Colin arrived scared out of his mind and left in a daze, carrying with him a stack of intelligence on the South District gangs… and three fish.
Fresh ones. Just pulled straight out of the river.
He'd once heard that in Sicily, giving fish as a gift was a bad omen, but the Dove had told him not to be superstitious. He was a law graduate and a cop—how could he still believe in that kind of thing? Dead fish might carry a bad meaning, sure, but these were fresh.
(TN: A slang term meaning someone was murdered and their body was dumped at sea to "sleep with the fishes.")
After getting home, Colin decided to cook the fish himself and called his girlfriend over for dinner. They weren't living together yet—distance, schedules, excuses—but lately, he'd been thinking… maybe it was time.
Then again, did he even have a say in his own life anymore?
The future was a fog, and somewhere above him, there was always that invisible hand. The highest point he could reach… might just be the palm of that hand.
Still, judging from both reputation and personal experience, the Dove didn't seem like such a bad boss—for a gangster, anyway. At the very least, he didn't force Colin into anything. There was always a choice… even if it didn't really feel like one.
Colin stared at the fish on the cutting board, then at the cleaver in his hand. For a brief moment, his eyes lost focus. He was clearly the one holding the knife, yet somehow… it didn't feel like it.
…Whatever. He'd already made his decision.
He was staying a cop.
Ding-dong.
The doorbell rang. Colin snapped out of it, put on a smile, and went to greet his girlfriend.
She stepped inside, took one look at him—dark circles, tired eyes—and cupped his face with both hands, teasing, "We've only been apart a couple days, and you already look like this? Miss me that much?"
She was a psychologist. Of course she noticed.
Colin could hide his identity.
He couldn't hide his mental state.
"Work's been crazy lately," he said, shrugging it off. "Since Costello died, the South District's a mess. I was up late."
"Working all night?" she said, half-smiling. "You're not leaving those gangsters any room to make a living, huh?"
"For the peace of the South District."
"Oh wow," she laughed. "You've even got a slogan now?"
She didn't press him further, though. Instead, she simply reminded him to take care of himself. In her eyes, men who focused on their careers were attractive—ambitious, driven, full of purpose. As a psychologist, she understood that kind of mindset. You supported it. You didn't suffocate it.
Colin leaned in and kissed her. The two shared a quiet, pleasant dinner.
"So… why fish today?" she asked.
"Haven't had it in a while."
"It's really good," she said after a bite. "Super fresh. Where'd you get it?"
"…"
Colin had no answer.
Because it didn't come from a grocery store.
It came from under a bridge—near the Niponsit River, on the outskirts of Boston. A place where bodies got dumped. Where people dug holes in the riverbank and sometimes, instead of fish, pulled up something that used to be human.
There were plenty of cases like that in the police department. Most of those bodies? Unidentifiable.
Yeah. Not exactly dinner conversation.
He changed the subject.
His girlfriend, meanwhile, brought up a patient she'd been seeing recently.
She didn't mention the name, but the description was… familiar.
"He used to be a police academy student," she said. "Got expelled after going to prison for assault. His mental state isn't great. He's stuck between lies and truth, confused about who he is. If someone lies to do good… do they still want to be an honest person? But he won't explain why he lies."
Colin paused, then gave a small laugh. "You get a lot of… interesting cases like that?"
"If they weren't troubled, they wouldn't come to me," she replied, smiling. Then she tilted her head. "What about you? Ever lied?"
Colin smirked. "Like telling you that you look eighteen?"
She laughed, then shook her head gently. "Honesty and truth aren't the same thing. What my patient wants isn't 'the truth.' He wants to reconcile with himself—to become his real self. But he's stuck in an environment where he can't face that. Long-term repression like that… it hurts."
Colin's heart skipped a beat.
Why did that sound so much like him?
Did she already suspect something? Was this whole "patient" story just a test?
For the first time, Colin felt like her insight was a little too sharp.
They weren't even living together yet.
If they were…
He felt like he'd be completely stripped bare.
Yeah. Maybe living together could wait.
Two days later, Colin walked into the station, slapped a file onto Dickman's desk so hard it echoed across the room, and said, "The intel you wanted."
Heads turned.
"This," Colin added dryly, "is what I got from those 'high-quality' club girls. Turns out if you pay enough and they're good enough, they'll tell you anything you want. Incredible service."
The sarcasm was thick enough to cut.
Dickman just laughed.
"You trying to take a swing at me?" he said, flipping through the file. There was a lot of useful information on Irish gangs—though not much on the big three. No real details on the Frenchman or Whitey.
"Not bad," Dickman said. "Looks like you've got a talent for pleasing women. But where's the intel on the Winter Hill Gang?"
Colin shot back instantly, "I'll get it once I sleep with their boss's girlfriend."
The office erupted in laughter.
Dickman slammed the desk and barked, "What are you all standing around for?! Move! According to this list, keep eyes on every name. Surveillance, wiretaps, arrests, beatings—whatever it takes. I want confessions!"
Then he glanced back at Colin.
"I'm a man of principle. After this, I'll recommend you for a commendation."
The list Luca provided was a mix—some from family channels, others pulled straight from Costello's hidden records. Dirty deals, crimes, names—enough to burn half the South District.
The plan was simple.
Clean out the smaller gangs first.
Force them to either collapse or cling to bigger factions.
This time, Luca wasn't subtle.
Leon and Baba Yaga were sent in the shadows, quietly eliminating small-time gang leaders. Chaos spread. At the same time, intelligence flowed to Colin, allowing the police to strike with precision.
In just over ten days—by Christmas Eve—most of the smaller gangs in South Boston were practically gone.
The police had moved fast.
And brutally.
Meanwhile, Luca quietly racked up skill points and fragments as the invisible hand behind it all.
Then came the biggest shock.
The leader of the Killen Gang was assassinated.
And this time…
It wasn't Luca.
Rumor had it someone leaked the boss's movements. He'd just left his mistress's place, got stopped on the road—and then his car was riddled with bullets. Him included.
Dead on the spot.
Even Luca was surprised.
He hadn't planned to touch the big three yet. Costello's death was already enough to destabilize things. Any more, and the variables would spiral out of control.
He didn't want annihilation.
He wanted control.
Now, with the boss dead, Whitey had become the dominant figure in the Killen Gang—and internal conflict exploded overnight.
Christmas.
Luca was back in New York when Colin called.
"It was the Winter Hill Gang," Colin said. "They worked with Whitey. He betrayed his own boss—leaked the info."
Luca went quiet for a few seconds.
…Clever.
This white-haired bastard really knew how to let others do his dirty work.
Looks like Costello's early death had triggered a serious butterfly effect. The South District was turning into a free-for-all.
"Confirmed?" Luca asked.
"From Dickman's informant," Colin replied. "I think there's an undercover agent inside the Winter Hill Gang. Maybe more than one."
"More than one?" Luca raised an eyebrow.
Colin hesitated. "Could be. Or maybe the police flipped someone high up. Either way… things are getting worse. Since Whitey took over, it's been bloodier than ever. Christmas Eve alone— six people got murders."
Luca exhaled slowly.
That fit.
Whitey was ruthless, paranoid, violent. Cross him, and you disappeared.
In another life, he would've unified Boston, expanded into Miami, and built an empire on blood. CEOs who didn't cooperate got killed. Didn't want to sell?
Their widows would.
That was his style.
Eventually, even his own FBI contacts would turn on him.
A legend.
A dangerous one.
If Luca couldn't control him…
Better to eliminate him.
But not yet.
There were bigger things at play—like the whitey's brother. A rising political figure. A future Senate president. That kind of protection… you didn't throw away lightly.
If you wanted power, you needed influence.
Votes. Money. Alliances.
Boston was just the beginning.
Pulling himself back, Luca listened as Colin continued his report. The South District was chaos, but contained. Gang-on-gang violence meant fewer civilian casualties, which ironically eased police pressure.
Luca finally said, "I'll head to Boston next year. I may not be good at much… but I'm excellent at settling disputes."
"Disputes?" Colin repeated.
"Yeah," Luca said lightly. "Can't we all just sit down and talk things out?"
"Next year?" Colin realized—it was already Christmas. New Year's was right around the corner.
"Can that even be mediated?" he asked.
Luca smiled.
"I'll make them sit down. And they'll accept it."
Colin fell silent.
Was he bluffing?
…Or was he serious?
Either way, the confidence in that voice was enough to make people believe him.
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