RDR2: Faithless

19: Angelo Bronte, a Man of Disrepute

I woke up, lying on a bed with a sharp pain in my stomach. I groaned as I sat up, taking in my surroundings. What the hell was going on?

It was, of course, jail. I should have guessed.

"Ah, the stupid Yankee is awake," I heard a voice laughed and turned to see Bronte.

"Dutch won't let you away with this," I growled at him.

"Mr Van der Linde thinks you're dead," he said simply, "He won't be coming to rescue you, but you could perhaps get out of this. If you tell me where they are holed up. I dispose of them, you go live with your parents, everyone is happy."

"Not a chance," I said, wincing in pain as I stood.

"Well, you have time to reconsider," he said, "You will hang in two days. Think, is that stupid cow fucker really worth your neck? Either way, someone will die."

"And I think that person will be you," I snarled at him, "Don't underestimate Dutch. You will find yourself regretting it."

"I gave you a chance," he growled, "I would have loved you, you would have been satisfied had you lived with me. Yet you turned me down, and look where it got you. I could have given you everything."

"You couldn't have given me anything I wanted. I would never have loved you," I snarled back at him, "You are a sadistic, perverse degenerate, and you will get what's coming to you. Whether I'm alive or dead when it happens, I know you will get what you deserve, you bastard."

He raised his gun suddenly, anger flashing in his eyes as he pushed his arm through the bars of my cell. I gave a small laugh, stepping forward and allowing the cool metal to press against my forehead, staring at him with little emotion.

"Go on. Shoot me," I hissed, "Put me out of my misery. I'll die knowing it'll make Dutch that little bit angrier, make his revenge that little bit sweeter."

He gave a bark of laughter, pulling his gun away and holstering it before leaving again. I collapsed down in the bed, feeling despondent. Did Dutch really think I had died? I guess, he had seen my stomach be blown open, if that hadn't killed me he probably assumed the police had.

"Let me see my daughter," I heard a roar.

"Of course, Mr Wright," Bronte replied, "Say your last goodbye to her, your money means nothing to me."

The doors burst open and my father ran in, stopping at my cell. He pressed himself against the bars, looking down at my frail figure as I smiled at the roof. I turned my head to him, his eyes were filled with sadness as he stared at me. I forced myself to sit up, groaning as I turned my body around and forced myself to my feet.

"How do you manage to get yourself into these messes?" he asked as I approached him, grabbing my hands tightly.

"A mixture of foolishness and naivety," I said, giving him a small smile, "How did you find me?"

"A boy came to the door. Told us you'd robbed the trolley station but were caught, he saw them taking you in," he raised an eyebrow, "We'll talk about him once you're out."

"I don't think I'll get out," I sighed, "Not this time."

"What about Dutch? Won't he help?" He asked.

"He would, if he knew I was still alive," I said with a small sigh, "He saw my stomach be blown open. He assumes I'm dead."

"They patched you up pretty well," my father commented.

"They offered me freedom in exchange for the rest of the gang," I gave a small laugh, "If I was on death's door, they knew I wouldn't even consider it. Its a half-hearted attempt, but enough to keep me from bleeding out until I'm either hung or free to see a real doctor."