Red Dead Redemption 2: From Gaming To Cowboy Chapter 269: 256. Meeting Angelo Bronte Again

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Bronte had beco a na of power in this city by playing both sides, criminal and benefactor, feared and respected. Caleb knew that he have so many maneuvers with the grace of a nobleman and the viciousness of criminaks, using reputation and fear as equally sharp tools. That was sothing 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 cris they thought they eradicated.

And beyond Bronte, there was another na 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 cri, he'd have to dismantle n 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 n 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 paynt, 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 cos 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 hamrs from sowhere up the street.

People glanced at him as he passed, whispers following in his wake. So 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 ti he arrived, the sun was high overhead and the streets shimred 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 agreent. Caleb unstrapped his gear, checked his weapons, then headed inside.

The Bastille, his temporary ho 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 sothing warm to eat."

Louis whistled low. "The whole gang? You don't waste ti, mister. Word will spread fast."

"That's fine by ," 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 experintally, 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 sothing he could ignore. Public recognition could act as a shield, a way to keep lawn from sniffing too close to his true dealings. If he beca a celebrated na 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 cri 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 troubleso gangs.

It wouldn't be long before Bronte's n ca calling.

The thought made Caleb smirk. The first half of Bronte's paynt 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, sothing 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 ca the knock.

Three sharp raps against his door.

Caleb's eyes flicked up, and a faint grin tugged at his lips. Right on ti.

He rose and opened the door. Standing there were the two italian n in tailored suits, the sa Bronte's associates who goes to et him before, both carrying themselves with the unmistakable confidence of n 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 co.

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 fra. 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 na on the streets. He could use it all.

His identity wasn't just a bounty hunter anymore here in Saint Denis. He was building sothing.

By the ti 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 ard 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 beca.

When the carriage finally stopped, it was before the sa grand manor frad 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. Co, sit. You must tell 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 n who can kill eight ard criminals and still smile about it. You are efficient, Signor McLaughlin. I like that. Saint Denis needs n like you... and so do I."

Caleb t his gaze evenly. "Previously you said you had a second half of the paynt, Mr. Bronte."

"Of course." Bronte gestured, and one of his n 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 , McLaughlin, have you ever considered sothing... 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 t 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 ti, 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 n took a drink. The red wine shimred faintly in the golden candlelight between them, a smooth vintage that lingered like velvet on the tongue. Bronte's eyes glead 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 sothing more... permanent, sì? Not like these bounty huntings, these one-ti affairs for coin and applause."

Caleb t the older man's gaze evenly, his tone calm but direct. "If what I said before was too vague Mr. Bronte, then let 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 exclaid, "raviglioso! raviglioso! raviglioso!"

He repeated the word three tis, each one bursting with satisfaction, as though the sound itself pleased him deeply. "I knew, from the mont I first heard your na 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 na, Caleb's expression remained composed, but inwardly, surprise flickered through him. Guido Martelli. The right hand man of Angelo Bronte himself.

A na 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 sses, collected debts, and ensured loyalty. Efficient, ruthless, and as sharp as the boss he served.

...

Na: 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 mory (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)

- ntal 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: -