Night fell over Boston as Billy drove home, having just finished meeting with Dickman and receiving photos of the Frenchman meeting with the police to exchange money. Dickman's plan was simple and filthy—hand the photos to other alliance leaders, like Whitey, spark internal conflict, and let the alliance eliminate the Frenchman themselves.
What a disgusting plan. Billy had never imagined the police would sink this low, openly lighting the fuse on a gang war. The alliance had finally found a fragile peace, and now it was about to spiral back into chaos.
Billy confronted Dickman on the spot. "Are you fucking insane? I'll get dragged into this too! I'm one of the Frenchman's guys—do you think they'll just let me walk?"
"That's exactly why I'm sending you with the photos—to surrender!" Dickman snapped, eyes blazing. "I'm saving you. Take the photos, betray the Frenchman, cut ties, and Whitey won't touch you."
Billy stared at him, the look in his eyes unfamiliar even to himself. "You want me to betray him?"
"Not willing?" Dickman sneered. "Then figure out who you are. Figure out who your boss is. Figure out what uniform you're wearing."
You're a cop.
You've been in the mob so long you've started catching feelings? Because he knew your father? Your uncle? Because he looked out for you? None of that changes what he is. You know better than anyone how many people he's killed. Taking him out is doing the world a favor.
Billy's vision blurred. His head spun.
He grabbed Dickman by the collar, eyes bloodshot. "You've got evidence? Then arrest him! Let the law handle it! Lock him up! Why let the mob do the job? You know what Whitey will do—he'll kill him!"
Massachusetts didn't have the death penalty. Life in prison was the worst outcome, and to Billy, that was enough. It should have been enough.
"He doesn't have to die!" Billy roared. "Your job is to put him behind bars, not feed him to wolves! You're a cop—how the hell do you justify this?"
Dickman just looked at him, cold and unmoved.
Back when Billy was recruited, he wasn't like this. Calm. Sharp. Observant. The kind of guy who noticed your socks didn't match and filed it away. Solid nerves. Good instincts. Perfect for undercover work.
And now? Now he looked more like a gangster than half the gang.
Dickman brushed his hand away. "Billy, I said I'm saving you. If you don't take the photos, I'll find another way to get them out. Either way, Whitey won't spare you—you're the Frenchman's right hand."
There's only one road left. Follow orders. Betray him. Send him to hell.
Billy felt like he was going insane. "Why? Why are you forcing me into this? You're making me kill him!"
Even if he didn't pull the trigger himself, delivering those photos made him the executioner.
Do it, and you're complicit.
Don't do it, and you're dead.
Why?
His mind sank into darkness, no light anywhere. Clinging to the last shred of hope, he whispered, "Restore my file. I'm done. I want out."
Dickman patted his shoulder. "Hang in there. Election's almost here. You've made it this far—what's another month?"
Billy lowered his head, the future ahead of him dissolving into something shapeless and gray.
By the time he came back to himself, the car was already parked outside his house. He didn't get out. Just leaned back, lit a cigarette, closed his eyes, and breathed in the smoke slowly, savoring the quiet like it might be his last.
After a while, he reached forward, opened the glove compartment, and pulled out his police badge from a hidden compartment. His fingers traced its edge—and for the first time, it felt sharp.
Sharper than a knife.
It cut deep.
Headlights suddenly flared ahead. Billy instinctively shoved the badge under his seat. Before he could react, several gangsters rushed his car, smashed the window, dragged him out, guns already trained on him.
He froze.
Why so fast?
Why kill me before I even hand over the photos?
Instinct kicked in. He fumbled out the photos. "Don't shoot! I've got something—something important!"
The gun didn't fire.
After checking the photos, one of them called Whitey. Whatever was said, Billy wasn't killed. Instead, they shoved him into another car and drove straight to the Boston docks, where they boarded a cargo ship.
That's where he saw the Frenchman.
Bound. Bloodied. Still breathing—but barely. Around him were his closest men, beaten to the brink of death. Whitey stood there, along with the leader of the Mullen gang and several other alliance bosses.
Dozens of gangsters surrounded them. The air felt suffocating.
Whitey gestured. Billy was dragged forward.
A gun was pressed against the back of one of the Frenchman's men. The guy tried to beg through the gag stuffed in his mouth—only muffled sounds came out.
Billy stepped closer, barely recognizing the man. A few days ago, they'd delivered gasoline together. Now he was just a bloody wreck.
A flicker of hesitation crossed Billy's face.
"Stand here," Whitey said casually.
Billy took one step.
Bang.
Something warm splashed across his face.
He turned stiffly. The man was on the ground, a hole blown through the back of his head.
Whitey fired a few more shots into the corpse for good measure.
"Colluding with cops behind the alliance's back?"
"Paying them off?"
"Betraying me?"
His voice was ice-cold as he looked around. "Break the rules, and this is what you get."
No one spoke.
Whitey turned, handed Billy the still-warm gun. "There's only one way to prove loyalty—tear apart your own. Billy, you know what to do. Don't disappoint them."
Billy's hands trembled. The gun felt impossibly heavy.
Too fast. Everything was happening too fast.
Had they already figured everything out?
Beside him, Whitey glanced at the photos his men had gathered—clearer than the ones Billy had brought. Better angles too. Prepared in advance.
Seeing Billy hesitate, Whitey smirked. "Weren't you eager to report your boss? You even brought photos. What, got cold feet now?"
The Frenchman, kneeling on the ground, suddenly lifted his head. His eyes locked onto Billy—shock, disbelief, pain, anger—all tangled together.
Like a father realizing his son wasn't his anymore.
Whitey grabbed another gun.
Bang.
Another man dropped.
"You were there when we set the rules," Whitey continued calmly. "You heard what happens to traitors, right?"
Bang.
Another body hit the ground.
"We're one unit now. Everything for the alliance. I'm glad some of you understand that."
Bang.
Only the Frenchman remained.
Whitey stepped behind him, yanked his head back, pulled the gag free.
The Frenchman coughed, blood on his lips, eyes never leaving Billy. He didn't ask the questions he wanted to ask. He already knew.
There was no other explanation.
A bitter laugh escaped him. He spat blood.
"Out of everyone in Winter Hill… you were the one I trusted most, Billy. I introduced you to Costello myself. I treated you like family."
For a moment, he almost said it—almost exposed Billy as the undercover cop.
But he stopped.
If he spoke, Billy would die here.
And it wouldn't save him anyway.
His fate was sealed. But Billy still had a chance.
Or at least… a possibility.
Bang.
A hole appeared in his forehead.
Billy had pulled the trigger.
In his final moment, the Frenchman saw it—the flicker of pain in Billy's eyes, his body swaying like something barely holding together.
Then he collapsed.
Whitey looked down at the body, wiped his hands with a towel, and walked off. As he passed Billy, he patted his shoulder. "Good job."
He handed the photo back. "Keep it. Might be the last picture of him alive."
One by one, they left.
Billy stood there, numb, watching as bodies were tied with stones and dumped into the sea. The ocean swallowed them whole. No bodies. No evidence. Nothing.
At the bow, Billy watched the water ripple, the last traces disappearing beneath the surface.
He tore the photo in his hand. The pieces scattered in the wind, drifting down onto the waves.
For some reason… his head didn't hurt anymore.
[Ding! Through your indirect influence and actions, nine notorious Winter Hill gang members have died. You upheld the peace of Boston.]
[Gain Skill Points x20]
[Gain Skill Fragments x10]
At the docks, Luca stood watching the cargo ships as Whitey recounted everything over the phone. When he heard Billy had produced photos as well, he understood immediately.
The police wanted the gangs to clean house for them.
The Frenchman was out.
Whitey was out.
That left very few players capable of moving information like this.
Now that the Frenchman was dead, Whitey stood alone at the top. No rivals left. So who would the police back next?
Luca had his answer.
"I see."
He paused, then added, "Send Billy to me later."
After hanging up, Luca turned and walked away.
Billy—the young cop—had finally crossed the line.
Killing a cop takes a second.
Burying one takes a lifetime.
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