Gwen looked like she'd been through a blender, her suit torn in half a dozen places, blood streaking her thigh and arm where the knives had kissed her skin. She leaned against the rooftop ledge, mask lenses fogged from her breathing, one hand pressed to her side like she could hold herself together by will alone. The wind tugged at her hair where it escaped the hood, and her shoulders slumped in that way that said she was running on fumes and stubbornness.
I dug into my utility belt, fingers closing around the small clay jar that had saved Captain Stacy's life a month back. One senzu bean left the jar, green and unassuming, smelling faintly of grass and something electric. I tossed it to her underhand, easy catch.
Peter: Checkpoint perk. Take a bite. You'll be good as new.
She caught it one-handed, turning it over in her palm like it was a grenade pin.
Gwen: What is this, some kind of super-vitamin?
Peter: Trust me. Just a bite.
Gwen hesitated, then nodded, popping it between her teeth. She chewed once, twice, and her eyes went wide behind the lenses. The color rushed back to her face, the slump in her shoulders straightening like someone had flipped a switch. The cuts on her arm knit closed, skin sealing without a scar, and she flexed her fingers, staring at them like they belonged to someone else.
Gwen: Holy shit. Peter, what the hell?
Peter: Later.
I said, glancing at the four Widows sprawled across the gravel, webbed and battered but still breathing shallow. One had her mask half-off, blood bubbling from a split lip, eyes locked on us with that cold promise of payback.
Peter: Go rest at my place. Gaia'll watch the door. You've earned a shower and eight hours of nothing.
Gwen straightened fully, the bean doing its work fast, but she shot a look at the bound women, worry creasing her brow even through the mask.
Gwen: What about them? We can't just leave them here for the cops or... whoever.
I smiled, tired but real, wiping blood from my nose with the back of my glove.
Peter: I'll handle it. Promise. Get some sleep, partner.
She studied me for a second, then stepped close, one gloved hand cupping my jaw quick and firm.
Gwen: Don't do anything stupid without me.
Peter: Wouldn't dream of it.
Gwen nodded, shot a web line into the dark, and swung away, her silhouette cutting against the skyline until she vanished around a corner. The thwip of the line faded, leaving just the wind and the groans from the gravel.
I turned back to the Widows, rolling my shoulders to work out the kinks from the fight. They were a mess—arms pinned by webs, legs tangled, one with a dislocated shoulder she was trying to pop back in with gritted teeth. Tough as nails, every one of them. Red Room tough.
Peter: You can come out now.
I said to the empty air, loud enough to carry over the rooftop hum.
Nothing for a beat. Then a soft scrape of boot on gravel from the shadow of the water tower, where the dark pooled deepest. She stepped into the light like she'd been part of it all along—red hair catching the neon from a distant billboard, green eyes sharp as broken glass, black suit hugging her curves like it was painted on, all leather and tactical weave that said she could kill you smiling. Natasha Romanoff. Black Widow. I'd seen the files, the grainy SHIELD leaks Gaia had pulled for me. She looked exactly like the pictures, but better—tired around the eyes, a little haunted, like the job had carved pieces out of her she couldn't get back.
She sighed, hands open at her sides, no weapons visible but I knew better.
Natasha: Relax. I'm not a threat. I work for SHIELD.
I kept the shield up, casual but ready, energy pool ticking down slow from the push earlier.
Peter: I know. I've done my own digging.
Her eyebrow arched, just a fraction.
Natasha: Digging, huh? You kids are full of surprises.
Peter: Let me guess. You want to recruit me. Us. The whole 'with great power' pitch, right? Tired as I am, that restaurant you grabbed breakfast at this morning the one with the shitty coffee and the eggs that looked like they fought back we can talk there. Personally.
She tilted her head, studying me like I was a puzzle with missing pieces.
Natasha: You followed me to breakfast?
Peter: SHIELD's not the only one with eyes in the sky.
I nodded at the Widows, who were starting to stir more, one testing the webs with a knife she'd hidden God knows where.
Peter: You handle them? They're your sisters, after all.
Natasha's jaw tightened, just for a second, something raw flashing in those green eyes before she locked it down. She nodded once, short.
Natasha: Yeah. I'll handle them.
I tossed a smoke bomb at my feet, the canister hissing as it hit gravel. Thick gray cloud billowed up fast, swallowing me whole, and I was gone before the first tendril reached her.
Natasha crouched in the shadow of the rooftop's lone water tower, the metal still warm from the day's sun despite the chill creeping in off the river. Her coat was dusted with gravel, a thin line of blood trickling from a cut on her palm where she'd grabbed a jagged vent pipe during the scramble down. The Widows lay scattered across the roof like broken dolls, suits torn, masks cracked, breathing shallow but steady. One had her eyes open, staring at the sky with that blank Red Room look, like she'd already calculated her odds and found them wanting. Natasha knelt beside her, checking pulses one by one—strong, all of them. Battered, humiliated, but alive. For now.
She pulled the comm from her ear, thumbing the secure line with a bloody fingerprint that the device didn't even register as a problem. It rang twice before Hill picked up, voice tight like she'd been waiting for the call all night.
Hill: Romanoff. Talk to me.
Natasha kept her voice low, eyes on the street below where a patrol car idled at a light, oblivious.
Natasha: Extraction needed. Four packages, rooftop on 47th and 2nd. They're down but breathing. Send a med evac bird, quiet entry, no lights. And make it fast—these girls don't stay down long.
A pause, the kind Hill used when she was processing bad news.
Hill: Four? All of them?
Natasha: All of them.
She glanced at the nearest Widow, the one with the dislocated shoulder she'd popped back in place herself. The woman's chest rose and fell in even rhythm, but her fingers twitched, testing the zip-ties.
Natasha: Those two kids... Vector and Ghost-Spider... they didn't kill. Broke 'em good, though. Fractures, concussions, one with a knife wound that needs stitches. But alive. They wanted us to see that.
Hill let out a breath that sounded like relief mixed with something sharper.
Hill: Damn, that fast. We lost contact with the assets six hours ago, and you already have them gift-wrapped?
Natasha stood, wiping her hand on her thigh, the leather sticking slightly.
Natasha: Gift-wrapped's generous. More like they handed me a problem I didn't ask for.
She paced a short line, boots crunching gravel, the sound too loud in the quiet.
Natasha: The kids knew I was here. The whole time. Vector clocked me during the fight—didn't even blink. He called it out like we'd planned a coffee date.
Another pause. Hill was good at those, using them to buy time while she rerouted resources in her head.
Hill: Fury's going to want a full debrief. You talk to them?
Natasha's jaw tightened. She thought of the way Vector had looked at her after the smoke cleared, white hair matted with sweat, blood on his lip, but his eyes steady, like he'd seen worse than a rooftop brawl with four assassins.
Natasha: Briefly. Told me to meet him at that diner on 8th, the one with the greasy eggs. Said we could talk 'personally.' Like he's interviewing for a job, not dodging SHIELD.
Hill snorted, the sound almost human.
Hill: Kid's got balls. What about the girl?
Natasha: Gone. Swung off before I could say boo. But they're linked. Partners. You can see it in how they fight—back to back, no hesitation.
Natasha stopped pacing, leaned against the tower, the metal cool against her shoulder.
Natasha: Maria, these aren't street vigilantes. They're smart. Prepared. Vector's got psychokinesis that could level a block if he wanted, and the girl's webs... they're not just sticky. She's got variants—nets, tasers, shit I've never seen. They took down four Widows without crossing the line into murder. That's not luck. That's control.
Hill's voice softened a fraction, the deputy director peeking through the handler.
Hill: You sound almost impressed.
Natasha: I am.
She kicked a loose pebble off the ledge, watching it tumble into the dark thirty stories down.
Natasha: They're kids, Maria. Teens. Fighting like they've been doing it forever. And they didn't kill. Even when they could have. That's more than I managed at their age.
The line went quiet again, Hill giving her space. Natasha stared at the skyline, Manhattan's lights blurring a little in the corner of her eye. She thought of Odessa, the way Clint's arrow had trembled in his hand, the choice he'd given her when no one else would. Thought of the girls she'd left behind in the Red Room, the ones who hadn't made it out, the ones who'd become the monsters now zip-tied at her feet.
Natasha: Extraction ETA?
She asked, breaking the silence.
Hill: Ten minutes. Black van on the ground, bird overhead for cover. We'll have med teams standing by.
Natasha: Good. Tell Fury the meeting's on. But if he wants to recruit, he better bring something better than threats and a badge.
Hill: Copy that. And Natasha?
Natasha: Yeah?
Hill: Watch your back. Those kids might be heroes, but heroes get people killed.
Natasha clicked off the comm, slipping it back into her ear. She walked over to the nearest Widow, the one with the split mask, and knelt, checking the zip-ties again. The woman's eyes flicked to her, recognition dawning slow through the pain.
Widow: Sister.
The Widow rasped, voice thick with blood and accent.
Natasha met her gaze, steady.
Natasha: Not anymore.
She stood, pulling her coat tighter against the wind, and waited for the van's headlights to cut the dark.
The city kept breathing below her, unaware that the war had just shifted sides.
The workshop was the only place that didn't feel like a lie right now. Clean lines, humming machines, no blood on the floor or ghosts in the corners. I paced the main bay, boots scuffing the seamless tile, the faint buzz of servers the only sound cutting through the quiet. Upstairs, Gwen was finally out, crashed in the guest room after a bath that steamed up the mirrors and left her smelling like eucalyptus and relief. She'd peeled off the suit, bruises blooming ugly across her ribs and thighs, but that senzu bean had done its job—knitted her up enough that she could breathe without wincing. I'd made her promise to sleep. No arguments. For once, she didn't fight it.
I stopped in front of the central holo-table,the globe spinning slow with its web of red dots Hammerhead's empire, or what was left after we'd spent the week carving chunks out like it was rotten fruit. The Widows were in SHIELD hands now, Romanoff's cleanup crew hauling them off like yesterday's trash, but that didn't touch the root. The root was a fat, steel-plated bastard who'd decided two kids playing hero were worth calling in the Red Room's worst. Like we were roaches he could stomp without a second thought.
Peter: Gaia.
I said, voice flat, not looking up from the display.
Peter: You done investigating?
Her hologram flickered to life beside me, the usual mercury-starlight figure materializing with that faint shimmer, arms crossed like she was waiting for me to catch up.
Gaia: Yes, Peter. Every thread pulled. It's comprehensive.
I nodded, but it felt like swallowing nails.
Peter: Good. Play it for me.
The holo shifted, files cascading across the table like a deck of cards someone had kicked over. Gaia's voice overlaid it all, calm as a newscaster reading stock prices, but I could hear the edge she put in for me—the quiet fury she mirrored back because she knew I needed it to keep from punching the wall.
Gaia: Joseph Lorenzini, aka Hammerhead. Started as muscle for Silvio Manfredi in the late seventies, rose through enforcer ranks by '78. First recorded hit: Tommy Vitale, rival family lieutenant, garroted in a Naples back alley during a sit-down. No witnesses. Manfredi covered it as a heart attack. Hammerhead got promoted.
I clenched my fists, nails digging crescents into my palms. Naples in '78. The same year he'd cashed in favors to start this whole mess. Fitting.
Gaia: Fast-forward to New York, early eighties. Takes over a Bronx crew after a turf war leaves twenty dead. His signature: the headshots. Always two to the dome, execution style. NYPD pinned thirty-one unsolved murders on him by '85, including that Irish importer who crossed the docks deal—body fished out of the East River with his eyelids sewn shut. Message to the competition.
The files scrolled, photos grainy but clear enough: bloated bodies in morgue slabs, chalk outlines on rainy pavement, police reports stamped cold. I felt the anger build slow, like pressure in a pipe about to burst.
Gaia: Eighties to nineties: expands into narcotics. Heroin from Sicilian suppliers, cuts it with fentanyl before anyone knew what that was. Overdose spikes in Harlem and the Bronx jump 400% under his watch. Undercover fed goes missing in '92—turns up in a barrel off Staten Island, tongue cut out. Hammerhead walks because the jury foreman was on payroll.
Gwen's face flashed in my mind, her laugh from earlier when she'd stolen a bite of my pasta, easy and light like we weren't one bad night from losing it all. These weren't numbers. These were lives he'd ground under his heel for a bigger slice.
Gaia: Two thousands: human trafficking. Girls from Eastern Europe, promised modeling gigs, end up in Maggia brothels from Atlantic City to Boston. Fifteen confirmed rings under his umbrella by 2005. One bust in Jersey nets twenty minors; Hammerhead's lawyers bury it in appeals. The girls? Deported or disappeared. No trials.
My stomach turned. I'd seen the news clips Gaia had pulled—grainy footage of raids, scared faces behind bars, Hammerhead walking out of court with that steel skull gleaming under the flashes, smirking like he'd won a raffle.
Gaia: Corporate shift, 2010s. Launders through construction firms, bribes city council for zoning variances. Embezzles $47 million from a public housing project in the Bronx—funds meant for low-income families end up in his offshore accounts. Two whistleblowers turn up dead: one car bomb in his driveway, the other 'suicide' by dry-cleaning bag. Cops call it unrelated.
The holo paused on a photo of a charred sedan, twisted metal that used to be a life. I thought of Ben and May, safe in Italy but still checking in every morning like I was the kid who needed reminding to eat breakfast. Hammerhead would've burned them out for a parking spot.
Gaia: Recent. The Maggia expansion. Synth opioids into Midtown—fentanyl-laced pills that killed 213 in overdoses last year alone. Labs in abandoned factories, kids as young as fourteen cutting the product. One bust last spring: 500 kilos seized, but Hammerhead's crew walks because the evidence 'vanished' from lockup. And the raid on Captain Stacy? That was him. Shootout ordered to send a message to NYPD. Three officers down, including Stacy. Cost him nothing.
Gaia's voice cut off, the holo freezing on a grainy security still of Hammerhead in a suit, steel head bowed in mock prayer at a funeral for one of his own soldiers. The kind of hypocrisy that made my blood boil.
I stopped pacing, hands flat on the table, knuckles white.
Peter: He thinks he can hire assassins, send the Red Room after two kids, and walk away clean. Thinks the city will forget the bodies he piled up for fifty years.
Gaia's hologram shifted, eyes narrowing.
Gaia: He underestimates you.
Peter: Damn right.
I straightened, the anger sharpening into something cold, useful.
Peter: I want this everywhere. Flood the internet. Every evidence, every name, every location. Safehouses, production lines, trade routes, shell companies, the works. And I mean absolutely everything. No redactions. No mercy.
She tilted her head, processing.
Gaia: Legal ramifications—
Peter: Screw legal.
My voice came out low, ice over steel.
Peter: Start with the dark web dumps. Anonymized mirrors on every forum, every leak site. Then hit the mainstreamWikiLeaks style, but bigger. PDFs of the police reports, audio of the bribes, video from the trafficking raids. Tag every journalist who's ever written a fluff piece on 'organized crime as a family business.' Make it viral. Make it inescapable.
Gaia nodded, fingers already ghosting through holo-keys.
Gaia: Timeline?
Peter: Now.
I leaned in, the table's edge digging into my palms.
Peter: Phase one: seed the underbelly. Tor sites, 4chan, Reddit's r/conspiracy and r/news. Phase two: mainstream push. Twitter storms, YouTube exposés with deepfake-free footage. Phase three: global. Interpol alerts, international news wires. Every safehouse address, every production lab GPS pin, every trade manifest. The Naples hit in '78? Front and center with the coroner's report. The Bronx barrel? Photos attached.
She paused, just for a beat.
Gaia: This will destroy him.
Peter: Good.
The word tasted like ash, but right.
Peter: He destroyed hundreds. Make sure the world sees the man behind the skull plate. Every bribe, every body, every girl he sold like product. Flood it until his name is poison. Until no one shakes his hand without scrubbing their skin after.
Gaia's hologram flickered as data streams lit up behind her—files encrypting, bouncing through proxies, seeding across servers in a dozen countries.
Gaia: Uploading now. First wave hits in ninety seconds. Escalation in five minutes.
I stepped back, chest tight, the workshop suddenly too small for the rage still churning inside. Hammerhead had sent killers after us. After Gwen, after the life we'd just started scraping together. For what? A bruised ego? A dent in his empire? No. This wasn't revenge. This was justice, the kind courts couldn't touch.
The holo chimed—first hits landing.Dark web forums lighting up, anonymous posts with embedded links: "Maggia Kingpin Exposed: 50 Years of Blood and Bribes." Downloads spiking. Retweets climbing.
Gaia's voice cut through.
Gaia: It's spreading. Interpol's already pinging the manifests. NYPD's internal servers just got a mirror dump.
I nodded, staring at the globe as red dots Hammerhead's empire started blinking offline, one by one. Safehouses raided in real time, production lines swarmed by feds tipped off by the leaks. His name trending worldwide, hashtags like #HammerheadDown and #MaggiaFall exploding.
He'd wake up tomorrow to a city on fire with his secrets.
And I'd be there,watching it burn.
Harem or no harem please comment