In a dimly lit room that smelled of grief and suppressed violence, a well-dressed man in an expensive suit pushed through the door with the confident stride of someone who'd never doubted their welcome anywhere.
The room was filled with armed Russians who looked like they'd been carved from granite and bad decisions, but the newcomer walked past them with the casual indifference of someone completely secure in their diplomatic immunity.
At the far end of the room stood Vladimir Ranskahov, staring down at a charred corpse laid out on a metal table like a grotesque centerpiece. The body had been recovered from the warehouse ruins—what remained of his younger brother after Noah's explosive farewell gift.
The well-dressed man glanced at the corpse with clinical detachment. "Vladimir, my employer extends his deepest condolences for your loss. Anatoly was... valued by our organization. However, there are pressing matters we need to discuss."
Vladimir turned slowly, his eyes carrying the kind of grief that had curdled into something considerably more dangerous.
"If Fisk wants to talk, he can come himself instead of sending his errand boy to patronize me," Vladimir said, his accent thick with barely controlled rage.
Wesley—for that was the name of Wilson Fisk's impeccably dressed right hand—adjusted his tie with practiced calm. "Mr. Fisk is unfortunately occupied with other business, but he's given me full authority to negotiate on his behalf."
Vladimir stepped closer, his bulk and barely restrained violence making him appear larger than his already considerable frame. "I said I want to talk to Fisk, not one of his dogs."
"Please don't use that name," Wesley replied smoothly. "Mr. Fisk prefers his legitimate identity in professional discussions."
"Wilson Fisk, Kingpin, whatever he calls himself this week," Vladimir snarled, jabbing his finger into Wesley's chest hard enough to stagger him. "You tell him if he wants serious conversation, he comes himself. I don't negotiate with assistants."
Wesley straightened his jacket without apparent concern, his composure unshaken by Vladimir's physical intimidation. "Since you're not interested in business discussion, perhaps we can address more personal matters."
"What personal matters?"
"The two individuals responsible for destroying the warehouse," Wesley said, his tone shifting to something more calculated. "My employer's resources have identified one of the attackers. Following that thread, we expect to identify his accomplice shortly."
Vladimir's demeanor changed instantly, grief and rage crystallizing into laser focus. "Who? Tell me who killed my brother!"
Wesley smiled with the satisfaction of someone holding exactly the right card for the moment. "I understand your eagerness for vengeance. We lost considerable assets in that explosion as well. The desire for justice is... mutual."
He paused, letting Vladimir's anticipation build before continuing.
"However, Mrs. Gao and Mr. Nobu have expressed concerns about your current operational capacity. With Anatoly's death, they question whether you can maintain the same level of effectiveness in your transportation operations."
Vladimir's expression darkened as the political implications became clear. "They're discussing this behind my back?"
"These are practical concerns about maintaining our collective efficiency," Wesley explained with diplomatic smoothness. "Fortunately, my employer is prepared to assist you in maintaining your commitments. Additional resources, expanded support structure, perhaps even direct involvement in some of your more challenging contracts."
"Fisk wants to take over Anatoly's territory," Vladimir stated flatly.
Wesley didn't deny it. "Mr. Fisk believes integrated operations would benefit everyone involved. Shared resources, coordinated logistics, unified command structure for complex operations."
"Unified under his command, you mean."
"Under more experienced management, certainly."
Vladimir's hands clenched into fists the size of canned hams. The alliance that controlled Hell's Kitchen's criminal landscape had been carefully balanced—Mrs. Gao with her heroin distribution, Nobu handling weapons and assassination contracts, Fisk managing political corruption and high-level coordination, and the Ranskahov brothers controlling transportation and enforcement.
With Anatoly dead, that balance was disrupted, and Fisk was clearly moving to consolidate power while Vladimir was weakened by grief and the loss of his most trusted lieutenant.
"Go to hell," Vladimir said with the finality of someone making a declaration of war. "Tell Fisk his appetite is bigger than his stomach. He can't have Anatoly's operations, and he can't have mine."
"I urge you to reconsider," Wesley replied calmly. "My employer's offer comes with certain... advantages. Including information about the individuals who killed your brother."
"Keep your information," Vladimir snarled. "I don't need Fisk's help to find the bastards who murdered Anatoly. When I catch them, I'll handle it personally."
Wesley produced a pristine white handkerchief and dabbed at his face where Vladimir's shouting had left traces of spittle. "I'll convey your position to my employer. I hope you'll reconsider before circumstances force less... amicable solutions."
KNOCK. KNOCK.
Wesley entered the spacious office with the measured pace of someone delivering a tactical assessment rather than disappointing news.
Behind the massive mahogany desk sat a figure that commanded attention through sheer physical presence. Wilson Fisk stood nearly six and a half feet tall and weighed perhaps four hundred pounds, but his bulk carried the solid weight of muscle rather than fat. His expensive suit was tailored to perfection, and his face bore the kind expression of a beloved uncle or community philanthropist.
To most of New York, Wilson Fisk was exactly that—a generous benefactor who donated millions to urban renewal projects and spoke eloquently about bringing peace to Hell's Kitchen's troubled streets.
The irony that Hell's Kitchen's greatest philanthropist was also its most dangerous criminal mastermind was lost on no one who mattered.
"Vladimir declined our generous offer," Wesley reported. "His hatred for the warehouse attackers is... consuming. He's convinced he can handle both revenge and territorial management without assistance."
Fisk steepled his fingers, his expression thoughtful rather than angry. When Wilson Fisk was truly dangerous, he became very quiet and very still.
"Pride," Fisk said softly. "Vladimir's greatest strength and his most exploitable weakness. How long do you estimate before his grief-driven vendetta creates opportunities we can leverage?"
"Days rather than weeks, I believe," Wesley replied. "His resources are already stretched thin hunting for the attackers. If we ensure that search becomes more... demanding, his operational capacity will degrade rapidly."
Fisk nodded slowly, his mind already working through the chess moves that would turn Vladimir's pain into strategic advantage.
"Prepare contingency plans for acquiring Ranskahov assets," Fisk commanded. "And Wesley? Make certain our investigation into these mysterious attackers proceeds faster than Vladimir's. I want to know who they are before he does."
"Of course, sir. Any particular reason?"
Wilson Fisk's smile was gentle and terrifying. "Because whoever they are, they've just provided us with the perfect opportunity to reshape Hell's Kitchen's power structure. It would be rude not to thank them personally."