That evening, news of the maritime incident quietly made its way up to the top levels of the FBI in both New York and Boston—only to mysteriously die down just as fast.
Boston had tried to play dirty, but New York slapped them hard across the face. At the core of it all was still Frank Costello—a double agent who had never truly considered the Boston FBI his own, only a convenient tool to expand his power.
If those military chips had actually ended up in the hands of the Chinese syndicate during the deal and the FBI had caught them red-handed, no one would've been able to save them.
Not long after the FBI ships docked in New York, Costello received a furious call.
"Costello! Who the hell did you sell those chips to?" the agent roared.
"Fuck you!" the voice continued. "If you'd actually handed those chips over, we could've wrapped this up tonight!"
Costello paused for a beat, then let out a slow chuckle. "Sounds like the scam's been exposed."
"Answer the question. Who did you sell them to?"
"Sorry," Costello replied lazily. "I'm a man of integrity. I don't betray my buyers."
"You bastard! Don't forget who's been protecting you in Boston. You think you'd be where you are without the FBI? How many enemies have we cleaned up for you? You want us to pull the plug? For this stunt, you deserve two life sentences!"
"Let's get one thing straight," Costello said calmly. "You're not helping me eliminate enemies—I'm helping you fight crime. You want to deal with those Italians in the North End? Without me, you'll never touch them."
Silence.
Then, an explosion of curses.
"Then give us their intel!"
"That's negotiable," Costello said with a yawn. "But can I at least get a decent night's sleep first?"
The argument dragged on—mostly the FBI venting while Costello stayed irritatingly flippant.
After hanging up, he turned around—and froze.
Standing behind him was a tall man holding a silenced pistol.
To be fair, Costello had just walked in, flipped on the lights, and nearly had a heart attack seeing him there.
He sighed. "You heard that, right? I didn't leak anything about your boss. So maybe take the gun off my forehead?"
Leon didn't react. He simply pulled out his phone, dialed a number, and handed it over.
"Answer."
Costello took it. Luca's calm voice came through.
"Good evening, Mr. Costello. Enjoy the surprise?"
"I get the feeling there's been a misunderstanding," Costello said evenly. "Our cooperation's been smooth so far. I can't imagine what would push you to have an assassin camp outside my house all night."
"You just called the FBI," Luca replied. "That's the problem. My partner's an FBI informant—I don't like that."
Costello frowned.
Before the FBI even called him, Leon had already been there. Which meant Luca already knew.
How?
Did Boston FBI leak it? That would be a disaster.
"But I never sold you out," Costello said quickly. "I barely have any information on you—we're not even in the same territory. We've met once."
"I don't trust you," Luca said flatly. "And I definitely don't trust the Boston FBI."
Inside the SSR Club, Luca sat in his office. Behind him, a whiteboard was covered in photos of Boston players, with a bold X drawn over Costello's face.
In Luca's eyes, Costello's usefulness had already peaked. The man had trained multiple undercover agents embedded in the Boston police and, through this deal, had successfully stirred suspicion within the department—setting the stage for internal chaos.
Mission complete.
Keeping him alive now would only complicate things—especially with the looming power struggle for control of South Boston.
Luca's plan had always been simple: tame the entire Irish underworld.
Costello was in the way.
As long as the boss lived, how could the gang be brought to heel? And without removing him, how could Luca seize control of the police-side assets?
Once Costello was gone, the leaderless Winter Hill Gang would tear itself apart. That would give Luca the perfect window to install his own puppet—both in the streets and inside the force.
But there was one thing he still needed.
The tapes.
Recordings of Costello's conversations with his undercover cops—the leverage that kept them in line.
Back on the phone, Luca laid it out.
When he mentioned the tapes and the undercover agents, Costello's composure shattered. His face went pale, eyes filled with raw fear.
"How…?" he whispered.
Knowing he was an informant was one thing. But knowing about the undercover cops—and the recordings?
That was impossible.
No one knew about those tapes.
No one.
A cold dread crept up his spine. He glanced around the room, half-expecting to find hidden cameras.
"Is this guy psychic…?" he muttered. "A prophet? A devil?"
"The undercover mole is Colin Sullivan," Luca said calmly, naming the second one as well.
One was sharp, already climbing the ranks. The other? Average at best.
Not everyone was cut out for greatness.
Costello's mind went blank.
This wasn't information—it was something else.
"You've got dirt on them," Luca continued. "If they disobey you, you burn them. Don't bother denying it—I know exactly how you think. The only reason you're still alive is because of those tapes. So let's not waste time."
His tone hardened.
"Where are they?"
A pause.
"You get one answer. If my man doesn't find them, you die. And your house goes up with you."
Costello exhaled slowly. The FBI had always been a double-edged sword—one that was now sliding toward his own throat.
Still… there were things he didn't understand.
"How did you know about the undercover?" he asked.
"I also know you've got a mole in your crew," Luca replied.
"…Yeah. After tonight, I figured."
"Want to know who?"
A beat.
"…Billy."
Costello blinked. "That kid? I trusted him."
Then it clicked.
Luca didn't just want the tapes—he wanted to use them.
"Colin Sullivan is my son," Costello snapped. "I raised him for twenty years. He calls me Dad! And now you think you can just walk in and take everything I built?"
Luca scoffed. "You're wasting my time."
"Luca! Kill me and you'll never get those tapes!"
"You think a safe only opens with a code?"
Costello's expression shifted.
He opened his mouth—
Click.
The call ended.
Leon glanced at the time, then raised the gun again.
"Wait—listen," Costello said quickly. "Whatever Luca's paying you, I'll double it."
A soft pfft.
A clean hole appeared in his forehead.
Costello slumped on the couch, dead.
The body was discovered the next morning by members of the Winter Hill Gang. Unable to reach their boss, they went to his house—only to find him dead, the safe gone.
The police investigation turned up nothing. Officially, it was a home invasion robbery. Unidentified assailant.
Case closed.
But the consequences?
Anything but.
With Costello gone, South Boston was thrown into chaos. The largest Irish gang was suddenly leaderless, and rival crews like the Killeens and Mullens began to stir.
At the same time, two men's fates shifted dramatically.
Billy… and Colin.
Outside Costello's house, the street was cordoned off. Gang members lingered as police wheeled out a body under a white sheet.
Billy stood in the crowd, stunned.
He's dead?
Does that mean… I'm done?
Undercover over?
Back to being a cop?
A grin crept onto his face. Hell yes.
He was already thinking about calling it in, getting reinstated.
Inside the cordon, Colin Sullivan stepped up to the stretcher and pulled back the sheet.
He looked at Costello—his "father."
His eyes trembled.
But not with grief.
With relief.
This was… perfect.
With Costello gone, there was no one left to pull his strings. No one who knew the truth.
From here on out, he was clean.
A rising star. A golden boy.
Promotions would come easy.
Why crawl through the mud with gangsters when you could sit at the top?
A seed buried deep in his heart finally broke through the surface.
"Dad," Colin murmured, lips curling slightly, "I'll find who did this."
"And your death… will be the step that gets me there."
Maybe I should celebrate tonight, he thought.
[Ding! You ordered Leon to eliminate a notorious crime boss and stabilized South Boston.]
[Gain Skill Points x10]
[Gain Skill Fragments x5]
Inside an oil refinery in upstate New York, a group of mob enforcers—disguised as workers—used industrial equipment to crack open a safe.
The outer shell melted away, revealing its contents: stacks of cash, gold bars, brown paper envelopes, and several audio tapes. There were even a few gold coins from the Continental Hotel.
Luca's attention went straight to the tapes.
He played one.
A conversation—Colin and Costello.
That was all he needed.
"Is this what passes for fatherly love?" Luca muttered. "Recording your son's conversations… worried he wouldn't hear them after you're gone?"
He let out a quiet chuckle, almost impressed.
"Well," he said, pocketing the tape, "guess it's my job now to keep the family tradition alive."
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