Robert wasn't a bloodthirsty man; he genuinely intended to give Slavi a chance to coexist peacefully, so after quietly fixing the security cameras inside the club, he walked straight into Slavi's office alone, facing a group of heavily tattooed Russian men without the slightest hesitation, then approached Slavi and calmly pulled out a stack of cash to "buy" Alina's freedom.
"I know these girls are basically your 'investments,' so I can give you 10,000 in cash."
"You're offering me ten thousand dollars? For what?"
"For her freedom."
Robert's words instantly triggered a burst of laughter from everyone in the room, and Slavi looked at him like he'd just heard the dumbest joke of the year, a crooked smirk spreading across his face as he turned to his men and said, "If this guy's willing to drop ten grand on a piece of trash, then she must be a first-class piece of trash."
"Hahaha!"
The room erupted again, louder this time.
Slavi didn't hold back, mocking Alina outright, calling her his top earner and bragging that she could bring in ten thousand a month, so why the hell would he let her go? She wasn't even an adult yet—clean her up a little, package her right, and she could still be sold as a "virgin."
Robert's expression didn't change from beginning to end; he stayed polite, unarmed, made no threats, and stuck strictly to his principle of resolving things peacefully—paying money to redeem the girl and give her a way out, even though that money was basically all his savings, considering he was just a supermarket warehouse worker with a modest paycheck.
But the other side? Way too crude.
They kept calling him trash.
Wasn't this something they forced Alina into in the first place? Or were they pretending she had a choice? If she had chosen this willingly, he wouldn't have stepped in at all—she wanted out of this mess, she just didn't have the strength to break free.
Amid the laughter, Robert picked up his money, walked to the door, then closed it and locked it behind him, his movements steady and unhurried, like he was finishing a routine task.
When he turned around, the world seemed to slow down, like the frame rate had dropped; every person, every object, every angle in the room snapped into sharp clarity as his brain processed an overwhelming amount of information in an instant, constructing a complete kill plan down to the smallest detail.
"Sixteen seconds."
Robert spoke the number out loud, then raised his wrist and pressed the timer on his watch.
What followed was a clean, brutal massacre.
Sixteen seconds later, eight men lay dead.
All except Slavi.
Some were shot, some had their throats slit with blades, others had wine openers driven straight through their eyes—almost every kill executed in a single motion, precise and efficient to a terrifying degree, and every weapon he used? Taken from the gangsters themselves.
By the time he reached Slavi, the man was still barely alive, clinging to the last thread of consciousness.
"You should've taken the money," Robert said calmly. "You lost your life over ten thousand dollars… and Alina gets to keep hers."
Slavi coughed up blood as his vision faded.
He shouldn't have looked down on that offer.
[Ding! Through indirect influence and encouragement, Robert eliminated eight notorious Russian gang members, preserving the peace of Boston.]
[Skill Points +20]
[Skill Fragments +10]
When the system panel appeared, Luca was still on the phone with Leon.
That efficiency…
Even he had to admit, it was ridiculous.
"Dove, Robert's already pulled out."
"Leave after the cops arrive."
"Should I help clean the scene?"
"No need. He's cleaner than we are."
Not long after, the police received a call from the club and rushed to the scene, only to find a room soaked in blood; at first, a detective led the response team, but once they confirmed the victims were members of a Russian gang, the tone shifted immediately.
Soon after, Dickman and Colin arrived.
No need for analysis.
This was a straight-up homicide.
No fingerprints.
No clear leads.
Dickman could only assume it was gang retaliation.
"Wasn't the South District supposed to be cooling off?" he cursed. "Why are bodies still dropping like this?"
The earlier conflict had already produced a mountain of corpses, most of them tied to the Irish mob, but this? This was different—completely unrelated to that war.
"I don't know… maybe ask the Irish?" Colin muttered, swallowing hard, a suspicion forming in his mind, though he didn't dare say it out loud.
Dickman spat on the ground. "Bunch of gangsters. They had it coming."
Plenty of people immediately suspected Luca, since his business conflict with Slavi wasn't exactly a secret, but whether he admitted it or not didn't really matter—blame had a way of finding him anyway, and honestly, he didn't seem too bothered by that.
That night, Abram called.
"Dove, did you kill Slavi?"
"You're not the first to ask," Luca replied casually.
Abram sounded anxious. "Don't you think this went too far? It was just business competition. They stayed in the North, never crossed into our territory, and now not only is Slavi dead, but most of Pushkin's people in Boston are gone too."
Luca rolled his eyes.
Too few people.
That's what happens when you focus on business and forget to build muscle.
"Even if I say it wasn't me, Pushkin won't buy it, will he?"
"Dove, he's coming after you. You need to give him an explanation."
"An explanation?" Luca let out a short laugh. "He's welcome to come ask for one… but he better think carefully about the consequences."
You want trouble?
You think I'm easy to push around?
Even without Robert, Luca wasn't afraid of Pushkin; he could take in however many people they sent, and make sure they left in urns.
Abram hesitated. "Have you considered that Pushkin might cut off our oil supply?"
"We can hold out for a while. I'm already reaching out to other channels," Luca replied calmly. "Don't forget, the real money isn't the gasoline—it's the tax."
Abram fell silent.
That was true.
But offending Pushkin still felt like playing with fire.
"This is America," Luca added quietly. "Not Russia."
Abram's eyelids twitched. "…Alright. I'll back you."
After Abram hung up, more calls came in—New York, the Southern Alliance, William, and others; Slavi's death had stirred the entire scene, the Irish didn't want the blame, while Luca's allies in New York stood firmly behind him, because whether he did it or not, the American Mafia wasn't about to bend down to the Russians, especially not to someone like Pushkin, who wasn't even truly part of their world.
The situation was still evolving.
No direct evidence tied Luca to the killing.
But then came the final call.
From the Anguilo family.
Gennaro clearly hadn't expected things to escalate this fast, and now he was feeling it—if Luca could wipe out Slavi just like that, what was stopping him from turning on him next?
"Dove, we've already backed off," Gennaro said, trying to keep things calm. "We stayed in the North, avoided your business in the South, even during the price war."
Luca chuckled. "So… that's an apology?"
Gennaro's face darkened. "You kill a man, and I'm supposed to apologize?"
Too much.
"Do you really want a war?" Gennaro pressed. "We can cooperate. Split New England."
"I gave Boston a chance to negotiate last year," Luca replied evenly. "No one wanted to listen. Now you see the consequences, and suddenly you want to talk? Fine. Shut down your gasoline tax operations and hand over the entire North and New England markets. That's my price."
Gennaro's eyelid twitched hard.
"That business was never yours to begin with," Luca continued. "I let you share it before. Now? Anyone who touches it without my permission loses a hand."
"The Commission won't allow this!" Gennaro snapped. "You're violating the rules!"
"You broke them first when you partnered with the Russians," Luca said calmly. "If you had Zerilli's discipline, we wouldn't be here. And for the record—I didn't kill Slavi. Believe it or don't. There are other people out there who don't like you either. That's all."
Click.
Back in his villa, Gennaro sat in silence, his face grim.
Meanwhile, Leon reported the details of the killing scene to Luca.
Then Colin called again.
"Dove, Whitey's been taken by the FBI!"
Luca let out a quiet laugh.
So the Bulger brothers finally made their move.
Straight to the FBI.
Before New York even had a chance to descend into chaos, Boston's underworld was already tearing itself apart, and the White Hair faction had just fired the opening shot by betraying the Mafia.
In the original storyline, it was exactly this move that allowed the FBI to dismantle the Anguilo family—Whitey feed the feds with intel, they bugged the headquarters, gathered evidence, and sent Gennaro and his entire crew straight to prison.
"Why'd the FBI take him?" Luca asked, playing dumb.
"No idea," Colin said. "They said he's tied to multiple federal cases. Dickman even argued with them, but couldn't stop it."
Boston really was something.
More informants, more moles, more traitors than New York ever had.
So how do you deal with a traitor?
In the end, Whitey would spend years on the run before finally getting caught and eliminated, but Luca had no interest in waiting decades.
After hanging up, he turned to Leon.
"The FBI will release him in a few days. Keep eyes on him the whole time."
Then he let out a soft sigh.
"Mr. Anguilo … go to prison in peace. I'll take care of the rest—avenge you, and take Boston off your hands while I'm at it."
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