"Wilson, it's only been two minutes and the news has already reached you," Ethan said with an amused smile.
The man on the other end of the phone let out a helpless sigh. His deep voice carried the calm authority of someone used to controlling dangerous situations. "Ethan, next time you plan something like this, you should give me a heads-up first. Cleaning up afterward can become a headache."
Ethan leaned casually against the rooftop railing as the cold night wind brushed past him. The flashing lights of distant traffic reflected off the glass towers surrounding Manhattan. His tone remained relaxed as he replied.
"A headache? Come on. It's just Aldrick Morgan. I don't believe there's anything in this city that can give an emperor like you a real headache."
The man he was speaking with was Wilson Fisk.
In the criminal world, the name carried a far more infamous title.
The Kingpin.
To many people in New York's underworld, Wilson Fisk wasn't just a crime boss. He was the emperor of organized crime. A staggering portion of the city's illegal operations—smuggling, arms trafficking, underground finance, and countless other shadow businesses—could ultimately be traced back to his influence.
Some analysts even believed that nearly half of the major criminal networks across the United States had indirect ties to him.
The reason Ethan and Fisk had become so familiar with each other dated back several years.
Not long after Ethan joined the FBI, he happened to rescue a young boy during a violent incident involving a kidnapping attempt. That boy turned out to be Richard Fisk, Wilson Fisk's only son.
From that moment on, the two men had formed an unusual connection.
Richard adored Ethan and insisted on calling him his godfather. Because of that bond, Wilson Fisk gradually came to regard Ethan as a trusted friend rather than an enemy.
The relationship had proven surprisingly useful.
Ethan's rise through the FBI ranks had been remarkably fast. Within just five years he became Chief Agent of the Criminal Investigation Division in the New York branch.
That kind of promotion speed was almost unheard of.
But the reason behind it became obvious when one looked closer.
Whenever Ethan handled a difficult case, he rarely had to chase suspects personally. A single phone call would sometimes cause the culprit to surrender within twenty-four hours.
With such astonishing case resolution rates, his record inside the FBI looked almost legendary.
Wilson Fisk chuckled softly on the phone. "Let's drop the subject. I'll deal with the Morgan situation and make sure nothing points back to you."
After a brief pause, Fisk continued.
"By the way, Richard kept pestering me today. He said he wants to visit you again. How about coming over tomorrow evening for dinner?"
As Ethan had already pointed out, Aldrick Morgan's death wasn't a major problem for someone like Wilson Fisk. Handling the aftermath would be little more than routine.
"Sounds good," Ethan replied. "See you tomorrow night. And remember to ask Vanessa to bake extra pineapple pie. I'm taking some home with me."
Fisk laughed quietly. "No problem. See you tomorrow."
The call ended shortly afterward.
…
Ethan drove his black Mercedes G-Class slowly out of the underground parking garage. The heavy vehicle rolled onto the street just as distant sirens began echoing through the night.
Within seconds several police cars sped past him, their flashing lights slicing through the darkness as they rushed toward Manhattan.
Ethan rubbed his chin thoughtfully while watching them disappear down the road.
"Looks like Morgan's death really stirred things up," he murmured to himself.
Normally the New York Police Department wasn't exactly known for lightning-fast response times. For them to mobilize so quickly meant powerful people were already applying pressure.
Even so, Ethan felt absolutely no concern.
There was no realistic way the investigation could lead back to him.
Not only would Wilson Fisk quietly manipulate things behind the scenes, but Ethan's own methods were nearly impossible to trace. His sniping abilities had long surpassed the limits of ordinary elite marksmen.
More importantly, the trajectory of his shots didn't travel in simple straight lines.
Because of the unique marksmanship he inherited from Deadshot's legacy, Ethan could fire bullets that curved through the air. Those unnatural arcs made it extremely difficult for forensic analysts to determine the true origin point of the shot.
Over the past several years, he had performed operations like this many times.
By now it felt almost instinctive.
Buzz… buzz…
His phone rang again.
Ethan glanced at the screen and saw it was one of his subordinates calling from the FBI office. He answered with mild annoyance.
"What is it? Don't you know it's off-duty hours?"
The voice on the other end sounded slightly nervous.
"Boss, there's been a murder at the Hilton Hotel. The victim is Aldrick Morgan from the Morgan family—"
Before the man could finish speaking, Ethan interrupted him.
"A murder? And why exactly are you calling me about that? Since when does the FBI get mobilized for a single homicide? Isn't that what the New York police are for?"
"Boss… this order came directly from the director."
Ethan snorted.
"Director Davis? That fat pig?" he said dismissively. "What's he planning now, wasting taxpayer money again?"
He let out a short breath before continuing.
"Listen. If the FBI wants to take over the case, they can do it properly. Wait until the police finish their initial investigation and officially transfer it to us. I'm busy tonight."
Without waiting for a response, Ethan ended the call.
He switched on the car's stereo and drove calmly toward home.
Ethan lived on Long Island, one of the most famous wealthy residential areas in New York.
On paper, his government salary shouldn't have allowed such luxury. Even with bonuses and allowances, an FBI chief agent earned roughly two hundred thousand dollars per year.
That kind of income wasn't enough to purchase a multi-million-dollar villa in Long Island.
However, Ethan had another source of money.
Occasionally, operations like tonight's job paid extremely well.
With Wilson Fisk's connections, laundering that income into legitimate funds was remarkably easy. The only irritating part was paying taxes on the cleaned money.
Still, once the taxes were paid, Ethan could spend it freely without attracting suspicion.
His villa alone was valued at around seventeen million dollars, making it impressive even by Long Island standards.
The property covered more than twelve acres. It included indoor and outdoor heated swimming pools, a private theater, a fully equipped gym, a wine cellar, and even a small par-three golf course.
As soon as Ethan parked his car inside the garage, raised voices drifted out from the house.
"Pietro, hurry up and clean this place before Ethan gets home! If he sees this mess, you're the one getting punished."
"Stop calling me Pietro. Call me big brother."
"Not happening. You were only born twelve minutes earlier than me."
Ethan rubbed his forehead.
He had no idea why the siblings were arguing again today. Just yesterday they had nearly started a full-blown fight because Pietro drank Wanda's bedtime milk.
"You two—what's going on today—"
Ethan pushed the door open and began to shout toward the living room.
The moment he stepped inside, his face darkened.
The house looked like a disaster zone.
Drinks had spilled across both the dining table and coffee table. Empty snack wrappers littered the floor. There were even streaks of melted cheese across the marble tiles that looked suspiciously like someone had used a pizza as a skateboard.
A red-haired girl who looked about fifteen or sixteen immediately ran toward him.
She grabbed Ethan's arm tightly and pointed accusingly across the room.
"I want to report him! Pietro knew you wouldn't be home tonight, so he invited his friends over for a party. It just ended, and I told him to clean everything up, but he refused."
Hearing her complaint, Ethan slowly turned his gaze toward the silver-haired boy lounging on the couch.
"Pietro," he said flatly.
"If this house isn't spotless within five seconds, I'm locking you in the bathroom for three days."
The silver-haired boy instantly stiffened.
He jumped off the couch in a panic and hurriedly pulled a pair of goggles over his eyes.
"Five seconds," he declared confidently. "That's more than enough."
The moment he finished speaking, he vanished.
To Ethan's eyes, a blur of afterimages shot across the living room. The silver streak darted around the house at impossible speed while garbage bags, snack wrappers, and spilled drinks disappeared one after another.
In less than five seconds, the entire living room looked perfectly clean.
The next moment Pietro reappeared directly in front of Ethan. He removed his goggles and flashed a smug grin.
"See? Less than five seconds."
As he said that, he deliberately glanced at the red-haired girl clinging to Ethan's arm.
Wanda puffed out her cheeks angrily.
Watching the siblings fall back into their usual rivalry, Ethan couldn't help smiling.
"Well," he said thoughtfully, "since Pietro made the mess and didn't clean it immediately when asked, we still need a punishment."
He crossed his arms and continued.
"As punishment, your pocket money next month will go to Wanda."
Pietro froze in horror.
"Oh no! That can't happen!" he shouted. "I'm planning to buy a new game next month. Ethan, you can't do this to me!"
He pointed accusingly at his sister.
"Besides, Wanda already gets more allowance than I do!"