The group paused, their eyes following Arthur as he vanished into the alleyway, with John and Charles a step behind. No need to worry about Dorothea and the others. As the trio's figures receded, John edged closer to Arthur, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
"Oh, shit! Arthur, where in God's name did Dutch find these… these ladies? Shit! You've no idea how utterly humiliated I was back there!"
"Me too," Charles muttered from his side, a grimace on his face. The imagined gazes of several pairs of eyes on their backs sent a phantom shiver down both men's spines.
"Mm." Arthur sighed, a weary lament. "Oh, Dutch always has his own peculiar way of stumbling across strange people. We've only met these ladies twice, actually." He shifted, his hand instinctively resting on his holster. "Alright, John, Charles, cut the chatter. Brace yourselves. We might be in for a fight if these talks go south."
Arthur and his companions walked with a deceptively calm gait towards the alley's dark corner. There, three men and three children stood, utterly unconcerned by their exposure, their eyes fixed on Dutch and his group. Their postures were insultingly relaxed, almost arrogant, clearly dismissing Dutch's formidable presence.
This casual insolence was unsurprising; Bronte reigned as one of Saint Denis's undisputed underground kingpins. In times devoid of conflicting interests, even the city's powerful families afforded him a measure of respect, for most had some unsavory dealings with him. This time, however, the very interests of Dorothea and the other noblewomen had been brazenly infringed upon.
As Arthur and his two companions drew near, the three men, guns already in hand, swayed with an unnerving confidence, a leering smile on their faces. "Hoo hoo hoo, gentlemen, hold your horses. Who gave you the audacity to defy Mr. Bronte?" The lead man, sporting a thin mustache, smirked, aiming his gun casually at Arthur and the others. The three children behind him mirrored his actions, their own pistols leveling menacingly.
"Woah woah woah, gentlemen, guns aren't toys to be trifled with so casually," Arthur drawled, his voice deceptively nonchalant, his hand already on his own holster. John and Charles, however, offered no such pleasantries. Their guns snapped up, aiming directly at the trio, a clear, silent promise that any sudden movement would trigger an immediate, brutal shootout.
"Guns aren't toys, huh?" the mustached man snarled, his composure cracking, his gun-holding hand trembling with agitation. "Then why did you casually draw your guns and shoot our men?! Huh? Mister!"
The next few seconds erupted in a terrifying blur.
"Bang bang bang bang bang…" Almost instantaneously, six deafening gunshots tore through the air, followed by a chorus of sharp screams. The revolvers in the hands of the six thugs exploded, violently ripped from their grasp, clattering uselessly to the ground.
"It seems I've lost my patience for your chatter," Arthur said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. He watched the six men, their faces contorted with shock and a creeping, primal fear, then smoothly holstered his gun. He strode forward, seizing the mustached man by the collar, lifting him effortlessly, and slamming him against the brick wall behind him. The other five, paralyzed with terror, were quickly surrounded by John and Charles, their guns unwavering, daring not to move a muscle.
Sweat already streamed down the mustached man's face; he was so panicked he almost soiled himself. Damn it! When had these street thugs ever encountered such devastating marksmanship? Damn it! These three men alone were enough to utterly annihilate all of Bronte's subordinates! What kind of monsters are these?! Before his frantic thoughts could fully form, Arthur slammed his head hard against the wall again, producing a dull, sickening thud that made the mustached man wince in agony, yet he dared not utter a single sound of protest.
"Mister, Mister~~~" His voice was a pathetic, trembling plea.
"Slap!" Arthur's hand cracked across his face. "Listen, fella. We are escorting four respected ladies on a shopping excursion. If those four respected ladies weren't present, you'd be a corpse right now! But, if you dare to provoke us again, I will kill you, and then, I will offer a sincere apology to those four ladies. I don't believe Bronte would dare to incur the wrath of their families for the sake of your pathetic life!"
"Oh~~ I~~ I'm wrong, Mister, we're wrong, Mister, please don't kill us, please don't kill us! We won't bother you again…" The mustached man's face was bleached white with terror, his body trembling, on the verge of losing control of his bladder. He had never heard of Dorothea, but he knew the powerful Wicklow Family, Dorothea typically gave speeches in the square near the rich district; these thugs operated only in the slums and civilian areas, so his ignorance was understandable.
Now, in a flash of bone-chilling clarity, he realized precisely whom they had provoked. If Mr. Bronte discovered they had dared to cross someone connected to the Wicklow Family, they would all undoubtedly find themselves sinking to the bottom of Mr. Bronte's villa fish pond by nightfall, becoming fish food.
"I accept your apology." Arthur patted his shoulder, a dismissive gesture, then called out to Charles and John. The trio turned, walking back towards Dutch and the others, leaving the terrified thugs to scramble. The mustached man and his men slunk away, vanishing into the labyrinthine alleys, not even daring to report this humiliating incident to Dutch and his crew. To do so would ensure their demise, plunging them into a watery grave ending up as gator chow.