Re: Blood and Iron

It was not long after Eva’s wedding that Bruno found himself face to face with the President of the United States. Hughes, once confident in his position, now faced a serious primary challenger gaining traction across the country.

The president was, naturally, upset. After all, he’d only won the 1920 election with Bruno’s help. Now, as he called on the man once again, things had backfired in ways he hadn’t expected.

So, for the third time, Bruno crossed the Atlantic. He stepped into the Oval Office, inspecting its polish with an intense, clinical gaze.

“Nothing really changes around here, does it?” he said, breaking the silence. “You’re seeking re-election for a third term—breaking tradition—and yet your office looks exactly the same as my last visit.”

“Have you considered adding some new décor? Maybe a trinket from your most recent diplomatic visit to a neighboring country? If you desire I could even fetch you a machine gun to mount on your wall. Just a thought….”

If the president’s expression was anything to go by, he was not the least bit amused by Bruno’s attempt at small talk; and his words echoed that sentiment perfectly.

“That’s not why I invited you across the Atlantic. Can we please focus on the task at hand?”

Bruno said nothing, at first. His face was still and cold. When he finally spoke, his words broke the silence like a firecracker.

“I hate to break it to you, but the Democrats are probably going to win this time, even if you hold on to your incumbency.”

President Hughes slammed his hands on the desk and jabbed a finger in Bruno’s face. A particularly outrageous gesture.

“You promised me you’d solve this problem. But you’ve only made it worse! Those German gangsters you armed have firepower on par with the military! The bloodshed is out of control! And now you’re telling me my opposition is guaranteed to win? You failed to hold up your end of the bargain!”

Bruno didn’t rise to meet Hughes where he stood. Instead, he gave the man a cold, unreadable glare and gestured toward the chair the president had just sprung out of.

“President Hughes… take a seat.”

Hughes hesitated; just long enough to realize it wasn’t a suggestion. Bruno didn’t need to raise his voice. His tone carried the weight of a firing squad.

Grudgingly, the president sat.

Bruno pulled a flask from his coat, took a measured sip, then stashed it away before continuing.

“You asked me to solve your organized crime problem, and I delivered. You never specified that I do it in a way that helped your approval ratings. You implied it, sure—but it wasn’t in the fine print. That’s on you, not me.”

Hughes clenched his fists. His face flushed, ready to rise again.

But Bruno’s gaze stopped him cold.

It wasn’t the look of a politician. It was the glare of a man who’d ordered others to die, and watched them obey.

“As for the Democrats winning… well… I’m afraid that’s just the nature of democracy.”

Bruno leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking beneath him. He gestured vaguely toward the American flag behind Hughes.

“I believe I’ve made my opinions on the common man quite clear. Now, perhaps, you’re beginning to understand. Most people have short attention spans. They care more about whatever drama the media conjures than they do about truth or stability.”

Hughes muttered, “You sound like you hate them.”

Bruno didn’t smile. “On the contrary; I don’t hate the common man. In fact, I have a great deal of respect for him. I simply don’t trust his judgment when it comes to governing a state, or ensuring its long-term survival.”

He stood and slowly approached the window. Rain tapped gently against the glass. He didn’t look back.

“Your people have rested on the laurels of neutrality for over two decades. You’ve prospered, with a few minor setbacks, while we in Europe bled for what we earned.”

Bruno paused for a moment, before looking back at Hughes. When he spoke again, the words hit just as hard.

“I’m not judging you for staying out of foreign wars. If I were in your shoes, or those of your predecessors, I’d likely have done the same. And if I’m being honest, I may have had a hand in influencing that outcome.”

Hughes said nothing. But his eyes gave him away. He had suspected this truth for some time. Still, he knew Bruno had a greater point to make—and waited.

“And what did your people do with that security and prosperity? They conjured an imaginary crisis; Prohibition. In fighting a phantom threat, they created a very real one.”

“Now that chaos needs solving. And even though it is being solved, it doesn’t matter. The public doesn’t care. The damage is already done, to you, and to your party.”

“The Democrats will win—not because they’re competent, but because they aren’t you. In a two-party system, opposition is all that matters.”

Bruno turned back at last.

“And in a system like that, where representatives are chosen through universal suffrage—everyone loses equally.”

Hughes sat in silence.

The room felt colder. Smaller.

And for the first time in months, the President of the United States had nothing to say.

Bruno didn’t allow the room to fester in silence. He stood up and began to head for the door. In doing so, he caught his host’s attention.

Hughes finally found his voice. “And where, pray tell, do you think you’re off to?”

Contrary to what President Hughes was expecting, Bruno turned to look at him just before leaving the Oval Office—an almost friendly look on his face, and a matching tone, as he said the words the man had never thought he would hear again.

“Well, Mr. President… if you must know, I’m going to go fulfill my promise—and solve this little gangster problem of yours, once and for all.”

He paused at the door. Just long enough for the room to feel too quiet again.

“Oh, and… just as a reminder; my diplomatic immunity is still intact until I leave these shores.”

And then Bruno left, leaving President Hughes to laugh, as he cracked open a bottle of his finest Kentucky bourbon and drank straight from its lip.

—

Bruno’s car rolled up in front of a discreet building operating as a cat house. He’d flown from D.C. to New York, now dressed in a charcoal-gray trench coat over a midnight blue three-piece suit. A matching fedora sat atop his head.

He and his bodyguards approached the entrance. A thick-chested bouncer moved to block him, shoving a hand against Bruno’s chest.

“Beat it, old man. This party’s invitation-only, you understand?”

Bruno’s bodyguards who accompanied him at all times moved subtly, reaching into their coats for the weapons that lie beneath. But Bruno waved them down with a flick of his fingers.

“This is all a simple misunderstanding. I want to speak to your boss. Mr. Fritz, right? I’m a friend of his—from back in Berlin. Tell him a ring-brother has come to pay his respects.”

He removed one black leather glove and showed the signet ring. The symbol of “their old brotherhood.”

The bouncer’s expression changed instantly; eyes wide with disbelief.

“Sir… you should’ve told us you were coming. Please! Right this way. You and your brothers are most welcome here.”

Inside, Bruno was led through the smoky, perfumed haze of the bordello. Working girls flocked toward the newcomers, their intent obvious.

One purred up to Bruno. “Mmm, I’ve never seen men like you here before. I know you boys aren’t from around here, few men as handsome as you walk into my arms darling. How would you like to go upstairs and get a room together, just you and I? or perhaps your friends can join us for a discount”

Bruno brushed her aside with a look of total disdain. He cared little for vice, especially in its most sinful forms. Prostitution was a disgusting profession to him, and he had no time nor care to dignify such a proposition with a response.

The woman may have recoiled in her own sense of dismay as Bruno forced his way past her, but Bruno’s attention was centered to the back of the room.

Where a group of men sat drinking whiskey, smoking cigars, and watching a strip show. Their suits were fine, but their German was broken—low-class and poorly spoken.

When they saw the three strangers enter, they scowled and began to rise. But the bouncer intervened.

“Mr. Fritz… Pardon the intrusion, but these men say they’re ring-brothers from the Fatherland. They’ve come a long way to see you.”

Bruno’s face remained unchanged. But his icy blue eyes and the subtle fencing scar on his cheek said everything.

He might not have worn a uniform—but Mr. Fritz recognized him.

The cigar fell from his mouth. The cards from his hands.

“Boys… leave us alone for a minute.”

His men hesitated.

“Now. God damn it!”

The thugs grumbled but obeyed, pulling the girls away and leaving the lounge empty save for the two men and Bruno’s guards.

Bruno sat down, taking his fedora off his head, and placing it on the poker table, before he crushed the burning cigar in the ashtray, and looked Fritz in the eyes.

“Mr. Fritz, is it? I don’t believe we’ve spoken directly before. But you know who I am… yes?”

The silence said everything.

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