The way both groups had used the word "sir" in their reports, combined with their military-style communication patterns, made it obvious—these were militarized organizations.
The United States had plenty of those.
Beyond official government agencies, many private security companies recruited recently retired soldiers and operated with military-style command structures.
But security companies handled protection details and risk assessment. They didn't conduct surveillance operations or assassination attempts. These two forces had to be official military or intelligence agencies.
FBI? CIA? Maybe even direct military intelligence?
But if they were both official organizations, why was one trying to assassinate Mr. Quinn while the other was providing surveillance and protection?
Were two different departments working at cross-purposes? Taking independent action based on conflicting directives?
What the hell had Mr. Quinn done to warrant being targeted by two separate government agencies?
"No, I've been approaching this wrong from the start."
Matt pressed his fingers against his temples, massaging gently to ease the headache building from deep concentration.
After a moment, the pressure subsided enough for him to continue thinking clearly.
If these were official organizations, why would they use assassination tactics on American soil? Against an American citizen or resident?
Shouldn't they just issue an arrest warrant and bring him in through legal channels?
"Something's wrong with both these groups."
Matt turned his head toward the directions where both teams were operating. He hesitated for a moment, then made his decision. He took off across the rooftops, heading toward the assassination team's last known position.
The surveillance team was planning to contact him anyway—they weren't going anywhere. But the assassination team was different.
If he didn't follow up now, that lead would go cold.
…
Meanwhile, as Daredevil investigated the mysteries surrounding the Master of All Things, the ripple effects of the Vongola Family's sudden appearance and their conquest of Harlem's gangs were beginning to spread.
S.H.I.E.L.D., the FBI, the CIA, and various military intelligence branches had all obtained information about the incident. Each was taking their own actions regarding the Vongola.
And naturally, the criminal underworld had heard the news as well.
In a conference room at Midtown United Company, a legitimate business that served as a front for less legitimate operations, Wilson Fisk—the Kingpin—sat at the head of a polished table, surrounded by New York's most powerful crime bosses.
"I'm sure you've all heard the news by now." Fisk's massive frame made the expensive chair look almost comically small, but his voice was calm, measured. "The gangs in Harlem have been unified under a single organization. This 'Vongola Family.'" He looked around the table, studying each face carefully. "Has anyone here heard of them before?"
"No."
"Never."
"My operations are all in Hell's Kitchen. I don't know what happens up there."
"Could be an outside group moving in—Mexicans, maybe? Russians?"
The assembled crime lords muttered amongst themselves, but none of them recognized the Vongola name.
Fisk found that deeply troubling.
Harlem's crime rate wasn't quite as high as Hell's Kitchen's, but it was far more chaotic—a completely disorganized war zone. He'd made several attempts over the years to unify the gangs there and establish some kind of order, but every effort had failed.
The fact that the Vongola Family had taken control of the entire territory in less than a day spoke to serious capability.
So why had nobody heard of them?
Because of the supernatural abilities the Vongola had displayed, both S.H.I.E.L.D. and other government agencies had imposed information blackouts. Fisk couldn't get detailed intelligence no matter who he asked or how much he paid.
But his instincts—honed over decades of surviving in the underworld—told him something very unusual was happening.
Thump. Thump.
Madame Gao rapped her cane against the floor twice.
The murmuring stopped immediately. Everyone turned to look at the elderly woman seated near the far end of the table.
"There's no point discussing the Vongola's origins," she said in lightly accented English, her voice thin but commanding. "They control Harlem's gangs now. That's a fact. We should send someone to contact them. Discuss business arrangements."
"Madame Gao is correct." Nobu, the Japanese gang leader, leaned forward slightly. "As long as our larger plans proceed smoothly, it doesn't matter who we partner with. The Vongola's background is irrelevant."
If only it were that simple.
Fisk kept the thought to himself. If the Vongola Family were enemies who'd come specifically to sabotage their operations, making contact would only expose their plans and weaknesses.
But since the respected Madame Gao had spoken, he wouldn't contradict her publicly. Not here.
He gave her a long, meaningful look before issuing his order. "Very well. We'll send an envoy to make contact."
…
While the outside world churned with activity and various factions positioned themselves, Mr. Quinn had a general sense of what was happening.
He could guess based on the steady increase in Faith Points and what he remembered from the films and shows of his previous life.
But he wasn't particularly concerned.
Second-hand information—things people heard through screens or rumors—didn't generate strong emotional responses. The Faith Point yields would be minimal compared to direct encounters.
Ordinary people already provided pitiful amounts individually. And the number who'd learned about the Vongola through indirect channels was basically nothing.
Not worth his attention yet.
If he really wanted to farm Faith Points efficiently, he'd broadcast the Vongola's abilities worldwide and teach people Sun Breathing or something equally dramatic.
But that wasn't the plan. Not yet.
At the moment, he'd just finished shopping and was having lunch at an upscale restaurant in Midtown.
"Well, well. Didn't expect to run into you here, Quinn!"
Quinn glanced up at the sound of the familiar voice. A man who looked like he'd walked off a fashion magazine cover was approaching, a beautiful woman on each arm.
Quinn's expression remained neutral. He didn't respond, returning his attention to his meal.
Undeterred, the man walked right up to Quinn's table, smile firmly in place. "Come on, we didn't exactly part on good terms last time, but we're still acquaintances, right? Not even going to say hello?"
Quinn smiled slightly, not looking up from his food. "What's the point of greeting a dead man walking?"
The smile froze on the man's face. But he recovered almost instantly. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"The symptoms you're displaying..." Quinn finally looked up at him properly. "Actually, forget it. Since you don't want to discuss it, we won't. I was going to introduce you to a doctor who could solve your problem, but never mind."
"Wait!"
The man's casual facade cracked. He glanced at the two women clinging to his arms. "Ladies, go ahead and order without me. I need to discuss something."
"Sure, Tony."
The women left obediently, giggling as they found their own table.
Tony Stark—because of course it was Tony Stark—slid into the empty seat across from Quinn. "Alright, you've got what you wanted. Face-to-face conversation with Tony Stark, no distractions."
Quinn raised an eyebrow, amused. "I saw the news recently. You've been even more aggressive than usual—parties every night, different woman every time. I thought maybe you'd changed. But you're still the same arrogant asshole."
"If I changed, would I still be me?" Tony shot back.
"Do you really want to have a philosophical debate right now?"
"I'm not great at philosophy, but if you want to discuss—" Tony saw Quinn start to stand up and immediately dropped the act. "Alright, alright. What did you mean about symptoms?"
Quinn settled back into his seat, satisfied. "Even with the makeup, you can't hide it from me. You're poisoned."
"...Yeah." Tony hesitated for just a moment before admitting it. "I've tried everything. Every medical expert, every treatment protocol. Best I can do is slow down the progression."
"I know a doctor. She can fix it."
"Who?"
Tony leaned forward, trying to look skeptical but unable to hide the desperate hope in his eyes.
He didn't really believe someone else could solve a problem he couldn't. But when your life was on the line, you tried everything.
"Twenty million dollars."