The following evening, Boston's official press release finally addressed what had happened the night before.
'In what police described as a gang-related execution, eight men were killed last night inside a nightclub. Authorities believe it was part of an ongoing turf war between rival gangs.'
'This wasn't even the first wave. Over the past few months, a string of gang-related murders had already rocked the South District.'
'Preliminary estimates place the death toll at over 70.'
Naturally, the authorities bundled everything neatly into "South District gang warfare," and for most of the public, that explanation was good enough—simple, clean, and easy to digest over dinner.
A few days later, however, an entirely different story exploded across the headlines: a Democratic Party leader implicated in prostitution and extortion scandals, which instantly drowned out any lingering discussion about gang violence.
Several underage victims came forward in media interviews, willing to testify.
Among them was Alina.
Compared to prostitution, extortion carried far heavier legal weight, and once the news spread through Boston, New York, and beyond, multiple corporations stepped forward to accuse the same leader, piling on evidence and turning the situation into a full-blown media firestorm.
The Boston Democratic Party found itself at the center of a hurricane.
Under that kind of spotlight, even the gang wars—bloody as they were—suddenly felt too distasteful to linger on in public conversation.
The investigation would take time, evidence would be reviewed, and eventually the courts would decide.
For now, the storm kept raging.
That same day, Baba Yaga was caught off guard when he discovered his girlfriend had also arrived in Boston, supposedly for a work assignment covering the scandal involving underage prostitution.
Helen came with her team—reporters, photographers, the whole package.
Her colleague was especially excited; she had been tracking similar cases in New York for a while and hadn't expected Boston to beat them to the punch.
"Did someone feed you this lead?" John asked.
The moment Helen mentioned anonymous sources, one name immediately surfaced in his mind ... Dove.
"I don't know who it was," Helen replied. "Everything came in anonymously. Probably some good Samaritan who didn't want to be identified. I mean, this involves a major party leader—people are afraid of retaliation."
Inside the restaurant, she explained everything while casually catching up.
"I remembered you were in Boston, so I tagged along with the news team and came to see you. How's work? Busy?"
John: "…"
Busy? Not really.
Killed a few small-time criminals here and there, spent most days relaxing, occasionally went fishing with Dove of Peace.
Yeah… definitely not something you could print in a newspaper.
He gave a vague answer, then shifted the conversation to her work and life, playing the part of a normal boyfriend with practiced ease.
Meanwhile, Whitey walked out of the FBI building exactly as he had planned.
Free again.
Officially, it was bail.
Unofficially… whatever deal he had struck with the FBI was known only to him.
That night, he met with his younger brother and laid everything out—he had traded intelligence on the North District Mafia, and with help from a friend, secured political asylum through the FBI.
From that moment on, Whitey was no longer just a gangster.
He was an "asset."
A partner.
The agreement was written, signed, and very real.
The FBI would bury his past crimes.
In return, he would keep feeding them information.
And one more condition—no more killing.
A flexible rule, at best.
Both sides knew exactly what they were doing.
Mutual exploitation.
"You cannot let Luca find out about this," William said, his tone deadly serious. "Remember that. If he learns you're working with the FBI, you're finished. He won't spare you—and I'll get dragged down with you."
Whitey frowned. "The FBI asked me for information on Luca too."
William's expression shifted immediately. "You didn't give them anything, right?"
Whitey shook his head. "There's nothing to give. No evidence. He's been in Boston this whole time, and on paper? All he's done is mediate conflicts, form alliances, and expand gas station business. None of that holds up in court."
How do you charge someone for stopping a war?
How do you indict someone for running a legal business?
Even the gasoline supply chain—no direct links.
All the companies involved? On paper, Russian-owned, completely clean.
"That guy hides too well," White Hair muttered. "The only real contact point is you."
He looked at William, but betraying his own brother? Not happening.
William sighed. "Same on my end. His donations went through the truck drivers' union—legal. The related legislation hasn't even passed yet, so there's nothing to pin on him."
Whitey fell silent.
Luca didn't look like a gangster.
And yet, somehow, everything in the South District had spiraled into chaos under his watch.
He wasn't even forcing it.
It was like the entire situation was bending around him, pushing him forward whether he wanted it or not.
"You'd better not cross him," William warned. "You're not in power yet. Even with FBI backing, nothing's guaranteed."
Whitey rubbed his face, clearly irritated. "Forget that. Let's talk about the rat who sold me out. Found anything?"
He still hadn't forgotten those days in detention, followed by that charming little FBI interrogation room.
"And their food sucks," he added flatly.
William shook his head. "Dove is looking into it. He won't let a traitor walk."
Whitey's eyes darkened.
At the same time, Dickman was in a foul mood.
His plan had been simple—keep Whitey locked up long enough to miss the election, maybe even push for a conviction and lock him away for a year or two.
Clean.
Effective.
Then the FBI stepped in and blew it all up.
Whitey walked free.
And suddenly, the election was wide open again.
Dickman's eyes hardened.
Fine.
If clean methods didn't work, he'd get his hands dirty.
He pulled out his phone, made a call, and left the station in a hurry.
Colin watched him go, thoughtful, then quietly sent a message to Dove.
One hour later.
Under a bridge by the Neponset River.
March had arrived; the ice was melting, and the city was waking up again.
Dickman met the Frenchman there.
A car sat nearby.
The Frenchman popped the trunk, reached inside, and pulled out a briefcase.
"Officer Dickman, you sure about this meeting?" he asked casually.
The case opened.
Stacks of crisp green bills filled it to the brim.
"To be honest," the Frenchman said, "this is just my opening offer. Fifty thousand. Clean money. Straight from the bank. If it's not enough, I can add more. Once I'm chairman, you'll get paid every month."
Dickman let out a dry laugh. "You guys really don't hold back, huh? Even trying to buy the police to climb the ladder."
"Isn't this what you want?" the Frenchman replied. "You've got files on everyone—me, Whitey, all of us. You didn't choose him. You wanted him locked up. That plan failed."
The memory still bothered him.
Their last meeting had been… revealing.
Dickman had laid out files—detailed intelligence on every major player, even including the late Costello.
Too detailed.
There had to be a mole.
But who?
Dickman had asked him to drop out of the election and work under him.
That was never happening.
Cooperation was one thing.
Becoming a dog?
Not a chance.
So they had parted on bad terms.
Which led directly to that little "visit" to the police station.
Now, seeing Dickman hesitate, the Frenchman narrowed his eyes.
"What do you actually want? You've got enough evidence to arrest us all, but you don't. So what's the game?"
Dickman shook his head.
"Arrest you, and ten more take your place. Tear down one alliance, another pops up. You're like cancer—cut one out, another grows back. I don't have time to start over every time."
He stepped forward slightly.
"All I want is simple. Behave. Listen. Don't make a mess in the South District."
The Frenchman laughed, cold and sharp. "So you want a leash on me? You think we're your hired muscle?"
"If you won't listen," Dickman said flatly, pushing the money back, "someone else will."
"I don't want your money. I want your cooperation. I can help you take down your rivals. Help you rise."
The Frenchman's expression darkened.
Rise?
And then kneel to the police?
What kind of victory was that?
Half an hour later, he left—with the money still in the case.
Moments after he disappeared, several officers with cameras stepped out from hiding.
One handed the camera to Dickman.
"Got everything."
Dickman glanced at the photos and nodded.
"He still didn't agree?"
"No," Dickman said. "Not yet. But he's the biggest faction leader. He won't bend… until he's desperate."
If he won't bend…
Then break him.
He already had the next step planned—use these photos, feed them to Whitey, and let the gangs tear each other apart.
If Whitey went after the Frenchman?
Good.
Let them kill each other.
Even the FBI wouldn't be able to protect him then.
Once both major leaders were gone, installing a "cooperative" replacement would be easy.
The officers dispersed one by one.
After they left, Leon stepped out from the shadows, camera in hand.
He made a call.
"The Frenchman is in contact with the police, but talks didn't go well."
Dove replied calmly, "Doesn't matter anymore. If he's crossed the line, he's lost the right to stay."
This city…
Was crawling with undercover cop.
And traitors.
That same evening, before Dickman could even deliver the photos, Whitey had already received them.
The image was clear—the Frenchman offering a suitcase full of cash.
Whether it was accepted or not didn't matter.
The damage was done.
Dove set the photo down and stood.
"I'm just a consultant," he said casually. "Handle your own internal affairs. I won't interfere—as long as it doesn't affect my business."
Whitey stared at the photo, rage flickering across his face.
So it was him.
The Frenchman.
The traitor.
Fine.
Then there was nothing left to discuss.
He grabbed his phone and started dialing—contacting the Mullen gang leader, other allied bosses, and even the Chinatown killers he had secretly hired.
Tonight…
Mr. French would be erased.
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