To merge into a new alliance? Whitey was stunned for a long moment; he hadn't expected Luca to come up with something like this. He had already betrayed the Killen Gang and secretly aligned himself with the Winter Hill Gang, making him practically half one of them already, and since the Winter Hill Gang was the strongest, switching sides to back the biggest player made perfect sense—use them to wipe out the rest, then clean house once they took over.
Once the Winter Hill Gang unified the Southern District, everyone who had once stood in their way would be buried right along with the past. With backing from Gennaro Anguilo and the Anguilo family, he could climb to the top, become the leader of the Winter Mountain Gang, and then, when the time was right, kick the Anguilo family aside and dominate the entire South. That was White Hair's philosophy: before you take power, everything is a tool, and there are no permanent allies or enemies.
But this "merger" threw a wrench straight into that plan. Not impossible—just too soon. Too many gangs in the Southern District hadn't been wiped out yet, and once everything merged, his influence inside the Winter Mountain Gang wouldn't be nearly as dominant.
"He wants to put me in charge?" Whitey looked at his younger brother, thinking it through. "He doesn't value me—he values you. Whoever runs the South doesn't affect his business that much, but your position in the Senate? That gives him real leverage."
That much was obvious. William's party needed money and votes, and his district sat right in South Boston. Whitey narrowed his eyes slightly. Was Luca targeting both brothers at once?
William added, "I've checked with some contacts at the FBI—they're focused on the Anguilo family up north. Luca's an outsider, and as long as he sticks to business and doesn't openly build a Mafia presence in the South, the Bureau won't pay him much attention. The South is Irish territory, always has been. Italians don't get far here—he has to work through Irish crews."
It was the same logic as Detroit's East Side—too many entrenched locals, and outsiders just don't get a foothold. South Boston worked the same way.
"My suggestion is simple," William continued. "Work with Luca. The Anguilo family is too close to home; if you don't want them breathing down your neck, better to deal with an outsider than a neighbor who thinks he owns your street."
White Hair thought it over, then asked, "How much support is Luca offering you?"
William let out a quiet breath. "Union backing, several major New York families behind him, businesses across the state, and the New York Democratic Party in his corner. He's not small-figure."
Whitey fell silent again. Something about it still didn't sit right. Was Luca really just here for business?
William's final words pushed him over the line. "If you want to take on the North Side Mafia later, Luca's your best weapon."
That clicked. After unifying the South, a clash with the North was inevitable, and Luca and the Anguilo family were already at odds.
He nodded. "Fine. I'll work with him—if he can actually stop this war."
The very next night, the leader of the Mullen Gang was assassinated, and the chaos in the Southern District hit its absolute peak. Around that time, Luca quietly met with the Frenchman, then joined forces with him and Whitey to step into the war directly. Invitations went out to every surviving gang leader and major figure, calling them to a mediation meeting.
The Frenchman was now acting leader of the Winter Hill Gang, while Whitey had risen to become the top figure in the Kirin Gang after its boss's death. These two were the biggest players left standing—and they were secretly aligned. Once both agreed to mediation, the smaller crews didn't exactly have options. Wait to be wiped out, or sit at the table.
Too many people were dead already. Even gangsters get tired of funerals.
The meeting would be chaired by Luca, widely known in New York as someone who could settle disputes without turning them into bloodbaths. This time, he was also bringing business to the table—the gas station operation—and that meant money. Real money.
And more importantly, credibility. Luca wasn't the type to invite everyone into one room just to have them executed. If he did, his reputation would be finished.
Early February. Ceasefire.
A hotel conference room in central South Boston—neutral ground, not claimed by any crew. As evening fell, the attendees filtered in one by one.
The room filled with surviving leaders from the three major gangs, along with smaller crews that had somehow made it through the chaos and police crackdowns. But there wasn't a single true "boss" left—the heads of the three major gangs were all dead, and the smaller crews didn't carry that kind of weight.
By 6 p.m., everyone was seated. Leaders on both sides of the table, bodyguards standing behind them like statues. The head seat remained empty. That was Luca's.
Tension hung thick in the air. Quiet conversations, cautious glances, everyone sizing each other up—future allies, future enemies.
Whitey and the Frenchman sat across from each other, exchanging a brief look. They both understood their role tonight: back Luca, push the merger, make the Winter Hill Gang the dominant force—and take a cut of the gasoline business while they were at it.
A few minutes later, the door opened.
Luca walked in wearing a black suit, calm as ever, followed by the Baba Yaga. For some reason, the moment people saw him, the hostility in the room eased just a little, replaced by something closer to wary respect.
He took his seat, folded his hands on the table, and looked around slowly before speaking.
"The other day, I went fishing outside Boston," Luca said evenly. "You know what I caught? A corpse tied to rocks. Thought I had a big one—turns out I wasted a few hours dragging up dead weight. Whole river smelled like blood."
A few people shifted uncomfortably.
"I figured I'd have better luck back in the city—just buy a fish at the store. But no, supermarket was closed. Fire nearby. Streets in the South? Practically painted red."
He paused, then added flatly, "Hard to even get a decent fish around here. Makes a guy miserable. I came to do business with you people, but the way things are going, that's not happening."
A Mullen Gang leader snapped back immediately, voice sharp with anger. "Miserable? Take a good look at me. Look at my men! The Killen Gang hit us out of nowhere, and the Winter Hill Gang stabbed us in the back, and you're sitting there talking about being miserable? I'm the one who's miserable!"
"Out of nowhere?" Whitey sneered. "Your guys crossed the line first and stole from my bar. And you—" he glanced at the Frenchman, "—don't pretend you haven't been playing both sides."
The Frenchman didn't even blink. "Don't talk nonsense. I did what I had to do. Lines? Since when did South Boston have clean borders? This place runs on jungle rules."
He turned to Luca. "But he's right. Keep this up and nobody wins. Cops are watching, FBI's watching… and at this rate, we'll kill all the fish before we ever get to eat them."
The Mullen leader snapped back, furious. "I bury my bodies, alright? Who the hell dumps them in rivers like you animals?"
"Enough."
Luca slammed his hand on the table, and the room went silent.
"I didn't come here to listen to how you dispose of bodies, and I don't care about your jungle rules. The only rule that matters is this—keep fighting, and every single one of you ends up swept into the river by the cops and the FBI like trash."
His voice dropped, colder now.
"I'm not here to dig up old grudges. Who owes who bullets, who owes who lives—I don't care. That's messy business, and I'm not interested. I'm here to give you a way out. We unite. We make money. And we end this war."
The room quieted. This time, people listened.
Luca laid out the structure: an alliance, organized around the gasoline business, with territories and rackets redistributed—casinos, docks, protection, smuggling—everything divided and shared. One business, one dominant operator, everyone gets a cut. No more internal competition.
"Just the gas stations alone," Luca said, "you're looking at hundreds of thousands a week for each of you. Minimal work. Watch the stations, protect the trucks, and collect."
That got their attention.
People started talking, arguing, calculating. Luca let it play out, watching quietly. Unifying South Boston wasn't like Detroit—no sweeping force to wipe everyone out in one go. This had to be negotiated. Carefully.
"Listen!" Luca's voice cut through the noise. "On your own, you're a pack of crippled dogs—anyone can kick you. Together, you're a wolf that can still bite."
The Mullen leader stood again, furious. "Merge? With the guys who killed my brothers? Who stabbed me in the back? You might as well shoot me now!"
Luca met his eyes. "That's easy. But think about your wife. Think about your kid hiding in school. Hate costs money—and right now, you can't afford it. You die, and your gang gets absorbed by tomorrow morning. New name, same grave."
Silence.
The Mullin leader looked at White Hair. Then the Frenchman. Then back at Luca. He understood.
"…So how do we merge?"
"Simple," Luca said. "We form a committee. Winter Hill gets three seats. Killen and Mullen get two each. The rest get one each. Ten seats total."
He continued, laying down the rules: immediate ceasefire, profit-sharing, mutual support.
"If one more shot gets fired," Luca added calmly, "New York steps in and puts the fire out. Completely."
No one doubted what that meant.
The Frenchman stood first. "I support it. Winter Hill is in."
Whitey followed. "I'm in too. And we should add an advisory role—to keep things fair. Dove can take that position."
All eyes turned to Luca.
At that moment, everyone understood—this outcome had been decided before they even walked in.
One by one, the rest agreed. Even the Mullen leader, after a long pause.
"Fine… I'm in."
Someone asked, "So who runs the committee?"
Luca smiled slightly. "No rush. Give it two months. Get to know each other. Then we vote."
That made sense. Nobody wanted another fight right away.
Except the Frenchman, who quietly clenched his fist. He already saw it—the chair was his.
By 11 p.m., a preliminary agreement was reached.
Luca stood, straightened his cuffs, and said, "Good. Agreement's done. From now on, the South Boston Alliance exists. Now get out—this place stinks."
He walked out, leaving behind a room full of men already planning their next move.
Outside, ship horns echoed through the harbor, low and mournful, like a farewell to the old order.
A new alliance had been born—and it was anything but stable.
[Ding!You mediated the gang war in South Boston and upheld peace in South Boston]
[Gain Skill Points x50]
[Gained 25 Skill Fragments]
[Remaining Skill Fragments: 210]
[Neural reaction speed +5%]
Outside the hotel, Luca got into the car and glanced at the dashboard. The war hadn't ended—it had just moved from bullets to ballots.
Until a real leader emerged, this wasn't over.
He pulled out his phone and called Colin.
"Two months," Luca said flatly. "I just handed you every major player in the South on a silver platter. You've got two months to pick a leader who listens. Everyone wants peace. That's a lot easier than chasing them down one by one, isn't it?"
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