'With his ultraviolence.'

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From the very first moment the three men's horses trotted onto the wooden bridge, Arthur had a great sense of misplacement.

They were leaving behind thick bogs, murky weather and wild uncultivated landscapes – and headed straight into the jaws of industrialism.

Riding into Saint Denis, the ground beneath them merged from soft dirt to harsh cobbles, and suddenly the streets became aflush with all varieties of people – workers going about their day, the rich enjoying their leisurely times in the backs of luxurious carriages. But most prevalent of all were the boys themselves, the three of them stuck out like a sore thumb in the middle of the mass crowd of city folk. It was just a further reminder of how they were living in a world that didn't belong to them anymore.

Glancing across to his left, Arthur received some very unsure looks from John, who was clutching onto Old Boy's reins just that bit tighter. This city felt a totally alien place, the fancy brick facades of the buildings seemed to scream at them to turn away and head back to the simplicities of the country.

"Right then, gentleman," Dutch chimed all of a sudden – a total juxtaposition to both John and Arthur as he seemed almost excitable about the potential prospects this city held. "Where shall we start?"

As quick as anything, Arthur and John shot each other a confused look – an open ended question that neither of them really knew the answer to.

Luckily for them, it seemed Dutch had been thinking of a suitable answer himself. On the street corner stood a very fancy saloon, it seemed to be bustling with life even thought it was merely midday.

"Someone in there must know something." He answered his own question with a quiet low rumble of his voice, and coaxed The Count on with a few short nudges into the horse's side. Arthur and John just felt like two children following in two whilst their parent made all of the decisions.

Tethering up the three horses to the right of the saloon's doors, these three outcasts prepared themselves to set foot inside.

"Just act cool, we're just goin' in to ask a few questions. Nothin' more." Dutch lectured them both, before instinctively taking the lead inside – flinging those double doors open with a swaggering stride that wasn't too dissimilar to a rowdy stallion.

Some heads turned, which was only natural – men dressed in fancy suits playing poker who had a look about them that spelled scepticism. Dutch made his unmoved direction straight for the bar, where it appeared the bartender already was frowning slightly.

"I see your type, gents." The barman said, being polite enough, "I don't want no troubles."

"You won't get no trouble from us." Marston was quick to defend with those gravelly tones, an annoyed look on his face already that this place seemed to stink of people who thought they were better than everyone else.

Dutch raised his hand slightly to John, and gave him a cautionary look like a parent would do to their unruly child. His darkened gaze then met the nervous looking bartender, with an overly nice smile.

"Don't worry, son. We ain't here to stir up any trouble." Dutch excused you all, "In fact we're quite new here. Heard there's a lot of money – prosperity... to be made in a city like this one." The gang leader's tone was now low, and leaned across the bar slightly.

"Do you happen to know the person I can speak to for such matters?" Dutch's tone was a accumulation of cool collectiveness and silver tongued charm. The man had ways of getting what he wanted out of people.

Cloth wiping a crystallised whiskey glass, the bar tender swallowed nervously.

"A-alright.... I can tell you.... But you didn't hear this come from me, okay?" the guy gave in, and set the glass down with the others on the shelf just below the bar. Already Dutch was grinning like a sly cat.

"Sure, partner. I'm just grateful for the information." He drawled in a tone that was coated lavishly with niceties, eyes sparkling with interest. John and Arthur watched on wordlessly – they did not need to step in when Dutch was on a roll like this.

Setting his elbows down on top of the granite top, the bartender looked at the three men before him and cleared his throat, eyes darted right to left – a skittish air about him.

"You're gonna want to speak to a man by the name of Bronte. Angelo Bronte." The bartender whispered, "He lives in the cul-de-sac on the nicer end of town, house opposite the park – across from the Mayor's place." The man informed with a discreet manner about his voice, before he leaned back and resumed with his work – instigating that was as much as he could give.

This was more than enough for Dutch, who lapped up the information like a horse led to water.

"Thanks for your help." He addressed singularly, and then led the way out of the saloon with a purpose to his steps – weaving between the tables of people and his course set for the door.

Bursting back out into sunlight, it was clear to see Dutch was elated that things so far had been so easy. He often got to wrapped up in things that he forgot that there was no guarantee it would go how he wanted it to.

"Saddle up, boys." Dutch called, swinging himself into the saddle, "We're headed for a meeting with Mr Bronte." He proclaimed, gathering up the reins in his hands, rings glimmering in the bright sunlight.

Van Der Linde had started making a few steps ahead seeing as The Count was becoming restless, and this gave John and Arthur the opportunity to have a few quiet words.

"I don't have a good feelin' about this, Arthur..." John whispering, hauling himself into the saddle.

As Arthur clambered onto Phantom's back, he could only offer a scoff in return to what John had said. Not having a good feeling was an understatement.

"Just feels like every time things go quiet... Dutch finds a way to set all the shit off again." Arthur grumbled, taking up Phantom's reins in one hand and encouraged the warmblood onwards into a marching walk.

That was the end of that hushed conversation, as the boys met up at Dutch's side and followed him off into the heart of the city – whether it was willingly was another question entirely.

It had been plain to see where the city met it's divide been poverty and wealth. The juxtaposition of life seemed to change with no graduation -just all of a sudden the beggars didn't line the streets, waste didn't litter the cobbled streets and even just the air seemed that lacking that bit less in the toxicities of a working city.

A few carriages rolled by, pulled by the most fine horses Arthur thought he had ever seen. Not as nice as his Phantom though, nothing could match the love Arthur felt for his trusted steed. The eyes of the people sitting inside those carriages however, ogled the three outlaws like they were alien visitors from another planet.

John had very little patience for people staring at him, and swiftly pulled some irritated faces.

"Goddamnit, Dutch." Marston spat, his brow furrowed, "I ain't likin' any of this. We don't belong here." John reprimanded, showing his utter distaste of the situation. Not that Dutch was paying very much attention, he was more focused on the fact they had arrived at their destination.

After a long ride up the quiet street, lined with it's leafless trees and clean grey cobbles, the men had rounded a corner into the pretty cul-de-sac. It was well maintained, the houses stood grand at the edge of the curbs- spelling tales of wealth and fortune for the lucky people who lived in such structures.

Looking all around himself, Arthur gazed in awe at all of these houses. Each one stood proud, with beautiful details like exterior beams and large bay windows, gorgeous gardens and beautiful gates enclosing the properties.

"How do we know which one is Brontes'?" John asked Dutch, his voice still irritated. The three men's heads snapped in the various directions – scanning each property.

There was house however, that stood out particularly well to Arthur. It was the most grandiose property on the street, it stood as a novel three stories high – with palatial  elements to its build. With each brick, it seemed to emanate an illustrious aura. His blue eyes flickered to each of the windows, just out of a curiosity.

"I think this one has to be the mayor's." Arthur informed, and therefore spun Phantom to face the house directly opposite.

It was a similar build in regards to its esteemed architecture and regal aura, but didn't quite match the level of beauty of the home opposite.

"So this must be Brontes'." Arthur gathered, and Dutch was quick to agree.

"Seems that way, come along gentleman." He instigated, and began to lead the way across the street.

The cul-de-sac was eerily quiet, with the closed in square of houses – each clop of the horses' hooves seemed to echo and reverberate around them. It was unsettlingly silent.

Reaching the silver gates, the men left the horses tethered by the park and, by Dutch's lead, approached the guards at the gate. The armed security looked at these three evident country folk with an eye filled with suspicion.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen." Dutch started, that charming tone gracing his voice, "I'm told Mr Bronte can be found here?" he asked, his grip wrapping around the bars of the gates. The guards eyed Dutch up in a disgusted fashion, as if some mangey dog was about to break in.

"Mr Bronte is to be met by appointment only." The guard responded, voice fogged by a very heavy Italian accent. This was not what Dutch had wanted to hear, and he flashed a charming smile.

"Gentleman please, me and my associates here have travelled a long way today-" he attempted to sway them, but it seemed even his most heavy onslaught of charm was not enough to persuade these stony-faced guards.

"I do not care. Mr Bronte is by appointment only." The guard stressed, but unbeknownst to them – a certain regally wrapped up man had stepped onto his porch, trussed up in his dressing gown and slippers and a small hat – the pyjamas were regal enough for him to look smart.

He was eyeing the three men at his gate, smoking a fat brown cigar slowly.

"Aspettate." The man purred in his Italian accent, descending the steps from his porch and making his way down the garden path in his slippers. Dutch's eyes looked more hopeful than ever now, whilst John and Arthur hung back in slight embarrassment of the overly eager behaviour of their mentor.

"Mr Bronte?" Dutch asked, and earned a slow nod from the wealthy man before him.

"Yes? Who are you? How can I help?" the Italian questioned, his tone was slow – as if he had all the time in the world.

"Mr Bronte, me and my friends here have heard some good things about you. We wished to discuss some things regarding potential business." Dutch said simply, and Bronte's guards looked to their master letting him know it was very much his choice if he wanted to let them in.

"Let the vagabondo in." Bronte chuckled, and the guards cautiously opened the gates.

"Thank you gentlemen." Dutch remarked smugly, clearly thinking he was in with this Italian top-dog and was totally oblivious to the Italian insults Mr Bronte was making with his butlers' regarding the three outlaws.

John and Arthur followed behind Dutch silently, feeling the guard's eyes burning holes through them as they followed Mr Bronte up into the house. Once inside, it was clear to see this man had an abundance of wealth. His walls were decorated with many expensive looking things – from fine art to very nice looking weaponry – it was only right that the guards were becoming nervous that these three outlaws were having such a good long look. They were panicking that they would perhaps want to pick them from the walls and make an escape.

Instead, they followed Mr Bronte inside the front room of the house and sat opposite him on a tiny red love-seat style sofa that barely could fit the three men on it.

"So what exactly do you want to know?" Bronte asked, eyeing the gang members up with a cautious look as he smoked his cigar – gesturing his butler flippantly.

"Dovremmo offrire alcuni degli idioti. (We should offer the idiots some)" Bronte muttered to his butler, who carried the fine case of Cuban cigars over to the outlaws. Of course Dutch was first to dab his hand in there, whilst Arthur and John politely declined. They just wanted to be out of there as soon as possible.

"Well, Mr Bronte. We're quite new round here – I wanna know the best ways of makin' some money." Dutch was very much straight to the point, "Real money." His voice was filled with determination.

This resulted in a laugh from the Italian, who looked over his shoulder at his guards.

"Riesci a credere a questi bastardi? (Can you believe these mongrels?)" He had laughed, turning back to face Dutch, John and Arthur with a slimy smirk that Arthur didn't take too at all. There was this look on his face like he knew he had a perfect plan to play them.

Behind those dark brown eyes, the Italian was formulating a plan. He hated people like Dutch, Arthur and John. He thought of them as stupid, backwards – primitive. He was keen to prove this point, and sneakily make a joke out of all of them.

"I like you, Mr...?" Bronte imposed suddenly, and Dutch quickly responded with a pleased smirk.

"Van Der Linde."

"Yes... Mr Van Der Linde, you remind me of myself." He said, and then started to chuckle to his guards again. "Una versione peggiore di me stesso. (A poorer version of myself)"

"Is that so?" Dutch smiled, thinking this was the greatest revelation ever. It seemed he only wished to see what he wanted to see, which was indication he was easily cosying up to Bronte. Arthur and John were becoming rather frustrated that Dutch seemed none the wiser to the obvious fact Bronte had been making quips – probably nasty ones – to his men.

"Yes." Angelo grinned, toying his cigar between his fingers and crossing one leg over the other whilst he lounged carefree on his luxurious couch. "You have ambition, that is clear to see." He was smirking again, in a way that made Arthur feel a fool. This man gave of the air that he was so much smarter than everyone else.

"You want to see how to get about in this city? I can show you." Bronte started again, sitting forwards and glancing craftily at each of the outlaws'. A smug grin played upon the Italian's lips, as he set the cigar down in the ashtray. "Mayor Lemieux is holding a party this Saturday. The most powerful men in the city shall be there." Bronte chimed, his tone about as charming as a snake about the strike. Not that Dutch could hear that, all he could hear was the opportunity of money.

"You seem a man of purpose, Mr Van Der Linde." Bronte buttered the man up with a false smile, "You and your friends – you can come along, courtesy of me." He said, gesturing his hand in a you should be grateful manner that Arthur didn't take nicely too.

"Oh, well, thank you! That is very kind of you, sir." Dutch smiled, nodding his head in a grateful mannerism.

"Yes – it is a good chance to mix with the most powerful men in the city. No better opportunity for you to put your foot in the door, so to speak." The Italian remarked in a smarmy tone, "Especially with the Mayor."

"Well, we are very grateful for your invitation Mr Bronte, expect to see us there." Dutch accepted, and Arthur had to internalise his apparent uncertainty about the entire thing.  The three men stood from the couch, and the guard were already lingering, ready to escort the men back outside.

"Yes! I hope you men like good food, nice wine, and beautiful women." Bronte smirked, his eyes levelled with a snide grin, his final words before witnessing Dutch, Arthur and John make their way outside.

"Fottuti idioti. (Fucking idiots)" Bronte chuckled to himself, shaking his head at how easy it was to lead those men in. His sparked up another cigar with a satisfied grin, there wasn't anything he loved more than an easy game of smiting some men who he felt needed to be disposed of.

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