"Normally, when I deal with rich brats like you, I've got a dozen ways to handle them," Wilson Fisk said, still holding his boxer's stance, waiting for Solomon to step into his blind spot so he could launch an attack. He refused to back down—especially in front of a younger man. But Solomon only smirked with utter disdain, and that expression irritated Fisk more than any words ever could. Fisk had only wanted to run a background check, nothing more—he hadn't expected this level of retaliation. Still, he remained confident that, if it came to a fight, his fists were closer than any sniper round.
"You want to know what happened to your guys?" Solomon asked calmly.
"I already know," Solomon continued, "Every single one of your crimes—I have evidence. Solid proof. Surveillance footage, audio recordings, financial records, all of it points straight to you. Every text you send is monitored. Every word you and your men say is backed up through your phones. Oh—and that thing you did with the car door a while back, smashing a guy's head in? That was caught by a dashcam."
That was the kind of line that could destroy anyone in the internet age.
"I know how far your little investigation into my mother and me went. But it's over. Finished. I know what you're willing to do for Vanessa—but I will not allow anyone to use the orphanage children as bargaining chips. If you ask your former mentor, Elijah, about my name, you'll understand what it means. And just to make sure you got the message, I already wiped out part of your 'armed force'—if you can even call those gold-chain-wearing thugs and washed-up veterans with shiny new holsters a fighting force."
Fisk clenched his jaw as the phone in his pocket began to buzz again and again.
He couldn't tell whether Solomon was bluffing, but that shot just now had been real. He understood instinctively that the man in front of him was a monster, the kind that danced on the edge of insanity. The sniper round had cratered the wall, a deep dent now ringed in a delicate spiderweb of cracks. Fisk could swear he still smelled the gunpowder, even if he knew it was just his imagination. Cold sweat dripped down his back.
"What do you want? You want me to work for you?" he asked through gritted teeth. "Or are you just flexing power—ruining the lives of people beneath you for fun?"
"You're thinking too hard, Wilson Fisk. I already told you what I wanted—you just didn't believe me. You mean absolutely nothing to me. The only reason I'm doing this is because your men drove to the wrong place—Mount Athena. That's it. Because Vanessa chose you and abandoned her years-long friendship with Minerva, this gala is the final favor we will extend."
Solomon spoke slowly, like he was trying to explain something to a particularly dim child. Hands in his pockets, he strolled casually out of the firing line and walked toward Fisk—confident that what came next would sap the will to fight right out of him.
"Vanessa is going to die. That was her first encounter with death. There will be a second. And a third. As long as she stays with you, death will find her again and again. She knows the prophecy and still refused to leave. So my mother and I… we gave up trying to convince her."
"What prophecy? Vanessa's not going to be in danger again!" Fisk barked, as if Solomon had insulted him.
But Solomon found the man's bravado laughable. He wanted to reap the benefits of being a violent criminal but balked at the cost. That's not how the world worked. Still, Solomon didn't bother arguing. Let Fisk believe he could protect her. If it kept him docile, so be it.
"She didn't die this time, which means she'll have a child with you. A boy. If you're curious, when the time comes and he's born but still unnamed, you can ask me what his name will be. I guarantee it will be exactly what you were going to choose."
Fisk's breath hitched. His expression softened.
"Vanessa's pregnant?"
"Not yet. That's a few years down the line. But I promise it'll be a boy—and the only child you'll ever have." Solomon smiled warmly, with a calm, almost fatherly tone.
And then his voice dropped low and venomous.
"But if you ever reach for that orphanage, that boy will never exist. I will kill Vanessa. I will kill your senile mother. I will kill everyone you care about. Even if the boy is just born, I'll strangle him in his crib. Then I'll rip your spine out and leave you like a crippled dog in the gutter, eating garbage to stay alive. I think that's a language you can understand."
It was the first real threat Solomon had ever delivered himself. Normally, charm and negotiation solved everything. But this time, it was personal. Still, he couldn't resist spicing it with some British literary idioms—none of which Fisk could grasp. It was way above the head of a Hell's Kitchen street rat.
But the message got through.
The threat worked. Fisk's posture relaxed—his fight drained away. Solomon took a couple of steps back, keeping distance. He had no interest in being too close to men like Fisk.
"All this… just for that?" Fisk asked, breathing heavily.
"Yes. Just for that." Solomon nodded and turned to ascend the staircase, stepping back into the sniper's firing line without a glance at Fisk. "I'm sure in your line of work, you've heard threats like this before. You know exactly what they mean."
"And… the prophecy. You didn't say much about that."
"This isn't a deal. This isn't a Mexican standoff. And I'm not negotiating." Solomon turned to him, eyes cold. "Everyone here? We're all decent folk."
"I don't believe there's anything in this world that can't be negotiated."
"You're right." Solomon smirked.
With a flick of his hand, two shadowy hounds leapt out of the darkness—beasts molded from pitch-black tar.
"Then trade your life. Because you're still useful to someone. Survive, and then you can start bargaining."
(End of Chapter)
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