Solomon understood Vanessa's decision—but that didn't mean he supported it. By claiming Wilson Fisk's blood debt as her own, she was essentially inviting death.
She was just an artist. She had never killed, never committed a crime, didn't know how to use a knife or a gun. She had no real understanding of Wilson Fisk's crimes. The two had never truly talked about it. Solomon saw through her surface-level thinking instantly. This entire gala had been a one-sided effort on Vanessa's part, and Solomon suspected Athena had also picked up on that, which was probably why she agreed to help her friend. Vanessa had insisted this was a well-thought-out decision, that she was ready to face whatever the future held, even if it meant living every second with guilt or dying because of it.
"Hell has already opened its doors for me," she had said—perhaps more to comfort herself than anyone else.
Solomon said no more. With a polite nod, he took Bayonetta's arm and walked away, leaving her and her choices behind.
Vanessa watched their backs vanish into the crowd and closed her eyes in anguish. Her gallery had only stayed open thanks to Minerva's connections among the elite—no one would have cared about a struggling Italian painter trying to make it in New York otherwise. But she knew now that she would never again be invited into Minerva's private circle. This gala was her last connection to the upper class. After tonight, she would no longer be a part of Solomon or Minerva's world. No more help. No more second chances.
Now that she knew the truth behind Wilson Fisk's sins, there was no redemption for her.
"Are you okay?" Wilson Fisk politely disengaged from his conversation partner and walked over. Gently, he placed a hand on Vanessa's back and whispered in her ear. Of course he knew why she had forced herself to host this gala despite her illness, and he tried his best to appear charming. No matter who he spoke with, he left a good impression. It was all for the sake of the charity auction—and to make Vanessa proud.
"I'm so tired of these kinds of events. Remember how much more fun we had at the amusement park?" he said in a rough, working-class accent, intentionally peppering in some profanity, trying to make her smile. This towering man from Hell's Kitchen had long since learned how to move through elite society with ease. Now, he was just being silly—for her sake. It was hard to imagine such a massive man dancing ballet on his toes, but if Vanessa wanted him to, Wilson Fisk would have donned pink slippers without complaint.
Vanessa tugged lightly on his collar, clearly pleased with how he carried himself tonight. She had personally picked out the diamond lapel pin to help him appear more refined. As long as he made a good impression, people would approach them after the gala to talk business. The upper class always needed someone to intimidate rivals or silence dissenters. Wilson Fisk would be their bloodstained mop. Thanks to the chaos in Hell's Kitchen, some had already heard of him—an efficient and discreet mob boss.
"I'm afraid we'll need to endure this for a few more hours, my love. Charity auctions are always long and boring. But we need to make the right impression."
"All right. If it's for you, I suppose I can endure it," Wilson Fisk replied. "Shouldn't we go greet the host? Wouldn't it be rude not to?"
"I already spoke to them," Vanessa said. "They were very kind."
"Good." Fisk exhaled quietly and let go of the malice that had begun to stir in his heart. When Vanessa had spoken with Solomon earlier, he had been watching from the corner of his eye, and he'd seen how pale she looked afterward. He had done some digging into the event's organizers before coming, but hadn't uncovered much. Still, since Vanessa didn't want to pursue it, neither would he—for now.
After circling the ballroom a few times with her, he finally found an excuse to slip into a quiet corner and make a call. Hell's Kitchen was already keeping him busy. A masked vigilante had been interfering with his operations, the Hand was growing more aggressive, and a mysterious group had recently visited his mother's nursing home. Still, he wanted to look deeper into whoever was behind this gala.
Solomon, of course, didn't know any of this. Even if he had, he would've just scoffed. Fisk's little crime empire didn't even qualify for a footnote in the Eternal City's records. Powerless and weak, it couldn't possibly threaten him.
"You wanted to see me?" said a voice behind him. Fisk turned sharply and saw Solomon standing at the bend in the fire escape stairwell above him. He had appeared without a sound and had clearly overheard the call Fisk had just made.
"Perhaps," Fisk replied calmly, pocketing his phone. "I wanted to know what kind of person could host a gala like this."
"This event is to celebrate Aunt Vanessa's release from the hospital," Solomon said with a wink. He had stayed only out of respect for Athena and Vanessa. Jeanne and Bayonetta were already upstairs in the hotel room. "My adoptive mother and Vanessa are old friends. Naturally, she wanted to help."
Fisk smiled, and Solomon reached out to shake his hand.
"She mentioned a young Baroque-style artist—must've been you," Fisk said, surprised by how tall Solomon was. From afar, he hadn't grasped it, but now that they were face to face, the sheer size of the young man struck him. He could see the muscle straining beneath Solomon's tailored suit. This was no pampered aristocrat. This was a beast.
"Wilson Fisk."
"Solomon Damonet. I don't much understand abstract art, but I still think Vanessa is incredibly talented." Solomon smiled politely. Fisk's weak little dominance-play handshake was no match, though he thankfully didn't press it. If he had, Solomon would have shattered his hand right then and there.
"You trained in boxing?" Fisk asked, now that Vanessa wasn't around. His tone had sharpened.
Solomon replied with a bloody grin. "No rules. No refs. Winner takes all."
"What do you prefer?"
"Shooting."
Before the word even finished leaving his lips, a bullet shattered the glass behind Fisk and embedded itself in the wall, brushing his scalp. He instinctively ducked and rolled into a safe corner, while the Arcanist stood calmly in place. Fisk immediately assumed a defensive stance. His brain processed the situation quickly—if Solomon was telling the truth, the sniper was at least a thousand meters away. To have fired that shot at that range, so close to Solomon's head, required terrifying skill.
No matter how much you trusted your sniper, no sane man would let someone put his head in a rifle's crosshairs like that.
This guy's a lunatic.
"Just a warning, Wilson Fisk," Solomon said softly, his voice lighter than the sound of glass falling to the floor. "I knew the moment you ordered your men to investigate me and my adoptive mother before the gala. Don't try using the children in the orphanage as leverage. This time, I'm being polite—for the sake of my mother and Vanessa. Next time, you won't be so lucky."
(End of Chapter)
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