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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
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The adrenaline of the sniper attack, the assault on the swamp house, and the dinner with Bronte all began to crash down on him. When he reached the Bastille, the noise was deafening. Caleb hitched Morgan securely at the post and imdiately entered into the saloon.
The air was thick with smoke and perfu. Caleb ignored the working girls who tried to catch his eye and the gamblers who called out his na. He then goes to Ezra who manned the bar counter room, weaving through the dense crowd of patrons to reach there.
He leaned over the polished wood, catching Ezra's eye. He reached into his satchel, bypassing the massive fortune he had just acquired, taking out 5 dollars and 50 cents and gave it to Ezra.
He leaned over the polished wood, catching Ezra's eye. He reached into his satchel, bypassing the massive fortune he had just acquired, taking out 5 dollars and 50 cents and gave it to Ezra.
"I wanted to have a hot bath," Caleb said, his voice raspy with exhaustion. "And I'm going to laundry the clothes I am wearing. They sll like a bonfire."
Ezra took the money, nodding his head sympathetically. He had seen n co back from the frontier looking better than Caleb did right now. "Of course, Mr. McLaughlin. The bath is ready upstairs. Just leave the clothes behind the door, and the girls will wash it tomorrow morning. First thing."
"Thanks, Ezra."
Caleb then goes to the second floor, his boots heavy on the stairs. He bypassed his own room for a mont and goes to the bathroom which was directly opposite of the door to his room.
The room was steamy, a large copper tub filled with hot water waiting in the center. Caleb locked the door. He stripped off his duster, his vest, and his soot stained shirt, tossing them into a pile. He unbuckled his gun belts, placing them carefully on a dry stool within arm's reach.
He stepped into the tub and groaned as the hot water worked into his tense muscles. He goes to have a hot bath, sinking down until the water covered his shoulders.
He washed himself thoroughly, scrubbing away the mud of the swamp, the soot of the burning safehouse, and the sweat of a very long day, cleaning himself up until the water turned grey.
He sat there for a long ti, staring at the ceiling, letting the heat seep into his bones.
Eventually, the water began to cool. He stood up, dried himself off with a rough towel, and wrapped it around his waist. He moved to the mirror above the basin. His reflection stared back at him, hard eyes, sharp jawline, the face of a man who killed without hesitation now.
He lathered his face with soap and used the shaving kit tool there to shave his stubble beard. He needed to look sharp for tomorrow. He needed to look like an Underboss. He dragged the straight razor across his skin with practiced precision, leaving his face smooth and clean.
After that was done, he opened his system inventory. He ntally selected his clothing options and took out his Valentine outfit, a simple, clean shirt and trousers he kept as a backup. He used it, dressing quickly, leaving behind the ruined outfit he wear today in a neat pile by the door for the maids.
Then he go to his room. He unlocked the door, stepped inside, and locked it again. The room was quiet, the shattered balcony door having been temporarily boarded up by the hotel staff.
He imdiately lay down on the bed after taking off his boots and gun belt, placing the weapons on the nightstand. His body felt heavy, completely drained. He closed his eyes and goes to sleep after a tiring day today. No dreams ca. Just a black, dreamless void of necessary recovery.
The next day, he woke up in the early morning. The sun had just shined through fully, the bright light creeping past the edges of the boarded up balcony door.
Caleb sat up, feeling refreshed. His stamina bar was full. The exhaustion of yesterday was gone, replaced by a cold, sharp focus. Today was the coronation.
He imdiately changed into one of the fancy suits that he had gotten for free from Bronte's tailor days ago. It was a three piece suit, charcoal grey wool with a subtle pinstripe, a crisp white shirt, and a dark crimson silk tie.
He put it on, adjusting the cuffs and the collar. He looked in the mirror, the bounty hunter was gone. In his place stood a man of wealth and dangerous influence.
He put the simple Valentine outfit back into his inventory, ensuring his physical space was clean. He strapped on his gun belts, the leather holsters looked slightly out of place over the tailored suit, but in Saint Denis, no one questioned an ard man in fine clothing.
Before then, he leave his room and head downstairs to the main saloon.
The morning crowd was sparse. He walked to the bar counter where a different Black man, older and thicker than Ezra, manned the counter.
Caleb ordered a lobster bisque and a beer, placing the money on the counter, paying 11 dollars for it. He ate quietly, observing the few patrons in the room, his mind already running through the potential scenarios of the upcoming eting.
After enjoying his breakfast, he pulled out his silver pocket watch. He see that ti is 7 AM. The announcent was scheduled for 8.
He left the Bastille, the morning air already thick with the promise of midday heat. He walked to the hitching post and gets on Morgan. The mare looked him up and down, snorting softly.
"You look ridiculous," she projected. "Like a colorful bird."
"It's called fashion," Caleb muttered, adjusting his tie.
He flicked the reins, riding toward Bronte's mansion for the announcent.
The streets of the Garden District were quiet, the wealthy residents still sleeping off their hangovers. When Caleb arrived at the mansion gates, the guards snapped to attention.
They didn't just wave him through, they saluted, their eyes wide with newfound respect and fear. Word had clearly spread about Guido Martelli's demise.
Caleb rode up the driveway, dismounted, and handed Morgan to the stable boy without a word. He walked up the marble steps, his polished boots clicking sharply.
The heavy oak doors were open. The foyer was crowded. Dozens of n were gathered, capos in expensive suits, made n looking nervous, and heavy-set enforcers standing by the walls. The air was thick with cigar smoke and murmured conversation.
When Caleb entered, the conversation died instantly.
Every eye turned to him. They looked at the charcoal suit, the cold blue eyes, and the twin Navy Revolvers strapped to his thighs. They saw the man who had orchestrated the dock massacre and executed the underboss in a just two separate days.
Caleb didn't stop. He walked straight through the crowd. They parted for him like the Red Sea, pulling back to give him a wide berth. He kept his face an unreadable mask, projecting absolute authority.
He walked into the grand parlor.
Angelo Bronte was standing by the fireplace, flanked by four of his most trusted, heavily ard guards. When Bronte saw Caleb enter, a wide, genuine smile broke across his face.
"Signori!" Bronte called out, his voice booming over the silence of the crowd pouring into the parlor behind Caleb. He raised his hands, commanding absolute attention.
"Gather round! Co in, co in!" Bronte beckoned.
The capos, made n, and elite soldiers shuffled into the room, forming a loose semicircle around Bronte and Caleb. The tension in the air was palpable. Everyone knew what was coming, but hearing it made it real.
Bronte stepped forward, placing a heavy hand on Caleb's shoulder.
"Yesterday," Bronte began, his voice solemn but carrying perfectly to the back of the room, "was a dark day for la famiglia. We discovered a rat in our house. A traditore who forgot his oath and tried to strike at the heart of our operations out of petty jealousy."
He paused, letting the words sink in. Several n looked down at their shoes.
"Guido Martelli is dead," Bronte stated flatly. A collective, silent breath was released in the room. "He died a coward's death, hiding in the mud."
Bronte turned his gaze to Caleb, his eyes shining with pride.
"But from betrayal cos strength," Bronte continued, his voice rising in volu. "The man who uncovered this treachery... the man who single handedly defended our docks from Cornwall's dogs... the man who delivered justice to the traditore... stands before you."
Bronte gripped Caleb's shoulder tighter and turned him slightly to face the crowd.
"I give you," Bronte roared, "Signor McLaughlin! Your new Underboss!"
For a second, there was absolute silence. Then, a capo in the front row, a burly man with a scarred face, started clapping. Slowly at first, then faster. The others joined in. The applause swelled, filling the parlor, a mixture of genuine respect, abject terror, and pragmatic survival instinct.
Caleb stood perfectly still, letting the applause wash over him. He scanned the faces of the n clapping. He saw fear in most, calculation in so.
Then, he saw it.
In the third row, a young man nad Vincenzo, a capo who had been closely allied with Guido, was clapping, but his eyes were burning with a dark, barely concealed hatred. Vincenzo had expected to be promoted if Guido ever stepped down. Caleb's sudden rise had shattered his ambitions.
The applause died down as Bronte raised his hand again.
"As Underboss," Bronte declared, "Caleb speaks with my voice. His orders are my orders. Any disrespect to him is a disrespect to . Capisce?"
A chorus of "Si, Don Bronte" echoed through the room.
Bronte smiled, stepping back. "Good. Now, Caleb... would you like to say a few words to your n?"
Caleb stepped forward. The room held its breath.
He looked at the crowd, letting his silence stretch until it beca uncomfortable. He activated his Leadership and Persuasion skills, projecting an aura of cold, undeniable power.
"Guido Martelli forgot what it ant to serve," Caleb said, his voice quiet but carrying clearly in the dead silent room. "He let his ego cloud his judgnt, and it cost him his life. I do not have an ego. I only care about results. I only care about the strength of this family."
He began to pace slowly, his eyes locking onto individual n, forcing them to look away.
"If you do your jobs," Caleb continued, "you will be rewarded. If you protect our interests, you will prosper. But..."
He stopped pacing, his gaze landing squarely on Vincenzo.
"...if you let ambition turn into treachery... if you whisper in the dark when you should be working in the light... I will find you. And I will end you. There will be no warnings. There will be no second chances."
Caleb held Vincenzo's gaze. The capo tried to hold it, but the sheer weight of Caleb's killing intent, honed by the system and countless lives taken, crushed him. Vincenzo looked down, swallowing hard.
"Are we understood?" Caleb asked the room at large.
"Yes, Underboss," the n murmured, their voices unified by fear.
"Good," Caleb said, stepping back beside Bronte.
Bronte clapped his hands together, breaking the tension. "Excellente! Now, back to work, all of you! We have a city to run!"
The n began to file out of the parlor, murmuring quietly amongst themselves. The hierarchy had been violently restructured, and the new world order was terrifyingly clear.
When the room was empty save for the guards, Bronte turned to Caleb, looking incredibly pleased.
"That was magnificent, Caleb," Bronte praised. "You put the fear of God into them. Especially Vincenzo. I saw how he looked at you. You handled it perfectly."
"He's ambitious," Caleb noted dryly. "Ambition is dangerous if it's not directed."
"He will fall in line," Bronte dismissed with a wave of his hand. "Now, to business. As promised, I have n waiting outside. They will escort you to Guido's... to your new mansion. It has been cleaned and prepared for your arrival."
Caleb nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Bronte."
"Go," Bronte said, walking to his desk. "Settle in. Enjoy your new ho. In the evening, we begin planning our next move against Cornwall."
Caleb walked out of the parlor and out the front doors. Four of Bronte's enforcers were waiting by a polished black carriage.
"Underboss," the lead enforcer said, opening the carriage door. "We are ready to escort you."
Caleb looked at the carriage, then at Morgan, who was hitched nearby.
"I'll ride my horse," Caleb said, walking past the carriage. "You follow."
He mounted Morgan. The mare snorted, falling into a comfortable walk as the heavy carriage fell into line behind them.
The ride to the north side of the city took twenty minutes. The neighborhood was quiet, lined with old trees and massive, gated estates. The carriage pulled up to a large wrought iron gate, and the enforcers jumped down to open it.
Caleb rode through. Guido's forr mansion was impressive, a three story Victorian structure with wrap around porches and perfectly manicured lawns. It was a physical manifestation of the power Caleb had just stolen.
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Na: 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 mory (Lvl MAX)
- Knife (Lvl MAX)
- Blunt Weapon (Lvl 2)
- Sneaking (Lvl MAX)
- Horse Mastery (Lvl MAX)
- Poker (Lvl MAX)
- Hand to Hand Combat (Lvl MAX)
- Eagle Eye (Lvl 2)
- Dead Eye (Lvl 4)
- Bow (Lvl 3)
- Pain Nullifier (Lvl 4)
- Physical Regeneration (Lvl 3)
- Crafting (Lvl MAX)
- Persuasion (Lvl MAX)
- ntal Fortitude (Lvl MAX)
- Cooking (Lvl MAX)
- Teaching (Lvl 3)
- Trilingual Language Proficiency - G, I, & C (Lvl MAX)
- Inventory System (Permanent - 50x50x50)
- Acting (Lvl MAX)
- Alcohol Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Treasure Hunter (Lvl MAX)
- Drugs Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Business (Lvl 2)
- Leadership (Lvl 2)
Money: 3,322 dollars and 60 cents
Inventory: 250,992 dollars and 61 cents, 11 gold nuggets, 70 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
Bank: -
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