RDR2: Faithless

15: Angelo Bronte, a Man of Honour

I located the house I was told of, and waited for Dutch, Arthur and John in the park opposite. It didn't take long for them to find me, I could see how antsy John was. I gave him an encouraging smile before looking at Dutch, my face falling to a more worried look.

"You boys ready?" I asked, feeling significantly unprepared myself. This Bronte guy seemed like he was not someone to be messed with, and I was worried for what had happened to Jack. But surely nobody is so evil as to actually harm a child.

"Of course," replied Dutch, "What else do you know about this guy?"

I stood up and we followed Dutch out of the park.

"Not much, just that he's some slick, little, greasy-haired European who's clearly got power and money," I replied, "Now, listen, if we go in there and start shooting up the place, the boy's gonna get shot, that I guarantee. Feller like this is gonna have a lot of protection."

"Ain't no one gonna get shot, Ann, so everyone just relax," Dutch said, "We'll charm him. Trust me. This the place?"

I looked at the massive house in front of us, my eyes widening slightly.

"Must be," I nodded.

"You okay, John?" Dutch asked.

"I guess," he sighed as Arthur squeezed his shoulder.

We walked up to the front gate where a man was standing guard.

"Excuse me, sir," Dutch called, "We have an appointment to see Mr Bronte."

"Who are you?" He had a thick Italian accent.

Dutch grabbed him through the gate and took his gun, aiming it directly between his eyes.

"You get your boss down here right now, so we can talk about this like gentlemen," Dutch growled before returning his gun, "Run along now boy."

"Was that the special Dutch charm I've heard too much about?" John asked as we raised our hands up. I had to agree, when Jack was in this much danger, acting a fool was not the wise thing to do.

"Relax," he said, "I got this."

The gates opened and we were signalled inside, around five armed men were waiting to lead us into the house. We were led inside where even more armed men were, along with a man who was finely dressed, sitting down and reading a book.

He said something in Italian, glaring at us.

"Why did you take his son?" Dutch demanded, ignoring the fact Bronte had clearly said something offensive that we couldn't understand.

"Excuse me?" Bronte sat forward, putting down his book.

"I said..." Dutch's voice was dangerously quiet, "Why did you take his son? We ain't got no problems with you sir, nor you with us. But if you wanna start one, there's gonna be a lotta folks dead in this room before its done."

There was an uneasy silence in the air as everyone glared at one another, more guns seemed to be being raised at us, but I trusted Dutch. He knew what he was doing. The air was thick with tension as we waited for someone, anyone to speak.

"So," Bronte seemed furious, "You walk into my city, stinking of shit and looking like this, and you come into my house, before you have a bath and you tell me how to act? You ask me to show compassion. Have I not shown you almost infinite compassion already by simply allowing you to breathe in my presence?"

There was silence before Dutch spoke again.

"Indeed you have," he said calmly, "Now, we are simple country folk. All we have is each other, and you have gone, and you have took his son over some dispute with some inbred ex-slavers. It ain't got nothing to do with any one of us."