In the dimly lit room, a well-dressed, gentle-looking man pushed open the door.
Ignoring the heavily armed Russian gangsters stationed around the room, he walked inside slowly and deliberately, heels clicking on the cold floor.
At the far end of the room stood a short-haired Russian man.
He stared blankly at the charred corpse laid out on the table in front of him.
The gentle man gave the body a cursory glance before speaking in a calm, detached tone:
"Vladimir, my employer sends his condolences. He deeply regrets your brother's passing. However, there are matters we still need to discuss."
For a few seconds, Vladimir said nothing.
Then he turned to face him, his face cold and impassive.
"Jin should come talk to me himself," Vladimir growled.
"Not send some dog to brush me off."
"Apologies," the gentle man replied smoothly.
"My employer has encountered some pressing issues and could not come in person. But he has given me full authority to speak on his behalf. You can rest assured."
Vladimir stepped forward.
The rage brewing in his eyes was like a dormant brown bear about to lash out. He came so close their noses almost touched.
"You tell Fisk this—" he snarled, "If he wants to talk business, he can haul his fat ass here himself. I won't negotiate with one of his lapdogs."
The gentle man narrowed his eyes slightly but kept his voice calm:
"Please do not use that name so casually."
"Oh?" Vladimir sneered.
"You mean Jin Bin? Or would you prefer Wilson Fisk?"
He jabbed his thick finger into the man's chest, pushing him backward a few steps.
Despite the physical aggression, the gentle man—Wesley—simply straightened his collar, unperturbed.
"Since you don't wish to discuss business," Wesley said, dusting himself off, "perhaps we can move on to private matters instead."
"Private matters?" Vladimir growled.
"Regarding the two attackers who blew up your warehouse," Wesley continued smoothly.
"My employer has already launched an investigation. We've uncovered the identity of one of them. And soon, we'll find the other."
"What!?"
Vladimir surged forward, his face twisting with fury.
"Who are they!? Tell me!"
"Patience," Wesley said with infuriating calm.
"I understand your anger. After all, my employer also lost people in that fiasco... along with a valuable shipment. You're not the only one seeking answers."
Vladimir's breathing grew heavier.
But Wesley wasn't finished.
"I advise you to control your emotions," he said smoothly.
"Mrs. Gao and Mr. Xin have already been informed of Anatoly's death. They're concerned that without your brother, your ability to manage your territories may be... compromised."
Vladimir's face turned an even deeper shade of red.
"Why wasn't I told about this?" he snapped.
"Because," Wesley replied with a slight smile, "it was discussed privately."
The temperature in the room dropped several degrees.
Wesley went on, as calm as ever:
"Fortunately, my employer is willing to support you in maintaining your current holdings... by assisting you with certain assignments that may now be too much for you to handle alone."
Vladimir's fists clenched so tightly his knuckles cracked audibly.
He had already guessed where this was going.
"Fisk wants my territory," Vladimir said through gritted teeth.
"That bastard sees an opportunity now that Anatoly's dead."
He bared his teeth like a cornered wolf.
"And he's sending you to carve it up."
Wesley didn't bother denying it.
"It's for the good of all," he said evenly.
"You'll still have power. It's a mutually beneficial arrangement."
"Mutually beneficial, my ass!"
Vladimir slammed a fist onto the table, causing several weapons to clatter noisily.
"Fisk wants half my fing empire!"* he roared.
"He wants the territory Anatoly and I spent years building!"
His voice was hoarse from screaming.
Wesley simply wiped a fleck of spit from his cheek with a handkerchief, looking almost bored.
"Think it over carefully," he said mildly.
"My employer is waiting for your answer."
And with that, Wesley turned and walked out, leaving Vladimir shaking with fury in the smoky room.
Outside the building.
After a polite knock, Wesley entered a different, far more luxurious office.
He approached the massive desk at the center and bowed slightly toward the man seated there.
"Sir," Wesley said respectfully, "Vladimir refused. But his hatred for the two attackers runs deep. He will act out of emotion. It's only a matter of time."
The figure behind the desk said nothing at first.
In the light, the man's massive form was unmistakable.
A towering giant of a man, close to two meters tall, with a thick build.
He wore an expensive, perfectly tailored suit. His face was round, almost kindly—if you didn't look too closely at his eyes.
To the public, he was known as Wilson Fisk—a philanthropist, a generous patron of New York's restoration projects.
A man who claimed he only wanted peace for the city.
But behind the scenes?
He was feared under another name.
Kingpin.
The true master of New York's underworld.
The real power in Hell's Kitchen.
And when Wilson Fisk's lips finally curved into a slow, thoughtful smile, Wesley knew—
Things were about to get much, much worse.
[End of Chapter 28]
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