The following afternoon, Jimmy Hoffa's funeral unfolded with the kind of grim pageantry Detroit hadn't witnessed in decades. It was a collision of two worlds—one legitimate, one not so much legitimate.
Frank Fitzsimmons was there, naturally, along with union presidents from every branch of the country, flanked by thousands of grieving drivers and loyal loyalists. A river of black Lincoln Town Cars clogged the streets, the funeral procession feeling less like a burial and more like a state event, as citizens lined the sidewalks to bid farewell to the man who, for better or worse, had built their world.
Luca sat in the back of one of those Lincolns, though his thoughts were miles away. He was on the phone with Denham, absorbing the latest intelligence coming out of Boston.
The situation there was a powder keg wrapped in irony.
The feud between the two principal players had officially begun: one was a cop buried deep inside the Mob, the other a mobster buried deep inside the police force. Both men were dancing on the edge of an open grave, yet neither realized there was a third player lurking in the shadows.
The FBI had already flipped a high-ranking member of the gang—the very same man who had led them in the original timeline.
This guy was practically a carbon copy of Gregory "The Grim Reaper" Scarpa: a professional double agent, whispering in the Bureau's ear while using federal protection to dismantle his rivals, move narcotics, and consolidate his own empire.
Boston's spy game was crude, violent, and stripped of the almost poetic finesse found in the Hong Kong version, but the web of betrayal was twice as tangled.
To Luca, it looked less like chaos and more like opportunity.
Boston was the next logical expansion point for the gasoline empire.
While the local factions tore each other apart, he could move in, prune the disobedient branches, and turn the survivors into loyal vassals.
Detroit had been the blueprint.
Boston would be the execution.
Once the dust settled, he would need to go there in person, most likely bringing Leon with him. With the Russian presence in South Boston, a familiar face with a cold barrel would go a long way.
"Our New York office can't touch the Bureau in Boston," Denham's voice crackled through the receiver. "But Dove, are you sure the FBI has moles in the mix? How the hell do they have people everywhere?"
Denham was clearly rattled.
For a man in his position, the thought of invisible enemies was a nightmare.
He was even beginning to wonder whether he should start planting his own undercovers in New York—perhaps inside the Tarasov crew in Little Russia or the Tongs in Chinatown.
"I've got sources inside the family," Luca lied smoothly, unable to reveal the truth behind his knowledge. "It's not verified, but it's worth looking into."
"I can't speak for Boston," Denham replied, "but tread carefully. New York is crawling with them. They've been buried deep for a long time, Luca. They're already inside your Mafia."
Luca smiled faintly.
'You mean the little blonde Brian O'Connor?' he murmured and said calmly. "Don't worry. I've got it handled."
Then he shifted the subject.
"What about the Chinese crews in Boston?"
He still remembered the original script clearly.
In The Departed, the Tongs had played a critical role in the failed microchip deal.
(TN: In The Departed, there's no name for the chinese triad, so i use the most known chinese 'secret' organization, The Tongs)
"Not much on Boston yet," Denham admitted. "But since you brought it up, what's your read on Manhattan's Chinatown? There's a crew there getting loud—blatant drug movement. David, McClane, and I are digging into them."
David, Denham, and McClane were the department's bloodhounds when it came to narcotics.
Since Luca—the Dove of Peace—never touched the white powder, he was always happy to trade intel on non-Mafia gangs.
It was the perfect arrangement.
The cops got promotions.
Luca got his competition cleared out for free.
But Chinatown was different.
That was Ma Hon Keung's world and Uncle Bill knew it better than anyone.
The Chinatown were insular, suspicious, and culturally fortified.
Even the Five Families usually kept their distance.
For decades, the Tongs—the Hip Sing and the On Leong—had fought wars of attrition until they slowly faded.
(TN: So the Tongs is divided into 2 major faction, Hip Sing and On Leong)
Now, a new wave of immigrants had brought a new wave of violence.
Gangs like the Flying Dragons and the Ghost Shadows were turning the streets into something that felt less like New York and more like a modern martial arts blood opera.
Luca had little interest in the territory itself.
Unless Keung suddenly developed ambitions of becoming a boss—which is very unlikely, considering the man seemed perfectly content running his store—there was little point in pushing.
"I'll ask around," Luca said. "Which crew is moving the weight?"
"We don't have the gang's name yet," Denham replied. "Only the boss. They call him Mr. Wei."
Luca's expression turned cold.
Mr. Wei.
He had just found a very rare card for his deck.
If memory served him right, Mr. Wei would soon have a legendary enforcer by his side—a man smuggled in from Shanghai with a square jaw, slicked-back hair, and a pair of Berettas that functioned like extensions of his own body.
A man who embodied the aura of heroic bloodshed itself.
It seemed the slick-backed enforcer had not yet arrived in America, still somewhere across the ocean, chasing the American Dream on a slow boat.
But the pieces were already moving.
There was a reason the Triads held a seat at the High Table.
From Sun Yee On in Hong Kong to Ping On in Boston and Tung On in New York, their reach was global.
"Smuggling, Boston and the New York drug trade," Luca murmured after hanging up. "All dope leads to the Tongs."
The cemetery was a sea of black wool and somber faces.
The air itself felt heavy enough to choke on.
Frank Sheeran stood like a statue, staring at the massive grave that was about to swallow a piece of history.
For a man carrying the kind of trauma Frank had earned in the War, his face had long since become a mask of stone.
(TN: Frank Sheeran indeed a war veteran, he's a World War II Vet)
He had seen a thousand deaths.
But this one felt different.
This one felt like losing a limb.
His daughter, Peggy, refused to stand near him.
Even with the newspapers blaming a Black hitman, she could still smell the truth on her father.
Instead, she stayed close to Luca Greco.
She tugged at Luca's sleeve, her voice trembling.
"Brother Luca, I don't understand. Why would they kill him? He was such a good man."
To Peggy, Hoffa wasn't some union tyrant.
He was the man who bought her dresses and toys.
The man who treated her with a tenderness her own father never seemed able to express.
While other children wrote school essays about their parents, Peggy had written hers about Uncle Jimmy.
Luca looked down at her.
He knew perfectly well it had not been a Black hitman who killed Hoffa.
It was the system.
It was the Mob.
It was order.
"Because he stood too high, Peggy," Luca said softly. "He stood so tall that every enemy he had could see him from a mile away. And when people looked up at your Uncle Jimmy, they felt small. That made them afraid. But he never bent his back. Not even when asking for favors. He never lowered himself to meet them on their level."
Peggy did not fully understand the politics, but she understood the respect in Luca's voice.
"Go to your father," Luca said gently. "He's hurting more than anyone here."
She looked toward Frank.
His face was frighteningly stern.
"I don't want to. He's… he's acting strange."
"Hoffa's death had nothing to do with him," Luca lied smoothly, his voice steady as a surgeon's hand. "I know you want to blame him, but it isn't true."
In the original timeline, Frank's guilt had become a wall that lasted the rest of their lives.
Luca had no intention of allowing that to happen.
"If he's innocent, why won't he look me in the eye?" Peggy snapped, her perception razor-sharp. "Why hasn't he called the family? Innocent people don't act guilty."
"You've got your father's eyes," Luca replied. "You notice details. But you're missing the context. He can't look at you because he's terrified. He watched the world devour his best friend, and now he realizes he couldn't stop it. He's afraid the same thing could happen to you. He doesn't know how to protect you from a world that kills men like Jimmy Hoffa."
For the next several minutes, Luca quietly mediated the silent war between father and daughter.
He explained Frank's rough edges, his wartime silence, and the shame he carried—not for killing Hoffa, but for being powerless to save him.
"His silence isn't a confession, Peggy. It's a shield. He thinks anything he says will sound like a lie because he knows how much you loved Jimmy."
Her agitation slowly melted into a numb, confused calm.
She was nearly eighteen.
She knew her father was a violent man.
But she desperately wanted to believe he had not crossed this line.
"Give him a chance," Luca whispered. "Don't let a misunderstanding become a lifetime of regret. Do it for Hoffa. He would never want his death to be the thing that destroys your family."
Peggy rubbed her eyes.
"Is it really… unrelated?"
"It has nothing to do with him," Luca said with a small nod.
Technically true, he thought.
Watching someone die wasn't the same as pulling the trigger.
Peggy took a shaky breath and slowly walked toward Frank.
Luca couldn't hear every word, but he caught the broken weight of the moment.
"Peggy… I love you… and I loved Jimmy."
Then she threw herself into Frank's arms, sobbing.
The old soldier's eyes reddened as he held her tightly, his gaze meeting Luca's over her shoulder.
[Ding! You have successfully mediated the conflict between Frank "The Irishman" Sheeran and his daughter, preserving peace within the inner circle.]
[Skill Points: +5]
[Skill Fragments: +2]
[Character Card: Frank "The Irishman" Sheeran]
[Rank: SR]
[Source: The Irishman]
[Skills:
[Skill: The Painter]
Effect: Execution success rate against high-profile targets increased by +25%. When performing a 'hit' in an enclosed space (houses, offices), the probability of leaving forensic evidence or witnesses is reduced by -50%.
Status:[UNLOCKED]
[Skill: Guild Leader]
Effect: Authority within Union-related factions increased by +40%. Grants the ability to trigger a "Work Stoppage" event, paralyzing local logistics or construction for 48 hours without federal interference.
Status:[UNLOCKED]
[Skill: Irishman]
Effect: Survival rate in "Betrayal Scenarios" increased by +30%. Provides a passive "Dead Man's Silence" buff: if caught by authorities, the pressure to confess is reduced, and the legal duration of investigations against you is shortened by 20%.
Status:[UNLOCKED] ]
[Bond: Close Friend]
(TN: What u think about Status: Unlocked? if y'll like it, i would use it in the future)
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Luca closed the panel as the final shovelful of dirt struck the casket.
One by one, people stepped forward to lay flowers.
Frank placed a rusted, blood-stained union badge atop the mound—a relic from the scene of the crime.
Corrosion, Luca realized, was the only true patina of power.
Jimmy Hoffa was gone.
He had fed the wolves to protect his flock, only to realize too late that wolves were never truly full.
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