumors that had been flying across the city's telegraph wires since dawn.
"Signor McLaughlin," Lemieux stammered, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. "An honor. Truly. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Upstairs, Lemieux," Caleb said coldly, not offering a smile. "Bring Ezra." They went upstairs, ascending the grand, sweeping staircase to the private, velvet lined corridors of the second floor. They walked to Caleb's room, a massive, opulent suite overlooking the bustling street below.
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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: 3,322 dollars and 60 cents
Inventory: 286,492 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: -