End of December. SSR Club.
The meeting was convened once again, and a number of familiar Mafia faces showed up—Fat Tony, Russell, and others—gathering to discuss the Angiulo family's cooperation with the Russians and their habit of "keeping all the profits to themselves." This wasn't exactly shocking; the Angiulo family had always operated like that, tucked away in their own corner of the city.
After splitting from the Patriarca family, Angiulo effectively became the boss of Boston's North Side, where they stood as the only dominant force, controlling nearly 80% of the underground business. The rest was carved up by smaller ethnic gangs. That area had little connection with New York; the two cities operated largely independently, unlike Philadelphia, which maintained tight ties with New York.
So as long as Angiulo didn't start stretching his reach too far, most of the committee didn't really care.
But this situation wasn't trivial either, because by working with the Russians, they had stepped into Luca's monopoly business. Different territory or not, Luca saw it as a direct provocation. Even if Angiulo had no intention of competing beyond New England, Luca could easily spin it into a justification to label them as enemies.
"Their gasoline tax operation is already running in Boston's North Side, and it's not actually controlled by the Angiulo family. The real power behind it is Pushkin and the Russian mob. Gennaro is just a shareholder—he provides shell companies, wholesale licenses, that kind of thing, and helps the Russians build connections with Boston City Hall."
Inside the cigar room, Luca addressed the Mafia executives with calm certainty.
"Pushkin has no peace agreement with our Commission. They're still developing in Boston right now, but expanding into other markets is only a matter of time. Sooner or later, they'll move south from Massachusetts into New York and New Jersey."
Because of the Commission's rules, internal conflicts between Mafia families were common, but large-scale wars were rare. If Luca had stood up and shouted "wipe out the Angiulo family," most people in the room would've frowned—it simply wasn't how things were done.
But label Pushkin as the enemy, and paint the Angiulo family as collaborators? That, suddenly, sounded a lot more reasonable.
Fat Tony stepped in to frame the issue.
"The Angiulo family crossed a line. Luca pioneered the gasoline business, and he even invited them in. Once you're part of the Commission, you prioritize internal cooperation—not partnerships with outsiders."
Russell backed him up. Now that both of them were aligned with Luca, their interests were tied together. Besides, Angiulo had previously agreed to negotiations only to back out at the last minute, which had embarrassed Tony badly.
What Luca needed wasn't noise—it was support.
He wanted to move across territories, openly pushing into Boston. And when the Angiulo family inevitably complained to the Commission, everyone sitting here would vote in his favor.
Russell's people, Tony's people, plus the Philadelphia and Detroit families—they were all in Luca's camp now. Angiulo didn't stand a chance, whether by rules or by reputation.
In the end, the room reached a consensus: Luca could openly "compete" in Boston through the gasoline business, and they would back him up by blocking any objections within the Commission.
To be safe, Luca personally went to Long Island after the meeting and met with Gambino, the chairman of the Commission. What exactly the old fox and the young fox discussed remained a mystery.
But Paul, Gambino's underboss, overheard one line.
"Throw a piece of meat into Boston… and let them tear each other apart."
The year 1998.
Boston, mid-January.
Inside a discreet yet luxurious club, Gennaro Angiulo was reviewing the past month's gasoline tax results in the North Side with Slavi.
Unlike Luca, who had tested the waters cautiously, Gennaro and Slavi went in hard from day one, "persuading" at least a third of the region's gas stations:
"From now on, use our fuel. Lower prices, higher profits—guaranteed."
The core of the gasoline tax scheme was simple: undercut the market. Gas station owners were more than happy to cooperate. Lower costs meant bigger margins, even if retail prices dropped slightly. It was a no-brainer.
By partnering with dozens—sometimes hundreds—of stations right away, they raked in eight figures in just their first month, despite their lack of experience.
"This business is insane!" Slavi's eyes practically glowed. "More profitable than drugs, and way less risky. The federal oversight here is a joke!"
He leaned forward, voice trembling with excitement.
"That guy—Dove —he's been running this for two years. New York, New Jersey—his entire playground. He's made billions, easy! Damn it, we should've gotten in sooner. Expand across six or seven states in New England, and we're looking at a billion a year!"
At that moment, oil tanker drivers delivering fuel looked more attractive to him than any of the women working under his control.
Seeing his partner practically drooling over profits, Gennaro stayed composed.
Working with the Russians had two major advantages. First, Slavi controlled a stronger smuggling network, meaning lower costs and better supply than Luca—higher margins. Second, the Russians preferred large-scale business over street-level gang wars. Give them a company, and they were satisfied. Unless absolutely necessary, they avoided violence and had zero interest in retail drug dealing—they liked staying upstream.
Partnering with Luca, on the other hand, would inevitably open the door for him to expand into Boston. That made Gennaro uneasy.
After weighing everything, he chose Slavi.
Yes, it would offend Luca—but that was still better than getting swallowed whole by him. That kid was ambitious, and young men who climb too fast tend to be reckless.
"Next, we expand north," Gennaro said. "Cover all of New England."
"And the south?" Slavi asked, barely hiding his greed. "South Boston. Providence. You still have ties to the Patriarca family—bring them in."
Gennaro shook his head. Relations there were already strained.
"North only. I want business, not a war."
Slavi sighed. "Then you'd better move fast. If you don't, Luca will. Since New Year's, he's been in frequent contact with the Winter Hill Gang and the Killen Gang. His tankers will roll into the South Side sooner or later."
That was exactly Gennaro's concern.
With Costello and the Killen Gang boss dead, South Boston had descended into chaos. The Irish were scrambling to establish a new leader, and Luca was lurking in the middle of it all, stirring things up.
Unite the Irish? Gennaro didn't buy it.
But Luca didn't need belief—he just needed opportunity.
He had already tossed a fat piece of meat into the South Side: the gasoline business.
More stable than drugs, more profitable, and instantly explosive. Each of the three major gangs controlled gas stations in their territory. They all wanted Luca's partnership—but none wanted their rivals to get ahead.
And Luca made it clear: he would only work with one of them. No territorial encroachment, generous terms. No tricks—his intentions were practically written on his face:
Fight it out. Winner takes the deal.
Luca's logic was simple.
"I need a stable South Side. How am I supposed to run a business when you're shooting each other every day? Customers don't line up at gas stations in a war zone. And I'm not partnering with all of you—that just turns into internal price wars."
The result? The fighting escalated immediately.
His gasoline hadn't even hit the pumps yet, but it was already fueling the war.
South Boston turned into a battlefield—gunfire, car bombs, arson. Smoke hung over the district like a permanent storm cloud. Street fights broke out daily.
The Frenchman blamed the Killen Gang or the Mullen Gang for Costello's death. Whitey blamed the other two gangs for the Killen boss's assassination. Everyone wanted revenge.
In the end, there were only two possible outcomes:
Either all three gangs would bleed each other dry and merge into one…
Or one would wipe out the others and take everything.
Boston police were flooded with calls.
Among them, Colin Sullivan stood out, making arrests left and right with the intelligence Luca fed him. But it was only treating symptoms, not the disease.
By late January, things escalated again—a younger brother of the Mullen Gang boss was killed by mistake. He wasn't even in the gang.
That pushed the war into overdrive.
Meanwhile, Whitey quietly defected to the Winter Hill Gang and worked with them on a "two-front purge." First, he assassinated key figures in the Killen Gang, making it look like Mullen's doing. Then he incited the remaining Killen forces to retaliate, dragging both sides deeper into the meat grinder.
When the news reached Luca, he had just arrived outside Boston City Hall.
Colin's voice came through the phone again:
"Whitey's still posing as Killen Gang, but he's already flipped. He's with the Winter Hill Gang now. He and the Frenchman are planning to wipe out the other two."
Luca paused for a moment.
Time to end this circus.
The South Side was about to change.
According to the original trajectory, this was where Whitey's era began.
Luca smirked ... Not this time.
"Alright," he said calmly. "I'll take it from here."
He hung up and walked straight into City Hall.
Business to discuss. People to meet.
At the front desk, he gave his name.
"Luca Greco. I have an appointment with William Bulger."
Everything had been arranged in advance, and the meeting went smoothly.
[Character Card Discovered: William Bulger]
[Rank: B]
[Source: Black Mass]
[Skill: Speaker of the House]
[Bond: Strangers]
William—Whitey's younger brother. A sitting senator, a future Senate President, and later the president of the University of Massachusetts.
On paper, his career was spotless. No ties to crime. Clean as a paper.
Which made him even more dangerous.
Luca didn't buy that kind of rise without backing. Campaign funds, underground support—none of that came out of thin air. Without the South Side behind him, would William really climb that high?
Luca didn't mind investing early.
An angel investor, placing a bet on a very bright future.
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