During the phone call, Colin was still listening while Luca arranged the follow-up matters on the other end. The alliance was only the first step, and everyone involved knew it. By creating this organization and pulling together the Irish gangs of the South District, their overall strength had reached a level it had never seen before—stronger, more organized, and, frankly, a lot harder to deal with.
But strength came with a cost. Once the alliance formed, the individual leaders found their personal authority diluted. Nobody liked that, not really. So naturally, the second step was obvious: take control of the entire alliance.
Plenty of people wanted the chairman's seat. Luca, as an outsider, couldn't take the position himself—but that didn't mean he couldn't back someone who would listen to him. A puppet didn't need strings if it already knew who was pulling them.
At the same time, the police had their own plans. They weren't about to sit back and watch this thing grow unchecked. If they could push one of their own into the chairman's position, then the chaos in the South District wouldn't just calm down—it would fall neatly under their control. Law enforcement, organized crime… the lines would blur, but at least it would all be manageable.
Colin spoke up. "So, Dove, who are you backing? Mr. French … or Whitey?"
Who can actually become my puppet?
Luca let out a quiet, almost amused chuckle. "Still watching. If your department has a favorite, you'd better let me know."
Colin sighed. "With my clearance? If something that big was happening, I probably wouldn't be looped in."
"Then tell me what you do know," Luca replied calmly. "I'll figure out the rest."
"…Alright."
There was a brief pause.
"Officer Sullivan," Luca added with a faint laugh, "your shot at moving up the ladder is right in front of you. Whether you grab it… that's on you."
Then he hung up.
The South District was about to get interesting. Street fights had already escalated into full-blown gang warfare, and now that war was evolving into something else entirely.
The Frenchman seemed to have the upper hand—for now—but everything depended on Whitey. And unfortunately for everyone involved, Whitey wasn't exactly the obedient type. There was no way he'd hand over an opportunity like this without a fight.
Over the next week, Luca's tanker trucks began rolling into South Boston one after another, smoothly moving into the gas stations that had already been lined up in advance. Business owners welcomed him like a savior—because, in a way, he was.
He brought peace. He brought cheaper gasoline. And he brought customers back.
Before this, the North District had better prices, and the South was bleeding business because of it. The distance between the two areas wasn't far, so drivers would just head north to fill up and save a few cents. Simple math.
Now? That advantage was gone.
Luca didn't just match the North—he undercut it. One or two cents cheaper per gallon, every time. It wasn't subtle. It was a straight-up price war.
The North District hadn't responded yet, but everyone knew that silence wouldn't last forever.
Inside a club in the North District, Slavi sat across from Gennaro Anguilo, the two men deep in discussion about the gasoline business.
"Luca's just being a pain in the ass!" Slavi snapped. "What's the point of dropping prices below ours? All he's doing is letting civilians score cheap gas. Don't tell me his costs are actually lower."
Gennaro scoffed. "Your oil might be cheap—but his labor's cheaper."
Slavi's expression darkened. "Don't forget, his supply comes from Mr. Pushkin. If we really push, we can cut him off."
He'd already tried. Went straight to Pushkin himself.
But that wasn't a simple move. The Tarasov network, the Port of New York—everything was tied together. If Pushkin cut Luca off, Luca could just as easily choke off port access. Tankers wouldn't dock. Oil wouldn't move. Everyone would lose.
So instead, both sides kept testing each other. Probing. Waiting.
Eventually, something would give.
When the topic shifted to the Southern Alliance, Gennaro leaned back and sighed. "I'll admit it—Luca's got brains. He tied all those Irish gangs together with that alliance."
Slavi shook his head. "Doesn't matter. They'll still fight."
"Maybe," Gennaro said, "but now they'll fight at a table instead of in the streets."
That changed everything.
Before, the expectation was simple: one gang rises, crushes the others, takes everything. Now? Power depended on votes. Alliances. Deals.
Even the smaller gangs suddenly mattered.
They had voices now. Votes. Leverage.
Gennaro frowned slightly. He hadn't expected Luca to play it like this. Honestly, letting them keep killing each other might've been easier.
Now it almost looked like Luca genuinely wanted peace in South Boston—which, frankly, was suspicious as hell.
The only explanation? Business.
A stable South meant faster expansion into the gasoline market. And the committee system? That gave every small-time gang a shot at rising, not just the big names like the Frenchman or Whitey.
Which meant one thing:
Whoever won the votes… won everything.
And Luca?
He was definitely playing a deeper game.
Boston Police Department.
Inside a small meeting room, Officer Dickman stood before several senior officers, laying out the current situation.
"The Southern Alliance is made up of multiple Irish gangs, including the Winter Hill Gang, the Killen Gang, and the Mullen Gang," he explained. "We're talking several thousand members. If you include their business networks, that number easily hits five figures."
His tone was serious.
"Now that they've merged, traditional territory lines are fading. Instead, they're organizing like corporations—dividing operations into sectors: entertainment, docks, protection rackets, smuggling… everything."
Silence filled the room.
"This is a Mafia-style structure," Dickman continued. "If it keeps developing, we're looking at a full-fledged Irish Mafia in South Boston. And once that happens, we won't be able to control it."
That was the real fear—not violence, but organization.
New York's Five Families had already proven what happened when gangs evolved beyond street-level chaos.
They became permanent.
Untouchable.
One of the chiefs finally asked, "So what's your play?"
Dickman took a breath. Then he said it.
"I think this is our best shot."
Everyone looked at him.
"We can't eliminate gangs completely—that's reality. But if we take advantage of the alliance while it's still new, infiltrate it, and steer it…"
He paused.
"…we can control it from the inside."
The room went still.
It was bold. Reckless, even.
But it made sense.
The bureau chief narrowed his eyes. "How?"
Dickman didn't hesitate.
"We interfere in the chairman election… and back someone we can control."
Southern suburbs. Luca's villa.
Luca had been moving back and forth between New York and Boston, splitting his time every few days. It wasn't a long trip anyway—just a few hours.
For now, South Boston had stabilized. The gangs were busy lobbying for votes, forming alliances, whispering promises behind closed doors. Luca wasn't worried. Not yet.
Once the police stepped in, that's when things would get interesting.
Standing by the window, sunlight pouring in, Luca stretched lazily. "So… Slavi still hasn't made a move?"
Something felt off.
According to Leon's intel, the so-called vigilante—the Equalizer—should've already been triggered by that underage prostitute incident.
But nothing had happened.
Leon stepped forward with the report. "No incidents so far. Slavi's been focused on the gasoline business—hasn't touched the prostitution side much."
Luca blinked.
"…You've got to be kidding me."
So the butterfly effect had actually kicked in.
Originally, that girl was supposed to get beaten nearly to death, which would've set the Equalizer off. After that? A full-on massacre.
Now? Nothing.
So much for sitting back and enjoying the show.
"Alright," Luca muttered. "Plans change."
He turned. "What about the rest?"
Leon nodded. "He's been getting close to a coworker. They've been going out together—sports, mostly. Looks like he's helping the guy lose weight."
Luca raised an eyebrow.
"That coworker's family owns a restaurant in the South District," Leon added. "It got burned down during the gang fighting. They're rebuilding now. But both gangs and corrupt cops have been squeezing them for protection money."
Luca understood immediately.
Classic South Boston.
Gangs and dirty cops working hand in hand—pay up, or your place gets smashed… or worse.
And it wasn't even real protection.
Just extortion with a badge.
He called Colin.
Colin didn't know much—low-level patrol officers weren't exactly in his circle—but he agreed to look into it.
"Send me what you find," Luca said.
Then, casually, "You guys started your move yet?"
Colin replied, "Dickman and the higher-ups are still discussing. My guess? They'll try to push someone inside the alliance."
Luca smiled faintly.
Of course they would.
After hanging up, he turned to Leon.
"Come on," he said. "Let's take a walk."
"Where to?"
Luca smirked.
"South Side. Let's try some of the Boston street food."
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I'm back from vacation, and my body is absolutely thrashed. I just finished a 185-mile (300 km) bike tour through the mountains with my friends. Seventeen hours on the road—I'm exhausted!
Anyway, huge thanks to Zodiac for being my P Knight once again. If you're enjoying the story, please consider supporting me on P Site/OrbisTranslate.
As always: Every 100 Stones = 2 Bonus Chapters!