The body was dumped and sunk at sea; the rare card, Rensen, freshly pulled not long ago, now lay buried at the bottom of the Atlantic. Luca didn't even bother taking a closer look at the guy's two skills. Compared to that overpowered Equalizer, what was Rensen, really?
What Luca wanted most was obviously the "Justice and Redemption" buff. On the surface, it looked like a support skill for getting help, but from another angle, it was basically a cheat code for making friends. Stack enough Redemption, and even in unfamiliar territory, strangers would practically line up to lend you a hand.
First things first—learn the skills already unlocked.
"System, buy The Hidden One and Black Ops
[Fragments -110]
[New Skills Redeemed Succesfully: "The Hidden One" | "Black Ops"]
[Remaining Skill Fragments: 188]
Black Ops increases favorability with the CIA, while The Hidden One helps conceal identity in certain situations, letting you blend in as an ordinary civilian—pretty handy when dealing with strangers. Not flashy, but solid.
Next up was [Time Domain Domination], basically a countdown-style "bullet time" ability. The buffs were absurdly strong, but the restrictions were just as tight. Max duration: one minute. Usage: once per day. Still, the requirements were low—even close friends could learn it. One minute, used at the right moment, was more than enough.
Pulling himself back to reality, Luca watched as the last body was tossed into the sea. It was time to wrap things up—Russians, North Mafia, South Alliance. Everything that needed settling would be settled.
North Boston
The Anguilo family's headquarters was also a clubhouse, though what Gennaro Anguilo didn't know was that the FBI—working with Whitey—had already filled the place with bugs. Whitey played the role of internal traitor with impressive professionalism.
Gennaro sat quietly, waiting for news from Rensen. The Russians had moved against Luca, and he had secretly backed them—intel, weapons, the works. With that many elite assassins, surely Luca would go down.
At least, that was the hope.
Since his own family couldn't handle Luca, might as well borrow someone else's knife.
Then the phone rang.
"Is Luca dead?"
"No. The Russians are. Luca was ready—it was a trap."
Gennaro let out a quiet sigh.
It's over. The gasoline business… gone.
Who in Boston could still stop Luca now?
He immediately called a meeting with key family members to discuss next steps, completely unaware that invisible signals were already transmitting everything they said to the outside.
Over the next few days, the Alliance experienced minor turbulence. With Dickman and the Mullen gang backing him from the shadows, Billy absorbed the Frenchman's remaining power. Publicly, he supported Whitey, but behind the scenes, he consolidated control.
With Luca turning a blind eye, Billy successfully secured a seat in the Alliance. No one objected. In fact, most quietly approved.
On the surface, things had stabilized. Whitey became chairman, controlling South Boston with support from Billy, the Mullen gang leader, and various bosses. Everyone was satisfied, waiting for the elections.
Meanwhile, Whitey had already begun enjoying his power.
He didn't dare touch Luca's gasoline business, so he pivoted to something just as profitable—drugs.
Mid-March — Boston Police Department
Colin sat in on the task force meeting, listening as Dickman outlined upcoming operations. Photos of Alliance leaders flashed across the screen.
Billy's face appeared.
"This is Billy," Dickman said, pointing. "Rising figure in the Winter Hill gang. Formerly close to the Frenchman. Took over after his disappearance and now holds a seat in the Alliance."
Colin noted how young Billy looked—like a college kid dropped into a room full of aging warlords.
Next came Whitey's photo.
"The Frenchman's disappearance? Whitey handled it. He's now the dominant force in the Alliance. Our primary target moving forward."
Someone asked, "So… the Frenchman is dead?"
"My undercover says yes," Dickman replied, face sour. "The 'missing' part just means no one filed a report."
"Your undercover's close to Whitey?"
"In your mother's room," Dickman snapped. "Don't ask about the undercover. Just do your jobs."
Silence fell instantly.
After the meeting, Dickman stopped Colin.
"Any progress on the mole?"
Colin blinked. "Aren't you handling that?"
"I mean the one inside the police!" Dickman snapped. "Costello's dead, but that rat's still out there!"
"Oh. That one." Colin shrugged lightly. "With Costello gone, leads dried up. Now the Frenchman's dead too—what do you expect me to chase?"
"Use your brain! That guy didn't suddenly turn into a saint. He's still in contact with the gangs. Find that connection!"
Colin nodded. "Got it."
Dickman continued coldly, "Whitey's at the peak right now, running most of the drug trade. Keep eyes on their next deal. Don't let that mole interfere."
Colin agreed, though inwardly he thought: Luca doesn't touch drugs. Do I pass this along?
Yeah… better let Dove decide.
Half an hour later, while Colin was buried in paperwork, a call came in.
Shooting in South Boston. Victim riddled with bullets.
Colin froze.
These gangsters…
He quickly called Luca.
After a pause, Luca said, "Whitey did it."
At the scene, Colin stared at the corpse inside the car, expression complicated.
Just hours ago, this man had been alive in a meeting room, ranting about taking down Whitey.
Now he was dead.
The victim: Dickman.
Colin recalled what Dove of Peace had said:
"The Frenchman and Dickman were working together. Whitey killed the Frenchman—he won't spare Dickman. And Dickman? He could flip one man in the Alliance, he could flip others too. Before the council convenes, Whitey will clear every obstacle."
Colin hadn't even known Dickman flipped the Frenchman.
Watching the coroner take the body away, Colin collected the evidence—wallet, keys, phone, badge.
Through the plastic bag, he tapped open the phone's contacts.
Was there another mole?
The Frenchman was dead, but Dickman had still been receiving intel. That meant more informants.
Who?
And now that Dickman was gone… who would they contact?
Colin carefully sealed the evidence.
I need to find that mole. Take over Dickman's network. Turn them into my asset.
When Billy got the news, he was sitting with a psychiatrist.
"You seem better," the doctor said gently. "Anything happen recently?"
Billy shook his head. "Nothing good. I was forced into things I can't undo."
"My life used to feel like driving a car. The road ahead was awful, so I kept wanting to turn around. But someone wouldn't let me. They forced me forward."
"And now?"
"Now I can't turn. The brakes are gone." His voice was flat. "The only way this ends is crashing into a wall."
The doctor tried to reassure him, but Billy wasn't listening.
"Just give me the meds. I have to go."
Then his phone buzzed.
Dickman was dead.
That foul-mouthed bastard who used "fuck" as punctuation… gone.
Billy stood up immediately.
With Dickman dead, only one person still knew he was a cop—a high-ranking detective.
"The road didn't get smoother," Billy muttered. "It turned downhill."
That night, the call came.
The detective instructed him to continue cooperating, to help arrest Whitey during the next drug deal.
Billy agreed calmly, even providing details.
—A shipment from Ireland.
—South Wharf.
After hanging up, Billy turned and looked at the villa behind him.
He had just come from Dove of Peace's room.
Back then, after killing the Frenchman, he had begged for help.
He had nowhere else to go.
The law couldn't protect him. The police couldn't protect him. To survive, he had to kill.
One wrong step… and everything spiraled.
Justice or survival?
At this point, Billy couldn't tell the difference anymore.
Everything—becoming undercover, the killings, the lies—none of it had been his choice.
He had tried to turn back.
Again and again.
But someone kept pushing him forward, straight into the abyss.
Now they still wanted him to testify. To expose everything.
Wait until there's no way back, then swap your badge for a gun?
And that gun…
Dove gave it to him.
He said he'd help.
Including now.
Billy got into his car, searched under the seat, found the police badge, and gripped it tightly.
Then he tossed it into a roadside trash can.
Engine started.
Phone out.
He called a few loyal men.
"Next targets: a Boston PD detective… and the Mullen gang leader. Move fast."
Only by becoming a demon… can you prove you were ever human.
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