Delilah had never liked the money end of things.
The Rose had kept her far from it—deliberately. He'd used her as a blade, never as a ledger. She wasn't the type who balanced books, not when her fists could crush skulls faster than any calculator. But as she leaned against a grimy wall in the backroom of a dingy Brooklyn bar, watching smoke coils rise from a crooked ashtray, she realized how much power she'd been denied.
Power wasn't just muscle. Power was knowing who moved what, where it was going, and when it got there. Power was logistics, and the Rose never trusted her with it.
But Luc Moreau—the smooth Frenchman with the voice that rasped like gravel over velvet—he promised her something more. Not just a role as an enforcer. A stake. A chance to build something of her own.
If he wasn't bluffing.
Delilah intended to find out.
She squeezed her network. Informants who owed her money. Runners who owed her fear. Arms dealers who'd once seen her break a man's wrist like snapping a breadstick. She leaned on them one by one, pressing, intimidating, promising, threatening. And all paths led to Red Cap.
Jumpy little bastard, courier with a baseball cap pulled low. Ethan—though she didn't know it—had marked him earlier when he'd sent a coded message to Peter's phone. Red Cap was a leak, a thread dangling loose from the pipeline. If she tugged hard enough, maybe she'd see what unraveled.
She tailed him. Shadowed him through alleys slick with last night's rain, through crowded streets where no one looked twice at a runner carrying a duffel bag. Delilah moved like a predator in the dark, every nerve sharp, paranoia tingling at the edges.
She thought of Luc's offer: an empire, not just wages. The Rose had always said she wasn't built for the money side. Maybe he was wrong.
Maybe Luc was right.
Across the city, Peter Parker was having a very different morning.
Ricochet's leather jacket creaked as he tugged it on, mask slipping into place. The mirror in his apartment reflected not Spider-Man, but someone sharper, faster-talking, meaner.
The Ricochet persona was all attitude—smirks and swagger and the kind of careless charm that made crooks trust you. But beneath it, Peter kept Spider-Man's discipline like steel bones under the skin.
He laid his tools on the desk:
Micro-trackers disguised as coins—light enough to flick like party tricks, heavy enough to cling magnetically.
A spring-loaded flicker that could launch a tag mid-conversation.
Palmed stickers no bigger than a thumbprint, meant to vanish once attached.
Every piece was plausible for a streetwise crook who loved gadgets. None of it screamed "Spider-Man."
Peter flipped a coin into the air, let it vanish into his palm, then reappear between his fingers. He practiced lines under his breath. Snark. Jokes. Lies that felt like someone else's truth.
He didn't hate it; still, it felt like slipping further into deception, but it was the only way to work with someone like Delilah. Spider-Man she'd never trust. Ricochet she just might.
"Fast-talking crook-for-hire," he muttered. "Yeah. Uncle Ben would love this."
Delilah was waiting when Ricochet arrived at the yard.
It wasn't much—just an industrial patch of chain-link fencing and corrugated steel warehouses, the kind of place that stank of oil and forgotten deals. But it was where Roughhouse parked muscle when Black Tarantula needed bodies on call.
Delilah's posture screamed impatience. Her fists clenched, her shoulders taut like coiled wire. She wanted to smash through the gate, tear the place apart, and make someone bleed.
"They're right there," she said, her voice edged with fury. "Let's take care of this quickly. This will deal a large blow to their organization."
Ricochet flipped a coin lazily, letting it catch the light before vanishing into his palm. "I think we should wait because if we hit the front door, you get just the guards. However, if we keep our cool and watch, then the guards will lead us to the lieutenants. The lieutenants lead to the boss. You want the root, not the branches."
Her eyes narrowed. "You sound more like a cop than a crook."
He grinned behind the mask. "Nah. Cops want arrests. I want results. And results mean patience. Besides, the pigs are annoyingly good at their jobs; might as well learn from 'em."
Her lips curled. "Patience. Cute word for cowardice."
Ricochet flicked the coin again, sharp and fast. "Cute word for not getting shot in the back. Trust me, tag and tail gets us the whole tree. Smash-and-grab only gets you splinters."
For a long moment, she just stared at him. Then, with a frustrated exhale, she relented. "Fine. Two-stage plan. But if we lose them because of your games, it's your neck."
"Lady, my neck's worth more than this jacket," Ricochet shot back, and they moved.
Red Cap led them straight into a storage yard. Crates stacked high, trucks idling, guards pacing with the false confidence of men who thought they were untouchable.
Ricochet went to work. Sleight-of-hand, subtle flicks, casual tosses. A coin hit the dirt and stuck, magnet clinging to the underside of a truck. A careless lean against a crate left a tracker pressed snug against the wood. Nobody noticed. Nobody ever did.
Delilah watched. She wasn't easy to impress, but the way he moved—efficient, invisible, deliberate—caught her attention. No wasted motion. No unnecessary risks. And never, not once, did he let skin touch skin. She filed that detail away. Crooks didn't care about that. Professionals did.
Then the air shifted.
Bloodscream.
He moved like a shadow given flesh, pale face stretched into something not quite human. His touch was death, his hunger endless. He supervised as a sedated captive was dragged from a van—someone important, Delilah guessed, though the details didn't matter. What mattered was that this was no ordinary crew.
Even Delilah, hardened as she was, felt a ripple of unease.
Ricochet's fists tightened. Every instinct screamed at him to leap, to save the victim, to end this here. But Ricochet's discipline won over Spider-Man's sense of justice. He stayed still. Silent.
Delilah glanced at him. For a man who made bold claims at being the best crook, he was awfully good at holding back.
Back at the hotel, Ethan's screens glowed cold blue against his tired face.
CCTV feeds, Peter's tracker signal, comm relays. He saw the pieces moving, like chess on ten different boards.
He picked up his phone and dialed.
"Felicia."
Her voice came smooth and sharp. "What now? It's pretty late for you to be calling me now. You want me tailing Vemon again?"
Ethan smirked. "Not this time. Peter—he's wearing a new mask, working with an assassin named Delilah. They're moving against a criminal group. I want eyes on them. Quiet ones."
"So I'm watching Spider's back from the shadows again." Her laugh was low, dangerous. "Spider owes me. And now you do too."
"I'll make it worth your while," Ethan said, voice calm, confident.
Silence hummed on the line. Then Felicia chuckled. "You always do know how to make trouble sound tempting."
The line cut. Ethan leaned back in his chair, expression unreadable, already considering the chaos the next few days would bring.