The wail of sirens blended with the low horns of ships along the Boston pier that night. When Colin arrived at the exact location Dove had given him, he found only a corpse—and a pistol lying nearby. That unmistakable head of white hair made identification easy; there was no one else like it in all of Boston.
Whitey… just like that, gone.
Colin let out a long breath, relief mixing with a faint sense of regret. If Whitey had lived, there would've been more credit to earn—more intel to squeeze out of him. Dead, though, he was still worth a major achievement.
"The Frenchman's dead, now Whitey too… so who's left in the South Alliance to take over?"
The Mullen gang leader? Or…
A younger face flashed through his mind.
Billy.
The kid had the credentials—Got Irish blood, his father and uncle was in the gang, had ties to the Frenchman, and now had full control over the Winter Hill remnants. But then again… who did Dove actually support?
Colin glanced at Whitey's body and realized something uncomfortable: from beginning to end, he'd never really understood Dove's intentions. Wasn't he supposed to be backing Whitey? And yet here he was—dead on a dock.
Colin raised his radio. "This is Sullivan. I've found Whitey."
That night, the police returned in triumph—hundreds of kilos of drugs seized, over a dozen gang members dead or arrested, including Whitey himself.
As Colin stepped into the office, applause broke out around him like he'd just come back from war. He grinned, waved it off with a joke, but paused when he passed Dickman's office. It was almost empty now, his belongings already packed away.
Behind him, people laughed and chatted.
Inside that office—silence.
Cold. Hollow.
Colin couldn't help thinking that climbing the ranks in the police force wasn't all that different from the streets. Power was all that mattered. The dead? Just another footnote in someone else's rise.
Strip off the badges, wash away the ink, and what was the real difference between Dickman and Whitey?
Hell, sometimes Dickman sounded more like a gangster.
Colin shook it off and returned to his own office—still small, for now, but probably not for long. He pulled out Dickman's belongings, including the phone sealed in an evidence bag, dialed a number, and tapped the back of it in Morse code.
The other side stayed silent.
Colin spoke anyway. "Thanks for the intel."
Billy's voice came through. "You catch Whitey?"
"He's dead."
A pause.
"Efficient."
"When are you coming in?" Colin asked. "I'll help restore your identity."
Then—
Gunshots.
The line went dead.
Colin froze, then immediately tried calling back. The phone was already off.
"…What the hell?"
He frowned. "Undercover? And he just… ditched the identity?"
He tried again. No answer.
"Or maybe… he's flipped. Like the Frenchman."
That explanation felt the most reasonable. Because the alternative—that the police system itself was rotten—was something he wasn't ready to face.
Rewind a dozen minutes.
Under the bridge spanning the Neponset River, Billy stepped out of his car, pulling his coat tighter against the wind as he walked toward the water. The river, half-thawed, reflected nothing but darkness. His face was blank, numb.
Behind him, his men opened the trunk and dragged out two bound figures—the Mullen gang leader and a detective.
The kidnapping had been easy. One phone call. That's all it took.
Even with Dickman dead, the operation hadn't stopped—the detective had simply taken over. The plan had been theirs from the start. To avoid suspicion, both men had come alone.
Straight into Billy's trap.
Tonight was about ending everything.
Billy hadn't wanted to show up. But there was one question he needed answered—about being undercover, about identity, about being cornered with no way out.
He gestured for his men to step back. Once they were out of earshot, he yanked the gags from the captives.
"Fuck you!" the Mullen boss spat. "I trusted you, Billy! And this is how you play me? Untie me right now!"
"You didn't trust me," Billy said with a hollow laugh. "You trusted my badge. If I wasn't a cop… would you still have worked with me?"
The man cursed him out.
Billy ignored him, turning instead to the detective. His face twisted, something feral creeping in.
"Sir… your biggest mistake wasn't sending me undercover. It wasn't trying to flip the gang. It was this—why would you give them a chance… but not me?"
His voice rose, raw and jagged.
"Because I'm a cop? So I just follow orders, no matter what? Even if you send me to die, I'm supposed to charge ahead like a good soldier?!"
The detective met his gaze. "Following orders is something you should've learned at the academy. This isn't a game, Billy—it's war. People die."
He continued, steady and cold.
"Frontline officers die more often than undercover agents. But they don't whine. They understand their duty. What about you? Did you forget yours?"
Billy laughed, sharp and bitter. "Easy for you to say, sitting safe behind a desk. Why wouldn't you give me a chance? You'd rather back that piece of shit than me."
"Why?"
The detective didn't answer.
Because the truth was simple: Billy had always been a pawn. A piece meant to be sacrificed if it meant taking down something bigger. That's how the game worked.
But pawns weren't supposed to think. And Billy… thought too much.
Now he was off the board entirely.
The detective sighed inwardly. Everything was falling apart.
"Say something!" Billy snapped.
"It's not too late," the detective said finally. "Whitey's getting arrested tonight. The plan's almost complete. After that, I can restore your file."
Billy shook his head slowly.
"No going back."
The wind howled over the river as he laughed.
"You still don't get it. To you, being a cop is just paperwork—a badge, a file. Slap a name on it, and anyone can be one, right?"
He drew his gun.
"Being a cop once gave me a reason to live… but Billy is dead."
The detective blinked.
So that was it. Not confusion. Not blurred lines.
Clarity.
Too much of it.
Black and white, with nothing in between.
A part of him almost felt relieved—there had once been a good cop here. Another part felt regret.
He never should've chosen Billy.
Just then, Billy's phone rang. He tapped out Morse code, a gesture the detective recognized instantly.
Someone inside the police?
Before he could react—
Gunfire.
The detective dropped.
Billy ended the call and turned the gun on the Mullen boss.
The man sneered. "So that's it? Done being a cop? Good. We can work together—"
"You're not worth it," Billy said flatly. "Boston only needs one voice."
Bang.
Silence.
His men returned, burying both bodies beneath the bridge along with everything they represented. The police ended up in a gangster's grave, and traitors would be buried in police archives.
The wrong graves for the wrong men.
That night was anything but quiet.
In Luca's vision, the panel flickered again and again before finally settling on the death notice of the Mullen gang leader. Billy—the pawn that had crossed the river—had reached the king's territory, charging forward without hesitation. Behind him stood rows of heavy pieces, some stamped with "SSR."
This game had never been fair.
Luca closed the panel and looked up at Joey Tai sitting across from him.
"Dove, this isn't what we agreed on," Joey complained. "The cops seized everything. Not even a little left for me? I came all the way here for nothing?"
If it weren't for the favor owed, he wouldn't have touched this mess. But the old guard in his circle valued loyalty above all else, and Luca had plenty of it in the bank.
Luca shrugged. "I can help you with other things. Drugs? Not my business."
Joey sighed. That was Dove's one big flaw—no drugs meant fewer ways to talk profit.
Then Luca added, "I can open up the Boston docks for your crews. Smuggling, shipping—customs won't bother you."
Joey's eyes lit up.
"That'll make things a lot easier."
"Except drugs," Luca added calmly.
Joey: "…"
Yeah. There it is.
The next day, Boston media ran headlines about the massive drug bust. What they didn't report was another story—quiet, almost invisible.
A police detective had gone missing.
No body. No trace.
The disappearance only came to light because his family filed a report.
When Colin called Luca about it, he sounded genuinely confused.
Luca knew exactly what had happened.
He just didn't say a word.
With the detective dead, Luca was now the only person alive who knew Billy's true identity—and even then, he had no proof, and no interest in exposing it.
Billy had made his choice.
From that moment on, there would never again be a police officer named Billy Costigan.
—You chose him, my friend.
That same afternoon, William came to see Luca.
"Dove… how exactly did my brother die?"
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