Watching the bond progress bar suddenly spike, Luca actually blinked in surprise. He hadn't even played the "Helen" trump card yet—the secret behind her treatment was still locked away—and he was already getting a Friend notification? Judging by the color, they were pushing into Close Friend territory.
The Baba Yaga's fixation on finding a way out ran deeper than Luca had expected. He couldn't help but respect it—the raw, almost terrifying force of love.
[Ding! New Skill Unlocked: Suit-Wearing Thug]
"Buy the skill."
[-60 Skill Fragments]
[Skill Redeemed Successfully]
[Skill: Suit-Wearing Thug]
Effect: While wearing a tailored suit, Evasion +20%, and Damage Reduction -20% to all areas covered by fabric.
Luca stared at the prompt. This was a low-key god-tier perk. Right then and there, he decided he might as well weld a three-piece suit to his body. It boosted his survivability—and he looked damn good doing it. No downsides, all upside.
By the time John and Helen left the club, they'd already decided to get a puppy and raise it together. Luca gave the idea his full approval. He could practically picture the dog carrying a flower basket at their wedding—a wedding that would absolutely happen once the Baba Yaga officially retired.
Luca wasn't sure if the original friction between John and Viggo would play out the same way this time. If Viggo tried to force John into wiping out the Syndicate's enemies, Luca wasn't concerned. Not only was the Baba Yaga firmly in his corner, but Viggo's own brother, Abram, was already deep in the Dove's pocket. With Luca's current lineup, even a legend like John Wick wouldn't be able to tear his empire apart. And if Viggo showed even a hint of betrayal? Luca wouldn't hesitate to scatter the Tarasov ashes himself.
With a heavy hitter like John on board, the Boston trip felt like a formality. If the strategy failed, the Baba Yaga would simply reset the board. As for the Patriarca family… Luca narrowed his eyes. Organizations that refused to evolve didn't survive—they got buried.
The following day, Manhattan's Chinatown.
David and McClane, dressed in plain clothes, moved through the crowded streets. The atmosphere felt dense, almost claustrophobic; more than 70% of the faces around them were Chinese. Many storefronts were owned by whites, but the staff was overwhelmingly asian, and the air hummed with Hakka and Cantonese language.
"This place is a city within a city," David muttered, shaking his head. "Little Italy, Little Russia—even Harlem—none of them operate with this level of… autonomy. It's like an unofficial sovereign state."
They stopped in front of an ornate building with a plaque that read Chinese Chamber of Commerce. Both men knew better—the "businessmen" inside were the real power brokers of the local Triads. The term "Mafia" had become a catch-all in law enforcement—Russian Mafia, Chinese Mafia—but to purists, it still meant Sicily.
They went inside for a meeting.
They came out minutes later looking like they'd bitten into something sour.
The elders—men in crisp white suits—had stonewalled them completely, hiding behind a wall of "tradition."
'We have a longstanding understanding with the precinct', they'd said. 'They don't interfere with our casinos, and we keep the streets quiet. If you persist, we'll take it up with your superiors. Chinatown supports law enforcement when it comes to street criminals—but don't bring your problems into our Chamber. Our people have managed their own affairs for years without police interference.'
Standing outside, McClane exhaled sharply. "Where do they get off with this 'years' line?"
"It'd be one thing if they actually kept things under control," David replied, frustration creeping into his voice. "But crime's going up. This crew isn't content pushing dope in Chinatown anymore—they're expanding. Black neighborhoods, Italian neighborhoods… they're spreading it everywhere."
David knew how deeply embedded the Triads were. Their mastery of social network—high-level connections—made them nearly untouchable. They had quiet understandings with NYPD leadership that kept scrutiny at bay.
"Terrence Wei looks like the frontman," David continued. "But the Chamber runs like a committee. Everyone's got a piece."
In the Italian Mob, there were Bosses. Here, it was Mountain Lords, Incense Masters, Red Sticks—a structure lifted straight out of Hong Kong Triads. The de facto "mayor" of Chinatown was a man named Huang.
"See that kid in the white suit earlier?" McClane muttered. "Huang's son-in-law."
David nodded. Early twenties, same age as the Dove of Peace. Handsome, sure—but his eyes were ice cold.
The deeper they dug, the clearer it became: Boston was just one pipeline. The Triads had supply lines stretching back to Golden Triangle and Hong Kong. After Frank Lucas fell, the Golden Triangle simply found new partners in New York.
"I just hope the Dove handles Boston fast," David said. The Golden Triangle was out of reach—but Boston wasn't. If Luca cut that artery, Chinatown would start to starve.
Over the next few days, intel from Boston piled onto Luca's desk. Leon mapped out the key factions in both North and South Boston, while Luca supplemented it with family intel. Mariggio and Fat Tony both had history in the region.
Bringing Tony in was a practical move. The Genovese family had decent relations with the Patriarcas. If Tony could bridge the gap, Luca would gladly do business without bloodshed. No personal grudge—at least, that's what he thought.
"Luca," Mariggio said during a meeting in the cigar room, visibly uneasy, "we've had… clashes with the Patriarcas. And you were at the center of one."
Luca looked up, caught off guard. "When? I don't remember any issue with Boston."
"Before you took your oath," Mariggio said. "That out-of-town dealer in the Bronx?"
Luca froze for a second—then it clicked.
Right. Two years ago. The incident that led him to Mathilda and Leon.
"You're telling me those guys were Patriarca?" he asked.
"They were," Mariggio sighed. "And they haven't forgotten. We're walking onto their turf now, asking to do business. Honestly? I don't think they're interested in cooperating."
Russell spoke calmly. "I know an Underboss in Boston. He's reasonable. If we can negotiate, everyone profits. That's always the better outcome."
Fat Tony chimed in immediately. "Let me handle the sit-down. We smooth over the Bronx situation and get back to business. That's what matters."
Luca wasn't thrilled. A two-year-old problem had just boomeranged back into his face. Boston was turning into a headache.
A cold glint flickered in his eyes.
Peace was still the goal—but if the Patriarcas wanted to play hardball?
Fine.
A second-tier family ruling over a declining New England territory had some nerve trying to posture against New York. If they pushed too far, they'd have to live with the consequences.
Night fell over Boston.
Inside a quiet coffee shop, a Black man sat by the window, reading The Old Man and the Sea. Every so often, his eyes drifted toward a tall, gaunt man at the counter—thin, wearing a small round cap, radiating a quiet, heavy gloom. A cup of hot milk sat in front of him, a suitcase at his feet.
The man by the window—Robert McCall—had spent years as a top-tier operative specializing in psychological profiling. He knew faces. He knew patterns.
This man didn't belong here.
A ghost.
Passing through? McCall wondered. Or hunting?
Even though Leon made no move, McCall stayed alert. If this was a government operative, his cover might already be compromised. He'd have to disappear again—new name, new city.
Leon, meanwhile, had no idea he was being analyzed down to the bone. He was just thirsty after a long day of scouting. The Dove had told him to find the target—not engage.
He finished his milk, stood up, and melted into the Boston crowd.
McCall watched him leave, unease flickering in his eyes.
"I'm probably overthinking it," he muttered.
The door chimed again.
A young woman stepped inside—heavy makeup, clothes far too revealing for her age. McCall's expression darkened instantly. He could read people at a glance, and this girl's story wasn't hard to piece together.
She wasn't even an adult.
The faint scars around her eyes told the rest.
Too many monsters in this world.
And sometimes, a man had to stop reading… and start cleaning.
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