Nicknames in the underworld are brutally honest—most of them stick because they describe exactly what a person is. Fat Tony is actually fat, Dove Luca really does know how to raise doves and maintain peace, and Whitey Bulger… well, the man's got a full head of gray hair, no false advertising there.
At the cemetery entrance, Whitey and his crew stood behind the boss of the Killen Gang, watching him chat with a young man known as Luca the Dove.
Whitey had done time. After getting out a few years ago, he came straight back to Boston and slipped right into his old life, rejoining the Irish mob. With ruthless efficiency, he clawed his way up and eventually become underboss at the Killen Gang. In the recent chaos in the South District, he'd been performing exceptionally well—good enough that even the higher-ups had started paying attention.
Still, Whitey could tell something was off. The Killen Gang wasn't strong enough to go toe-to-toe with the Winter Hill Gang. Even after losing a boss and descending into internal chaos, the Winter Hill Gang could still fight two enemies at once. Once they stabilized and chose a new leader, payback would come fast and hard. Both the Killen Gang and the Mullin Gang would be on the receiving end.
If the South District could only have one Irish gang…
Whitey's gaze drifted past the crowd and landed on the Winter Hill Gang members gathered around a tombstone not far away.
"Whitey!" the boss called, waving him over before introducing him to Luca. "This is Luca—the Dove of the Lucchese family in New York."
Whitey stepped forward. His eyes were sunken, dark circles hanging beneath them, his pale face almost ghostlike, like he'd powdered it for effect. Even when he smiled, there was something off about it—like a vampire trying to pass as human.
He extended his hand. "Hello, Dove."
By now, Luca had already dialed down his earlier hostility. He returned the handshake with a friendly smile. "Not many people in Boston catch my attention, but I've heard of you. When my business expands into the South District, maybe we'll have a chance to work together."
The "goodwill" came out of nowhere, and Whitey didn't buy it for a second. He nodded politely, then stepped back to his boss's side without pushing the conversation further.
The exchange was brief. Luca soon left.
The boss, however, looked downright thrilled. "Luca the Dove's coming into the South District. This could be our shot. If we can work with him, the Killen Gang could become the biggest crew in the South."
Whitey frowned slightly. "He's Italian. Why would he work with us? Why not go to the North District?"
"The Anguilo faction?" the boss scoffed. "Bunch of old bastards. They don't like working with outsiders, especially not other Mafia families."
He puffed up with confidence. "If Dove wants Boston, the South Side is his best entry point."
Then came a flood of rumors—New York's youngest rising capo, union branch president, butcher, killer—stories piled on top of stories until Whitey had a rough picture of Luca in his head: young, dangerous, and very much not to be underestimated.
As Luca walked away, Whitey glanced back at him, thoughtful.
[Bond: Attention]
A panel flickered across Luca's vision. He smiled faintly.
This white-haired guy was the true protagonist of the original storyline, just like the Irish Painter—both men spanning decades of underworld history. If Boston's gang history had a spine, Whitey was part of it.
With Whitey included, Luca now had a near-complete mental map of Boston's power structure.
The North District Mafia and the three major Irish gangs in the South District controlled most of the territory. The Russians, meanwhile, stayed focused on business—oil, weapons, trafficking—rarely getting involved in turf wars. They operated upstream, not in the trenches.
Then there were smaller forces like the Chinatown Triads, tucked into their corners much like in New York.
And finally, the authorities—the police and the FBI.
Those two were… interesting.
The police focused on cracking down on Irish gangs, especially the Winter Hill Gang, while the FBI had their hands in both North and South but leaned heavily toward targeting the Northern Mafia.
In the original storyline, after Whitey rose to power in the South District, he turned around and cooperated with the FBI, helping send the Angelo family to prison in the face of Northern Mafia pressure.
So the pattern was clear: Whitey and the FBI were in bed together, while the Mafia had their own connections inside the police.
Right now, though, that storyline hadn't started yet. Whitey was still with the Killen Gang, not yet the boss of the Winter Hill Gang.
As for how he switched sides later… the original story never explained it outright. But Luca could guess—three gangs fought, bled, and eventually merged, leaving only the strongest standing: the Winter Hill Gang.
That was exactly the outcome Luca intended to accelerate.
The South District was a mess—constant violence, endless bloodshed. You couldn't run a proper business in that kind of chaos. Unification wasn't just preferable—it was necessary.
Not just for Luca, but for the authorities too. Even they needed stability right now.
Killing Costello had been the spark. A bigger war meant faster consolidation.
Everything was still moving according to plan.
The Russians had their own problem—The Equalizer.
The Anguilo family had theirs—The Whitey Bulger.
Luca let out a quiet, cold laugh. Even if he did nothing, those two factions would tear each other apart sooner or later… assuming nothing unpredictable happened.
Using others to do the dirty work—that was Luca's specialty.
So naturally, he needed to build relationships with both sides.
—The ultimate weapon of those seeking justice.
—The powerful umbrella shielding the white-haired man.
In some ways, Whitey's influence in the legitimate world might even surpass Luca's—after all, the man had a brother who was a Massachusetts senator, and one day that brother would climb even higher.
That kind of protection? Hard to beat.
"Why don't I have a brother like that?" Luca muttered with a faint grin.
Right now, Whitey hadn't fully risen yet. No FBI alliance, no peak influence. His brother was still just a senator, not yet a major political figure.
Which meant one thing.
Luca could get in early.
An angel investor, of sorts.
Luca's car pulled away from the cemetery.
Not far off, several parked vehicles sat quietly along the roadside. Inside them, Dickman, Colin, and a group of Boston police officers watched through binoculars and cameras, documenting this rare gathering of major underworld figures.
Both Dickman and Colin belonged to the Special Investigations Unit—originally formed to dismantle Costello's Winter Hill Gang. Now that Costello was dead, their focus had shifted to the three Irish gangs in the South.
"Was that Luca the Dove just now?" one officer asked.
Colin nodded. "Yeah. Didn't expect him to come all the way from New York for Costello's funeral."
Dickman's mind drifted back to earlier intel—Luca and Costello had met, even dined together. What exactly was their relationship?
A bad feeling settled in his gut.
If Luca got involved in the South District, the pressure on the police would skyrocket. The three Irish gangs combined still didn't measure up to the Lucchese family—and Luca was one of its most influential figures.
Someone like that causing trouble?
"Shit…" Dickman muttered, rubbing his temples.
He couldn't call Billy back—not now. The kid had been begging to return to normal police work after Costello's death, but ironically, this was when they needed him the most.
And there was still the mole inside the police.
With Costello gone, all leads had dried up. Finding that mole just got a whole lot harder.
For now, they could only wait.
If the mole kept feeding information to the Winter Hill Gang, eventually, he'd slip.
At dusk, Boston was buried under snow. Wind howled across rooftops like something alive.
Billy wasn't standing on a freezing rooftop this time—small mercy—but it didn't make him feel any better.
Costello was dead, yet he still couldn't reclaim his identity. He was still stuck undercover.
The meeting had moved to a park in North Boston.
Billy and Dickman met.
Billy reported on the current situation inside the Winter Hill Gang, then immediately started venting—when could he finally go back?
Living a double life had taken its toll. He'd seen too much—murders, kidnappings, extortion—and even taken part in some of it.
The only line he hadn't crossed… was killing.
But even that felt like it was slipping.
The images wouldn't go away. They kept replaying in his head, wearing him down piece by piece. He didn't know how much longer he could hold on.
What if one day he snapped?
What if he became exactly what he was pretending to be?
"I don't want to do this anymore," Billy said, voice tight with desperation. "Let me go back. As a cop, I can still help—"
"You are a cop," Dickman cut him off coldly. "You were a cop, you are a cop, and you'll always be a cop. The only difference is your identity stays hidden. Got it?"
Billy snapped. "Fuck you! This isn't being a cop! I want a real badge, not some file sitting in a drawer while I commit crimes out there!"
Dickman didn't back down. The two went at each other, insults flying back and forth, every sentence practically stitched together with curses.
Billy was no match. He'd been verbally steamrolled by Dickman since day one.
"You'd make a better undercover than me," Billy shot back sarcastically.
Dickman snorted. "If I had your family background, I'd be a gangster already."
That hit a nerve.
If not for his family ties to the underworld, he never would've been picked for this job in the first place. And those same ties? They were the reason he wanted out.
But no one cared.
He was done arguing.
Before leaving, Billy dropped one last piece of intel. "Whitey met with the Frenchman. Privately. No idea what they talked about."
Dickman frowned.
Why would Whitey meet him?
After leaving the park, Billy went straight to see his therapist—a blonde, beautiful, and already taken.
Her boyfriend? A cop.
When Billy arrived, he ran into him.
Colin Sullivan.
One in a suit, sharp and confident. The other in a worn leather jacket, exhausted.
They passed each other, their eyes meeting for just a second.
Neither knew.
Both were undercover.
Back home, Colin started organizing files, preparing to help crack down on crime in the South District—especially his "former employer."
With his insider knowledge of the Winter Hill Gang, he had an edge.
Another chance to rise.
He glanced out the window at City Hall in the distance, eyes burning with ambition.
One day, he'd be up there.
Then his phone rang.
Unknown number.
"Officer Sullivan. Who is this?"
A voice chuckled on the other end. "Officer? Huh. Maybe I dialed wrong. I thought I was calling someone from the Winter Hill Gang. Funny… I remember a guy there named Colin Sullivan."
Colin's heart dropped.
"There's a package at your door, Officer."
The line went dead.
Colin rushed to the door. A box sat there.
No one in sight.
He brought it inside, opened it—
Tapes.
He played one.
His own voice filled the room.
Conversations with Costello. Meetings. Deals. Everything.
Crystal clear.
The voice from earlier came back over the phone, dripping with mockery:
"Costello's dead and you didn't even show up? Forgot who you are? Just because you wear a uniform doesn't mean you're a cop."
Colin froze.
His face drained of color. His breathing turned shallow, erratic, like invisible hands were tightening around his throat.
No.
He wasn't going back.
He refused.
"I'm a cop," he whispered to himself, almost pleading. "I'm a cop…"
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