Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Warm golden sunlight washed over the emerald fairways of Winged Foot Golf Club. I stood at the first hole, leaning on my club and absently watching the morning dew slowly evaporate from the perfectly trimmed grass. A snow-white polo shirt, plaid trousers, leather spiked shoes—everything expected of a respectable member of this rather exclusive community.

Over the past two years, I had grown comfortable enough with golf that I had actually started enjoying the game. Countless informal meetings with bankers, industrialists, and politicians on these manicured fairways had turned me from a clumsy beginner into a reasonably confident player. I was still nowhere near professional level, of course, but at least I no longer embarrassed myself in front of my partners and even won the occasional small wager.

Golf, however, remained only one of my social obligations. The riding club still saw me every other Saturday, although showing my face there had been a little awkward at first after things ended with Catherine. We eventually found a workable arrangement: she carried herself with dignity and pretended nothing had happened, while I did the same and avoided sensitive subjects. Gradually, our relationship settled back into something resembling friendship. We exchanged polite greetings when we met and traded meaningless remarks about the weather and horses. Sometimes we even fell into lively conversations without all the formality, but afterward I would usually catch her watching me with a thoughtful, and occasionally angry, expression. So for the sake of everyone's peace of mind, I generally preferred to enjoy the ride instead of looking for conversation.

Unfortunately, one problem had simply been replaced by another. Anastasia Hardy, the blonde with the predatory stare, had set her sights on me with a persistence that could have been put to much better use. Invitations to charity galas, premieres, and private parties arrived with almost ridiculous regularity. I kept refusing on the grounds that I was busy, but for some reason she refused to give up. After that memorable ball, we crossed paths at several similar events, and every single time she tried to drag me into one of her little games of wit that, frankly, interested me not at all. I had to keep inventing new excuses for an early escape, but that only seemed to encourage her, and she began seeking me out with twice the determination. Eventually, during what was supposed to be a peaceful ride, I discovered her at the equestrian club, and I have to say that neither Catherine nor I was particularly pleased by her appearance. Still, I soon learned to treat Anastasia's presence as a kind of background noise that could safely be ignored.

I shook my head, pushing the stray thoughts aside. Today's meeting required my full attention.

Haynie stood three paces behind me dressed as a caddie and holding the golf bag, and it was perfectly obvious that his own concentration was turned up to the absolute maximum. Knowing Haynie, I had no doubt there was at least one compact pistol and a couple of knives hidden somewhere beneath that ridiculous outfit, while the golf bag itself could quite easily contain a short-barreled shotgun. Even dressed like this, he radiated the sort of menace no uniform could conceal.

Another twelve of my people were positioned around the course, disguised as groundskeepers, club employees, and ordinary visitors. Three sniper teams had been spread across the grounds in positions with clear lines of sight, including the clubhouse roof, which overlooked the first three holes. A rapid-response team waited in a van in the parking lot, ready to reach any point on the property within seconds. I had listened to every report and found nothing to complain about.

Everything was ready.

***

They arrived exactly on time, which by itself was a good sign.

Silvio Manfredi came first, known throughout the criminal world as Silvermane. The gray-haired patriarch of the Maggia was well into his seventies, yet even the way he walked made it obvious that he was anything but an ordinary old man. Then again, what else could you expect from someone who had outlived every enemy he had ever made and clearly intended to outlive plenty more? A bodyguard followed behind him, a massive bull-necked man with the empty eyes of a professional killer.

Hammerhead came next, and his nickname required no explanation. His deformed skull, the result of a shooting and the steel plates implanted during the surgery that followed, gave his head its characteristic flattened shape. He was about thirty years younger than Silvermane, more ambitious, more aggressive, and his methods were considered exceptionally brutal even by the standards of organized crime. The man accompanying him looked like a generic thug from a cheap action movie.

Bringing up the rear were representatives of two other families: Paul Castellano of the Gambinos, a heavyset man with labored breathing and shrewd little eyes, and Philip Rastelli, the current boss of the Bonannos, a thin, nervous-looking man with a reputation even his own capos preferred not to discuss. Each had brought one man with him, exactly as agreed.

I smiled to myself as I watched this parade of power and violence dressed up in golf clothes. A week earlier, one of their people had approached me through a chain of intermediaries with an offer to meet, and my first instinct had been to refuse because the whole thing looked far too murky. After consulting my intelligence people, however, I realized that the current state of New York's criminal world was bad enough that they might be willing to accept quite a few conditions. A little more thought convinced me that passing up an opportunity like this would be unforgivably stupid.

At first, they had rejected my requirements outright: an open location, one escort each, and absolutely no weapons. Even my promise to personally guarantee everyone's safety did little to help, and negotiations through intermediaries dragged on for several days. Eventually, we reached an agreement. I would organize the meeting, take responsibility for the safety of every participant, and choose the location myself. In return, they made it perfectly clear that if anything happened to any of the men attending, New York would descend into such spectacular chaos that nobody would enjoy the consequences. I believed that threat without reservation. These men possessed far too much compromising information and actual power for jokes of that kind, so I approached the matter with my usual thoroughness. At this point, it was difficult to imagine anything going wrong here.

Their deaths would be extremely inconvenient for me. What little order remained in New York's criminal world rested largely on men like these, and dealing with organized crime was much easier than dealing with dozens of small gangs.

With all the formalities finally settled, the meeting could begin. I raised a hand in greeting and walked toward my guests.

***

I have to admit, playing golf with men like these turned out to be a surprisingly interesting experience. Nobody behaved the way you might expect under the circumstances, and from the outside it probably looked as though we had genuinely gathered for nothing more than a pleasant round of golf: five respectable gentlemen enjoying a beautiful morning. Paul Castellano even cracked a couple of jokes, first telling a story about his nephew getting so addicted to slot machines that he gambled away the money he had saved for his wedding, then saying something about golf and funerals that I didn't quite catch, although the others chuckled politely.

Silvermane played remarkably well for his age, his shots measured and precise. Hammerhead hit hard but inaccurately, and it was obvious that he wanted to get down to business as soon as possible and found all this social nonsense irritating. Paul tried to play the harmless old grandfather, supposedly too frail for the game, constantly groaning, complaining about his back, and missing easy shots, yet somehow he always managed to hit exactly where he needed to when it mattered. Philip Rastelli played with a careless, almost sloppy manner that initially made me think golf simply wasn't his game, but he nevertheless demonstrated a perfectly respectable level of skill.

By the fourth hole, once everyone had grown accustomed to one another, Silvermane finally spoke as the unspoken leader of the delegation.

"Mr. Miller, I understand you're a busy man, so I suggest we get down to business."

I took my swing and sent the ball cleanly onto the green before answering.

"Gladly, Don Manfredi. I have to admit, your invitation came as something of a surprise."

The old man smiled, and on him it looked rather threatening.

"I doubt it was that much of a surprise. You know perfectly well why we're here."

"I'm not omniscient, Don Manfredi. I can only guess what might bring so many important gentlemen together."

Hammerhead finally lost patience and cut into the conversation, earning a disapproving glance from Silvermane.

"Enough of this fucking diplomacy. You're behind all the shit that's been happening for the last couple of years. Your goddamn Aegis has its fingerprints all over it."

I calmly selected another club from the bag Haynie was holding and turned toward Hammerhead with a polite smile. There was no reason to hurry, and showing calm in a situation like this was worth more than anything I could have said.

"I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific about exactly which shit you mean. Quite a lot happens in my life, but I have difficulty imagining how I could be connected closely enough to such distinguished gentlemen to cause you any harm. I'm a friendly person by nature and dislike hurting people I barely know."

Everyone snorted at the same time, bodyguards included. I could have sworn even Haynie wanted to laugh behind me, but professional discipline won out.

"I'm not even sure I could count," Rastelli said thoughtfully, turning his club in his hands, "how many of my men have disappeared over the past two years. I think you and I have very different ideas about what 'friendly' means, David."

I laughed inwardly, although all that reached my face was mild surprise.

"Your men disappeared? What a tragedy. New York really has become terribly unsafe these past few years. I've heard the crime problem is getting out of hand. But forgive me, what does any of that have to do with me? I certainly have no dealings with dangerous people like that."

Crooked smiles appeared on several faces. Hammerhead alone seemed incapable of keeping himself under control. His face was turning red, the veins in his neck standing out so sharply that he looked as though another minute might actually make him burst.

"Bullshit," he ground out through his teeth, visibly struggling not to shout. "Two weeks ago, some fuckers in black hit one of my warehouses. When they left, the place was empty and eight of my men were gone. Everyone knows they were yours. Enough of this shit. Tell me straight—where the fuck are my guns?"

He started waving his club around in a threatening manner, and Haynie immediately stepped closer, putting himself between us. Hammerhead's bodyguard twitched forward in response, but Haynie merely gave him that particular smile of his, the one that usually made people feel cold along the spine.

Hammerhead made a sharp gesture ordering his man back, and the bodyguard reluctantly obeyed. He and Haynie stared at each other for several seconds before Hammerhead finally looked away. He jerked his club back into place, adjusted his collar, and returned to the game, muttering under his breath, "Where the hell does he find these assholes?"

"I know nothing about that," I replied calmly, as though nothing had happened. "I do own a security company, of course, but we don't engage in anything of the kind. Everything we do is strictly legal. Incidentally, Mr. Martello, are you dealing in firearms without a license? As far as I know, that's illegal."

Hammerhead merely ground his teeth and refused to answer. Castellano, who had watched the entire exchange with the exhausted expression of a grandfather forced to separate fighting children, sighed heavily and wiped the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief.

"Listen, kid, we weren't born yesterday. Constant run-ins with guys who are obviously former soldiers from the way they're trained, and you're the only one around here employing people like that in numbers. Information constantly leaking to our competitors. Police raids triggered by anonymous tips. It all started right around the time you appeared on the scene. Maybe it's a coincidence, sure, but it's one hell of a convenient one."

"Correlation does not imply causation," I replied, lining up my next shot. "Perhaps you simply have security problems. Or loyalty problems. Reliable employees are so difficult to find these days, don't you agree?"

Silvermane raised a hand for silence. The gesture was casual, but everyone stopped immediately, which said quite a lot about his authority within the group.

"Young man, we can play this game forever. You won't admit anything, and we won't be able to prove anything. I suggest we proceed on the assumption that everyone here understands perfectly well what the real situation is and stop pretending otherwise."

I took the shot, watched the ball fly, then turned toward the old man.

"Let's say I understand what you're talking about. Let's even say I had to take certain measures to protect my business. And let's suppose I still hold a slight grudge against the people who sent men with grenades to my office. Early in my career, certain people tried to put obstacles in my way, and from that point onward I decided to convince them that my warehouses, my employees, and my money were not easy targets."

"Convince them," Hammerhead repeated with grim amusement. "That what we're calling it now?"

"Of course. Everything remained within the bounds of the law. Self-defense, protection of private property—we never exceeded our authority. My lawyers would be happy to provide all the relevant documentation if you'd like."

"Your lawyers can shove that documentation up their—"

"Hammerhead."

Silvermane's voice was quiet, almost gentle, but Hammerhead stopped in the middle of the sentence.

"Mr. Miller, I suggest we leave aside the question of who did what and why. We're interested in the future, not the past. How do you see this proceeding?"

I turned the club in my hands, pretending to consider the question.

"That depends on what kind of future the gentlemen present would find acceptable."

"We want it to stop. All of these measures, as you call them."

"Oh, I don't know." I scratched my chin and looked up at the sky as though the answer might be written there. "But in honor of such respectable gentlemen, I suppose I could lean on a few of my connections, find out what's going on, and make an effort to put an end to all these mysterious activities."

Relief passed across several faces, and Castellano had already opened his mouth to speak when I raised a hand.

"I should warn you, however, that I would like something in return for my efforts and the time involved. I have certain conditions."

The relief vanished instantly.

"What fucking conditions?" Hammerhead clenched his fists hard enough for his knuckles to whiten. "You already—"

"Conditions that would make solving your problems possible and even mutually beneficial," I cut him off before he could build momentum.

Silvermane narrowed his eyes, studying me with renewed attention.

"Go on."

I started toward the next hole at an unhurried pace, and the others followed.

"To begin with, I'd like to make my position clear. I have no interest in taking over your businesses. I don't want your money, your territories, or your people. I don't want percentages, shares, tribute, or anything of the sort. What interests me is stability and predictability."

"That sounds reasonable," Rastelli said cautiously. "Almost too reasonable, which makes me suspicious. Whenever someone says they don't want anything, it usually means they want everything."

"I see myself more as an observer. Someone who makes sure certain rules are respected and intervenes only when somebody goes too far."

"What rules?" Castellano jerked his club, sending the ball somewhere into the bushes.

"The kind that separate respectable business from pointless barbarism."

Hammerhead made a sound remarkably similar to a wounded animal growling.

"You want to tell us how to run our business?"

"Of course not. Why would I dictate anything to anyone? People value their freedom, and I respect that. I'm merely proposing a few reasonable limitations that would let everyone sleep a little easier. Think of it as a gentlemen's agreement between businessmen."

Silvermane nodded slowly.

"Be specific. What exactly are you proposing?"

I stopped and turned to face them.

"First, human trafficking. Slavery, forced prostitution, anything involving children. It ends completely and permanently. Anyone involved in that business gets handed over to me, and just as importantly, all of you stop having anything to do with it yourselves."

Different reactions crossed their faces. Silvermane remained unreadable, his features turning into a stone mask. Castellano grimaced as though he had tasted something sour. Rastelli narrowed his eyes in obvious displeasure and looked away. Hammerhead didn't seem to care one way or another; he had been angry since the beginning of the conversation and showed no sign of stopping.

"Second, extortion needs reasonable limits. Protection in exchange for money I can understand. That's a transaction. Robbing businesses blind and driving the owners into ruin I don't understand, because it's simply stupid. Your people shouldn't kill the goose that lays the golden eggs or push people out of businesses they built themselves."

"Third, prostitution deserves a little more detail. It happens only with voluntary consent. There are plenty of people willing to do that kind of work without forcing anyone, so why bother with kidnapping and coercion? If you organized it properly, built a decent reputation, and provided actual protection, plenty of women would probably come to you willingly. Assuming, of course, you didn't squeeze them dry or make it impossible for them to ever leave."

I looked directly at Rastelli, who was known for certain preferences, and he visibly paled beneath my stare.

"I never would have guessed that even men could be forced into something like that. What strange times we live in."

He said nothing, but I saw his shoulders tense.

"As for weapons and killing, that concerns me far less. You're grown men and can sort out your own affairs. That's not my territory. Sell drugs to people who come looking for them if you want, but no deliberately getting people hooked, no schools, and no targeting kids. From what I've heard, even among you that sort of thing is considered taboo, so I doubt we'll disagree much there."

"Fourth, outsiders stay out. I've heard that the Mexican cartels have started looking toward this market, and I don't think people like that should be allowed to establish themselves here. What they do back home has no business coming to our city. That's in all our interests."

"And finally, there's a certain individual everyone seems to call the Big Guy. I assume all of you know him, some better than others. It seems to me he's becoming far too much of a problem for everyone present, and pooling our efforts to deal with that problem would be the sensible thing to do."

Silence settled over us, broken only by birdsong and the distant laughter of players on another fairway. Somewhere farther off, a golf cart rolled past, its electric hum oddly loud in the tense atmosphere.

Hammerhead was the first to lose patience.

"Have you completely lost your fucking mind, kid? Do you even understand who you're talking to?"

"Perfectly. The people who asked to meet with me."

Castellano stepped forward.

"Do you even understand what you're asking? You want us to turn into goddamn saints?" Castellano hissed, poorly concealing his irritation. "Everything you've listed amounts to cutting our own balls off voluntarily. I don't think many people are going to agree to that."

"Those are my conditions. There won't be others."

"Your conditions." Hammerhead practically spat the words, his face turning purple. "Who the fuck are you to give us conditions? What do you have, three hundred guards? Four hundred? Do you have any idea how many men we can put on the street with one phone call? We join forces against you and you'll go down with your company, your guards, and everything else."

I shrugged with deliberate indifference.

"Terrifying things coming out of your mouth, Mr. Martello. I'm almost frightened. But from what I've heard, men like you aren't particularly good at joining forces. You're simply not built that way. Every one of you is out for himself, waiting for the man next door to stumble so you can take his share. And I imagine you've heard how much my company has expanded over the past year. You could say that while some people were losing a great deal, others were acquiring quite a lot."

Silvermane had remained silent throughout the exchange, listening closely, but finally spoke.

"Young man, you're asking for too much. You want us to abandon part of our business and accept your rules. That alone means bending the knee to someone else, and in our line of work that can be as good as a death sentence. In return for all that humiliation, we receive... very little, to put it mildly."

"I'm offering stability, along with an end to the infighting that's bleeding all of you dry. I was under the impression that most of the men here considered themselves businessmen and would rather make money than spend enormous amounts of it on nothing. War is expensive, and the longer it lasts, the fewer people remain to enjoy whatever started it. My proposal gives you a chance to make a great deal of money and stay alive while doing it."

"That's not enough."

"That's unfortunate to hear, but I can't offer more."

The old man shook his gray head.

"Then I'm afraid we have nothing to discuss. You're trying to insert yourself into matters that have nothing to do with you, Mr. Miller. You're young, talented, and rich. Why involve yourself in any of this? You don't even begin to understand what men like us are capable of. You've seen only a small fraction of our resources, the very tip of the iceberg. Go back to your toys and pieces of paper. Leave serious matters to serious men."

I couldn't suppress a smile at that.

"I can only guess what such influential gentlemen are capable of. But allow me to share a few observations. I imagine the other Italian families aren't here today because they've lost whatever trust they once had in you. Alliances that used to be solid, or at least stable enough that everyone knew what to expect from his neighbor, have fallen apart completely. Even your influence and authority, Don Manfredi, are no longer enough to bring everyone to the same table."

I paused, letting the words settle.

"You're taking enormous losses, and everyone knows it. Some of your people no longer understand what this endless war is supposed to accomplish and have started asking uncomfortable questions. Others are so angry they've slipped their leash entirely and create chaos wherever they can. Something that used to be large and dangerous has taken too many blows for too long without being able to replace what it lost. Of course, a machine that size can keep moving for a while..."

I sighed regretfully and shook my head.

"Actually, no. Probably not for very long. You're getting old, Mr. Silvio, and the entire structure you've built is held together almost entirely by your shoulders. Once you're gone, the syndicate goes with you. It'll break apart within months."

Seeing the faces around me darken, I added as though I had only just remembered something minor.

"And I haven't even mentioned your friends from Ireland. They've grown to hate you so thoroughly over the past few years that I can't imagine how much time and blood it would take to reach even a poor imitation of peace."

I paused and leaned on my club, adopting a thoughtful expression.

"And finally, certainly not least important, this slaughter has reached people you never wanted involved, people you worked hard to maintain neutrality with. You pushed into Triad and Yakuza territory, and now even the logistics networks you managed to preserve despite the broader criminal war are falling apart. Our friends from the East have decided to feast on someone else's bones, and they're doing rather well for themselves. Oh, and I nearly forgot Brighton Beach and the surrounding neighborhoods. The people arriving from behind the Iron Curtain are more than happy to bite into anyone who simply doesn't have enough manpower left to respond everywhere at once. But those are only my guesses, of course. Don't take them too seriously."

Castellano finally snapped, and the kindly-grandfather act disappeared in an instant.

"This is all you!" He jabbed a finger at me, his face twisted with rage. "You fucking brat, you turned us against them! Do you have any idea how many good sons of Italy have died because of you?"

His bodyguard gently caught him by the elbow and quickly whispered something into his ear. Castellano took several deep breaths, straightened his clothes, and brought himself back under control, although it was obvious how much effort it required.

Yeah, that's definitely what you're upset about, I thought with a private smile. Not the laboratory the Japanese took off you. The good sons of Italy. Of course.

Silvermane smiled, and the threat in that smile was impossible to miss.

"Your guesses are remarkably perceptive, young man. Have you ever considered that a dying giant might become angry enough to launch a frontal attack regardless of the cost? Simply out of principle, just to drag its enemy down with it. And then I can hardly imagine what might happen to your many employees and their families."

Hammerhead grinned viciously, clearly enjoying the threat.

"I see," I replied calmly, never taking my eyes off Silvermane. "I can only sympathize with such a giant. You see, I'm a rather vindictive man. If this giant decides to do that, he'll certainly hurt me badly, but he won't destroy me. We've become far too well established for that. So imagine for a moment what a vindictive, angry man like me would do afterward."

I allowed myself a smile.

"When I'm in a good mood, I operate strictly within the law. If you make me angry, however, I'm afraid I might have to..."

I clicked my tongue meaningfully and left the sentence unfinished, allowing their imaginations to complete it for me.

"Which is why I still believe some form of agreement would be considerably better than pointless casualties on both sides."

Rastelli fidgeted nervously with his club.

"Can we stop measuring whose is bigger? We came here to negotiate, not threaten each other. This isn't getting us anywhere."

"I think this little bastard only understands threats," Hammerhead snapped.

"Everyone understands threats," Castellano observed philosophically, apparently recovered from his outburst. "The only question is who takes them seriously."

The argument continued for a while longer, voices rising and falling, but eventually everyone ran out of energy and an exhausted silence settled over the group. I realized the moment was right and spoke again, this time in a more contemplative tone.

"You know, gentlemen, there's one thing I've come to understand during my admittedly short life. Time spares no one. No matter how much money you make, how much you accomplish, how powerful or intelligent you become, eventually we all turn to dust. People look for ways to cheat time, to extend their lives, to preserve what they have, but time takes everything in the end. It's merciless and unavoidable. The only question is what we choose to do with the time we're given. I've decided, for example, to spend some of mine helping people. As one wise man put it, 'We cannot add days to life, but we can add life to days.'"

Silvermane froze, and I knew I had hit the target exactly. His obsession with his own mortality was well known to many people, never mind someone with my particular advantages.

"Very interesting," the old man said slowly, and something resembling genuine interest entered his voice. "I wonder why a man as young as you has begun thinking about such things. At your age, people usually concern themselves with very different matters."

The others didn't quite understand why the conversation had turned in this direction, but they were listening closely now, sensing that something important was happening.

"How could I not? Once you've seen how short life can be and how easily it can end, you start thinking about these things. I've lost enough people to learn the value of every day."

The old man studied me for a long time, the muscles in his jaw shifting beneath wrinkled skin. He was clearly trying to decide whether my words contained some hidden meaning, some hint at something more.

"Interesting thoughts. But I doubt they'll do much to solve our current problem, do you?"

"Why not? If everyone here thinks carefully about what I've said, they might understand quite a lot, and that could certainly help. Time is far too valuable to waste on a pointless war. But you're right. I have no other offers at the moment."

"Well." Silvermane finally looked away. "I think we've done enough for today. We'll discuss your proposal among ourselves and give you an answer soon."

"As you wish, Don Manfredi. Your people know how to reach me."

The others remained silent, clearly unhappy with the outcome but unwilling to challenge the old man. Hammerhead stared at me with a look that promised no shortage of future trouble. Castellano was thinking hard about something. Rastelli looked confused and even slightly frightened, which was hardly surprising considering what I knew about his little secrets.

I escorted them back to the clubhouse, then returned to the course to finish the round alone. Haynie walked beside me, still carrying the golf bag.

"Think they'll agree?" he asked once we were far enough away.

"Not all of them, and not immediately. But some definitely will. Rats always abandon a sinking ship."

***

The meeting with the Irish took place four days later in a dockside warehouse on the outskirts of Brooklyn. The surroundings were different, the people were different, but the substance remained the same. They listened to my conditions, protested, bargained for appearances' sake, and left without making a decision.

The Puerto Ricans turned out to be more emotional, which was hardly surprising. They were a hot-tempered lot, and at one point I genuinely worried the conversation might turn into a shootout. Fortunately, they had nothing to shoot with, and when one particularly excitable gentleman decided to use his fists, Haynie had to step in. He didn't kill the man, merely broke his arm in two places and carefully laid him on the floor, after which the others became considerably more cooperative. In the end, they too left after promising to think about it.

I had no intention of rushing anyone. I didn't particularly care how long they took, because I was making quite a bit of money off this war. In cash alone, we had accumulated roughly ten million dollars in clean green bills, and it was probably better not to mention the armory at all; there was enough stored there by now to equip a small army. Even Angleton once remarked that his intelligence network had moved to an entirely different level, with many informants now clinging tightly to their positions because, strangely enough, they saw us as a source of stability. Being Miller's rat, as it turned out, was much safer than remaining a loyal dog for your old bosses. Greer wasn't far behind either and had already hinted that with the connections I'd built over the past few years, starting a political career would be almost ridiculously easy. For the moment I kept brushing those conversations aside, but the thought was definitely worth remembering.

The first results appeared a week later, exactly as I had expected. One of Hammerhead's captains secretly approached my people and offered cooperation in exchange for protection and a share of future profits. Then, somewhat unexpectedly, Rastelli himself made contact, clearly frightened by how much I knew about his darker little secrets. Two junior bosses from one of the Irish groups followed soon after, having decided that standing with the winner was preferable to dying for the loser.

Really, what else could you expect from people like this? There had never been any true brotherhood or fellowship between them, and there never could be. Their beloved ideas of honor and loyalty tended to vanish very quickly when someone waved a thicker bundle of cash in front of them, or, as in this case, offered them a chance to leave the meat grinder alive. They came to me, swallowed the hook, and immediately ended up in Angleton and Bagley's hands, and those two knew exactly how to work with men like these.

Of course, it was unfortunate that I had been forced to dive headfirst into this filth, and with a running start at that, but I didn't see any real alternative. Leaving New York's criminal world entirely to Fisk and Silvermane was never an option. Those two lunatics, each in his own way, did impose a certain structure and keep the chaos under relative control, but it was worth remembering that organized crime had grown and prospered precisely because of people like them. With competent leadership, it could expand to an enormous scale, and that was something I had absolutely no intention of allowing.

So it was better to impose certain boundaries and make sure nobody trusted anyone else too much. I had no intention of taking a cut from their operations; I didn't need that sort of headache, and I had no desire to stain my reputation for the sake of dirty money. The only useful things I could get out of this world were information and certain opportunities. Plenty of rumors circulated through these neighborhoods, and every so often something genuinely interesting surfaced. This was where a surprising number of lost geniuses and people embittered against the whole world tended to end up, and many of them could be brought over fairly easily if you knew how to approach them. Even now, thanks to the intelligence network Angleton had built, we had already pulled quite a few people out of this swamp who had turned to crime out of desperation and sheer lack of options. I don't think I need to explain how loyal and useful many of them became once the company gave them a second chance.

If I thought about it, my interference had probably deprived future heroes of a considerable portion of their usual work. In the comics, street-level heroes like Daredevil and the Punisher spent years fighting organized crime without ever managing to break the monster's spine. I couldn't say I felt particularly guilty that my way of dealing with the problem was proving more effective. Preserving canon at the cost of innocent lives had never interested me, especially when these gangs maimed and killed ordinary people every single day.

What we found in some of those basements and back rooms during raids left many of my men with a hatred for gangsters and the powerful people protecting them that went far beyond professional dislike. Others simply sat somewhere afterward and smoked one cigarette after another in silence, trying to process what they had seen. Even hardened soldiers who had been through Vietnam sometimes went pale at the things happening in certain establishments.

We even had to eliminate a couple of otherwise promising recruitment targets after discovering they were clients of some very specific services. Even I, accustomed in my previous life to more than enough darkness through the news, sometimes ended up taking sedatives after reading the reports. There was simply no way to do business with creatures like that, no matter how much leverage we had on them. We dealt with people. Whatever remained in those individuals could no longer honestly be called human.

A separate matter was my second meeting with Silvermane. The old man requested a private conversation, no witnesses, just the two of us. I agreed, of course, after taking every necessary precaution. For nearly two hours he probed carefully at the subject that interested him, asking indirect questions about medicine, recent scientific breakthroughs, and possible methods of extending human life. I answered with vague hints, played the role of a fellow seeker after immortality, and did my best to leave him with the impression that I knew far more than I was willing to say.

We had another meeting scheduled for the following week, and I suspected that, given enough time, I could put a collar on that old wolf as well. Although, if I was being fair, his obsession with immortality was so powerful that he seemed perfectly willing to put the collar on himself if it bought him even the slightest hope of living longer. Naturally, I had no intention of giving him immortality, not that I had any to give in the first place. But that weakness could be exploited for a very long time, and I intended to make full use of it.

***

Yes, I suppose this is a good place to mention my latest headache, otherwise known as my new secretary, whom we found thanks to Angleton's network. One might expect a story about some thugs trying to take advantage of her, followed by my men heroically kicking down the door and saving the day. If this particular woman had anything to do with violence, however, it certainly wasn't in the role of victim.

It started when she caught the attention of some minor local boss. She was a beautiful woman, there was no point pretending otherwise, and when he decided to handle certain matters the way men like him were accustomed to handling them, he died rather suddenly. Apparently his larynx turned out to be surprisingly fragile. The dead man's entire gang then came after her, and she dealt with them rather successfully as well, even starting to gather people for a small crew of her own. Unfortunately, the boss had been connected to people far more serious than she had realized, and from there the whole situation turned into the sort of bloodbath that was entirely typical of the criminal world of the time. In the end, all of her people were killed, although they performed remarkably well and took roughly three times their own number with them.

Maybe the story would eventually have reached the part where the usual genre-appropriate horrors happened to her, although frankly I had serious doubts. She seemed very much like a named character, I just couldn't remember which one. I might have called her Catwoman if I didn't know it was both the wrong universe and far too early.

In any case, my people crashed into the middle of that mess, cleaned things up nicely, and when they found the woman covered in blood and holding a pistol, they tried to disarm her. Fortunately, the pistol was already empty by then. My guys later swore they had never met a woman quite that insane. She grabbed a bundle of grenades, held them tight against herself, and announced that she would blow everyone in the room straight to hell. When they explained who they were, she didn't understand at first.

As it turned out later, she had come from a country called Symkaria. Surprisingly enough, I was surprised too, because apparently that country existed here as well. It was a tiny state somewhere in the Balkans, squeezed between larger neighbors, obscure enough that very few people had ever heard of it and apparently quite content to remain in the shadows. When I had gone through maps looking for unusual countries, I had focused first on Latveria, then Transia, briefly checked Sokovia, and separately marked Transylvania because if Dracula was real in this world, knowing where to start looking seemed prudent. Somehow, Symkaria had slipped past me entirely. Well, at least now I knew it existed. I really needed to compile a full list of all these tiny Marvel countries before another one surfaced at the worst possible moment.

She knew almost nothing about the local balance of power, so it took my people quite a while to convince her that they were actually fighting organized crime rather than working for one gang against another. After watching them operate for a while, however, she reached the same conclusion herself. Then came a meeting with Bagley, who gave her a broad explanation of what was happening. He used his usual approach: releasing a killer like that back into the wild would have been idiotic, so naturally he decided to recruit her and, as always, began with fear. He explained that we had evidence, that we could send her away for a very long time, or simply stop protecting her and let the gangsters return twice as angry as before. None of it impressed her very much. The offer of a lot of money and the chance to learn new skills, on the other hand, received a much more enthusiastic response.

There was one complication. After questioning her and getting hold of a few documents, Bagley realized that she was a foreign national, which meant we needed a much more serious background check. Not wanting to waste a potentially valuable asset in the meantime, he decided to assign her to me temporarily, both for closer observation and for my protection. Just for a while, he said, and then increased my regular security detail in case she suddenly decided to try something entertaining.

And that was how Sylvia Sablinova became my secretary-bodyguard. These things happen. So what if she was a frighteningly competent killer? Minor detail. She quickly connected the dots and realized that I was the person in charge here, which naturally meant the security company belonged to me as well. After questioning everyone around her and discovering that I had built all of this essentially from scratch in a mere three years, she became intensely interested. Now she constantly bothered me with questions about how to achieve something similar, what I was planning, how the company worked, and at least a hundred other things.

She was particularly interested in the company's capabilities and whether we could open factories in her country. I actually gave the idea some serious thought and decided that I probably would open a couple there once we had enough free capital. A poor little country in need of investment and jobs sounded like exactly the sort of place where I might have something useful to offer. Expanding my influence in smaller Marvel states also seemed like an obviously sensible long-term decision; you never knew what might become useful later. The moment I casually mentioned that I would genuinely consider the possibility, she became nearly impossible to get rid of. She even started using all sorts of feminine tricks to get me to explain more and move faster.

Even after Bagley completed every background check he could reasonably carry out, both on her behavior and her documents, and finally offered her a place in the security company under one of our absurdly restrictive contracts, she agreed only on the condition that she would receive full training, participate in the hardest missions, and remain with me the rest of the time. Angleton, who had been listening, raised one eyebrow and discreetly gave me a thumbs-up. All I could do was shake my head. The old man thought it was funny. I merely acquired another headache. Still, Anastasia had already trained me to deal with strange and aggressively persistent personalities, so I would survive.

In any case, I was glad to have a genuine professional protecting me now. What Sylvia demonstrated during training occasionally made my hair stand on end. Even Lester, who had become something of a star among our people, could only be impressed. In terms of overall body control and weapon handling, she was clearly ahead of him, although she consistently lost to him in pure accuracy. With edged weapons, however, nobody came close.

Speaking of Lester, he had gone back to school. We managed to treat his brother and sent him back as well. I had to admit the younger boy was doing extremely well academically and was clearly growing into a smart kid. We had also arranged housing for them and generally handled everything the way we were supposed to. As a result, Lester no longer walked around looking quite as grim as before and even smiled from time to time, which initially surprised a lot of people.

Between them, Sylvia and Lester gave my veterans a very clear demonstration of what named characters were capable of and forced everyone to train even harder. Billy, my sniper, seemed to be wearing his finger down to the bone trying not to fall behind. And I had to say it was producing results; the people who truly committed themselves to the work were improving at a remarkable pace.

***

Unfortunately, meetings refused to leave me alone. Lately, Howard Stark had been persistently inviting me to meet, and if I was being honest, I had no particular desire to sit down with that particular mastodon. I had no idea what he wanted from me, which meant I kept finding reasons to decline. Unfortunately, men like Howard Stark had a habit of rearranging the world until it suited them, so eventually he simply announced that he was throwing a party in my honor.

Officially, he was deeply grateful to me as a philanthropist and as someone who supplied products to orphanages and children suffering from serious illnesses. The invitation claimed that he had been sincerely moved by my actions and wanted to show the business community that this was exactly how people in our position ought to behave. It sounded beautiful, I had to give him that. He would polish his own reputation, gain publicity because I was fairly well known by now, increase charitable donations, and trap me at the same time. Refusing Stark under circumstances like these was practically impossible without insulting both him and half the guest list.

As if that wasn't enough, he had specifically mentioned that I was expected to bring a date. I would have liked to dig my heels in and spite him at least on that point, but knowing Stark, he would probably start a few rumors just for the entertainment value.

My first thought was to take Sylvia. Bodyguard and date in one package, convenient. Then I remembered an incident where I hadn't behaved particularly well. At one charity event, an attractive actress had approached me with what seemed like fairly obvious intentions, only for me to suddenly get dragged into an urgent problem involving a shipment of ceramic plates. Someone had made a mess of the report and the whole thing started sliding downhill. It had happened quite a while ago, and she had probably forgotten about it entirely, but I still felt like making up for the way I had handled things. Stark's party seemed like a decent opportunity.

I had just reached for the phone when James walked into the office. He wore the expression of a man who couldn't decide whether to laugh or offer condolences.

"David, there's a certain Anastasia here to see you. She caused a scene at reception and told security that you scheduled a meeting with her and then didn't show up, so she decided to come to the meeting herself."

From beyond the half-open door came Sylvia's voice.

"I can deal with the problem."

Her tone did not suggest a pleasant outcome for the "problem." How she had even heard the conversation was something I preferred not to think about. After a long series of battles, I had managed to defend at least the privacy of my office, so Sylvia now sat outside at the secretary's desk. She had spent quite some time trying to win the right to stay inside, citing security concerns and even dragging Bagley and Jacob into the argument, both of whom inexplicably sided with her. On that particular point, however, I refused to budge. I needed at least one place where I could exist without someone constantly watching me.

James shook his head.

"I don't think that's a good idea. She seems to be from respectable society."

The door opened a little wider and Sylvia appeared in the doorway, leaning one shoulder against the frame with her arms crossed.

I should probably mention that my secretary-bodyguard was an exceptionally striking woman. She had been dyeing her hair silver since she was sixteen to make herself look older and more dangerous, and somehow it had become her trademark and suited her perfectly. Sharp features that looked almost carved from marble, high cheekbones, and cold gray-blue eyes gave her the appearance of some Scandinavian Valkyrie who had descended from the heavens. Nature had been equally generous in every other respect. Her figure was the kind that made half the men in the office forget how breathing worked whenever she walked past. The strict business suits I had insisted she wear only seemed to emphasize exactly what they were supposed to conceal. If not for her profession and her tendency to solve problems by rather radical means, she could probably have had a successful career as a supermodel.

"So what? Respectable people understand force too."

"Sylvia," I sighed, "don't throw anyone out of a window. Not yet."

She snorted but remained in the doorway, clearly having no intention of leaving.

"Did she say anything else?" I asked, already fairly certain who we were dealing with.

James cleared his throat.

"Yes. Something about men not behaving this way. Then honor and dignity. And something else in French, but I couldn't make it out."

I rubbed my eyes. There was no doubt left. Only one woman I knew could be this strange.

"Bring her in."

James nodded and started to turn away, but I noticed the folder in his hands.

"What's that? The report on the launch of the new shoe model?"

"Yes, sir. Just came in."

"Give it here."

"Sir, perhaps you should deal with Anastasia first?" He hesitated. "The report can wait."

I frowned.

"Why would you say that?"

He cleared his throat again, visibly uncomfortable.

"Sir, my sister told me you once brushed off some beautiful woman because of a report. I think perhaps you shouldn't repeat that mistake. This can wait."

"How does your sister know about that?"

"She saw some show where they talked about it. Apparently it caused quite a stir in certain circles."

I leaned back in my chair. Interesting. There was always something new in this life ready to hit you over the head. I reached for the sedatives.

"Give me the report. I know perfectly well when a woman deserves my attention and when a report does. Don't worry."

James shook his head with a defeated expression and handed me the folder.

"I'll bring refreshments and coffee for the guest," Sylvia said from the doorway.

"The coffee I spent two weeks tracking down?" I asked.

"What else?" She smiled faintly. "Only the best for an honored guest."

I was about to object that there was no need to waste my precious arabica on someone who hadn't even been invited, but Sylvia had already disappeared.

James watched her go, then turned toward me with mild confusion.

"Is she always that... proactive?"

"Don't ask." I waved a hand. "I have no idea myself."

***

A few minutes later, voices sounded from the reception area, and I realized the performance was about to begin.

"You may go in," Sylvia said, surprisingly softly. "Mr. Miller is expecting you."

"Thank you, dear," another voice replied, honeyed and mocking at the same time.

The door swung open and Anastasia Hardy entered my office.

I had to give her credit, she looked stunning. Twenty-three years old, blonde hair arranged in a flawless style, emerald eyes, and the sort of figure that shut down the higher reasoning functions of most men. She wore an elegant emerald dress that highlighted every advantage she possessed and high heels that probably cost more than the average American made in a year.

I sighed inwardly. A lot of people might have assumed she was genuinely interested in me, but I had the distinct impression that this woman was incapable of being genuinely interested in anyone. She enjoyed the game itself and fed on the reactions of the people around her, mostly to entertain her own ego. At least now I understood exactly where Black Cat got it from.

Sylvia came in after her carrying a tray with a coffee pot, cups, and a plate of snacks. Every alarm bell in my head went off immediately. This was not going to end well. She moved with deliberate smoothness, circled around Anastasia in a wide arc, and approached my desk. I couldn't explain why, but there was something almost aggressively sensual in every movement, and the way she set the tray down probably deserved its own slow-motion sequence. Her silver hair brushed my shoulder as she leaned closer.

"Your coffee, David." She lingered beside me for a moment, one hand resting on the back of my chair. "If you need anything, I'll be right outside."

Anastasia watched the scene with the expression of a cat that had just noticed another cat reaching into its food bowl.

"Oh, what an attentive secretary," she purred. "Pretty, too. Even you couldn't resist, David? And here I thought you were made of iron."

"She's my security," I replied evenly.

"Security?" Anastasia laughed musically, though there was irritation beneath it. "With that way of serving coffee? Very... devoted security."

Sylvia gave her a flirtatious smile.

"Not at all, miss. I'm merely concerned with the boss's safety. In every sense."

She turned and headed toward the door, her walk becoming the physical embodiment of the phrase hips first. Obviously, this either completely disproved her claim about being security or, on the contrary, served as excellent evidence that she really did protect me in every possible sense. All I could do was sigh. This was exactly what I meant by her feminine tricks. Every so often something like this came over her, although unfortunately it was almost always for selfish reasons. At the doorway, she turned and looked directly at Anastasia.

"If you need anything, just call. I'll hear you."

Then she left, deliberately leaving the door half open.

Anastasia watched her go and turned back to me with one eyebrow raised.

"You have interesting employees, David. When you play these games, who wears the handcuffs, you or her?"

"Sit down, Anastasia." I gestured toward the chair opposite me, ignoring the question. "What do I owe the pleasure?"

She lowered herself gracefully into the chair, crossed one leg over the other, and gave me a smile that would probably have taken the breath away from someone less prepared.

"You missed our meeting, David. I waited for you at the equestrian club last Saturday. We had plans."

I searched my memory. There had indeed been something like that. She had mentioned a ride together at some point, but I had been occupied with preparations for the mafia negotiations and apparently let the remark go in one ear and out the other.

"I don't remember promising you anything."

"You said 'maybe.'" She pouted. "That's practically yes."

"That's practically 'I'll think about it and probably say no.'"

"How cruel." She sighed theatrically. "And I prepared so carefully."

She reached for the coffee pot and poured herself a cup, inhaling the aroma.

"Oh, real arabica. You have good taste, David. At least in coffee."

She picked up the cup and settled back in the chair as comfortably as if she were sitting in her own living room.

"So you did miss me after all." She took a small sip and looked at me over the rim. "Why else would you agree to this meeting?"

"I didn't agree. You came here yourself."

"Details." She waved a hand. "The important thing is that we're together again."

I sighed heavily.

"Am I going to spend another hour hearing hints about how a beautiful woman is supposedly showing interest in me while I'm too dense to notice? Or can we skip straight to the point?"

She laughed, the same melodic laugh that had probably driven half the men in New York insane.

"You're so rude, David. And I came here with the purest intentions."

"Anastasia, we both know you don't have pure intentions."

"You wound me."

"I know you."

She tilted her head again, mischief lighting up her eyes.

"Oh, that's what I like about you. You're the only man who doesn't try to impress me."

"Because I don't need to."

"Exactly! It's so... refreshing. I've become addicted to the feeling."

She stretched lazily and, as though by accident, ran one finger along the rim of her cup while looking at me from beneath her lashes. A classic move from the coquette's arsenal, and one I had already seen from her at least twenty times since we'd met.

"You remember our conversation at the Rockefeller ball, don't you?" she purred. "You said I play with men like a cat plays with mice."

"I still think so."

"And you said it didn't interest you."

"That hasn't changed either."

"Then why are you still talking to me?"

"Because you're sitting in my office drinking my coffee. My options are limited."

She laughed again, this time almost sincerely.

"You just haven't realized yet that you're in love with me. As Shakespeare said, 'Love is blind, and lovers cannot see the pretty follies that themselves commit.'"

"So you're admitting that falling in love with you is foolish?"

She paused for a fraction of a second.

"That... isn't exactly what I meant."

"What about this one: 'Women inspire us to great things and prevent us from achieving them'?"

She narrowed her eyes.

"Oscar Wilde? Then you should have remembered another one: 'The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it.'"

"I've heard that one, but books aren't axioms, so I decided to choose another option."

"And what would that be?"

"Ignore the temptation and get back to work."

She snorted, set the cup down, and leaned forward as though preparing to say something important.

"David, answer honestly. Do you enjoy my attention at least a little? Just the tiniest bit?"

I looked at her and decided honesty was easier.

"Anastasia, you're a beautiful woman. That's simply a fact. But all this flirting, the games, the attempts to manipulate people with lingering looks and double meanings... none of it interests me. You don't want a relationship and you don't want feelings. You want to win. You want the satisfaction of victory. My view of relationships with a partner is entirely different."

She leaned back again and studied me silently for a while.

"Fine," she finally said. "Let's say you're right. Let's say I enjoy the game itself. That's not a crime, is it?"

"Not a crime. Just a waste of time."

"My time."

"Mine too, and mine is expensive."

She snorted.

"You're such a bore."

"I prefer 'practical.'"

At that point, I realized nothing serious was going to come from this conversation. She had come to amuse herself, get a little excitement, perhaps take revenge for all the times I had ignored her. Nothing sinister, just a bored rich girl with too much free time. Fine. If she wanted to talk, she could talk. I had work to do.

I opened the report folder and started going over the figures, keeping the conversation going on autopilot. The new Hyer shoe model with air cushioning was selling at a phenomenal rate. We had moved forty thousand pairs in the first month alone, and that was only the beginning. Customer feedback was enthusiastic. People wrote that they had never worn anything more comfortable, asked when new models were coming, and demanded stores in their cities. Wesley's section of the report said they were barely keeping up with orders and requested authorization to expand production.

"David, are you listening to me?"

"Mm-hm." I turned the page. First-month profit was already approaching a million dollars, and we weren't even operating at full capacity yet.

"I asked how your company is doing."

"Good."

"Are you always this talkative?"

"Mm-hm."

Anastasia fell silent. Taking advantage of the quiet, I buried myself even deeper in the document. If this growth held, the footwear division would start bringing in serious money by the end of the year. I needed to discuss expansion plans with Wesley...

"David, am I beautiful?"

"Yes," I answered without looking away from the regional sales chart. California was doing extremely well. We needed to increase shipments there.

"Do you like me?"

"Yes."

"Will you take me to the party they're throwing in your honor?"

"Yes."

"Wonderful!"

Her voice suddenly jumped in volume, and I looked up from the report, trying to understand what had just happened.

"What?"

"Nothing." She was already getting to her feet, glowing with triumph. "I'm going to prepare my dress. You promised."

"Promised what?"

"To take me to Stark's party. You just said yes."

I tried to reconstruct the last few minutes and realized with growing horror that I had indeed said something along those lines.

"I was a little distracted..."

"Doesn't matter." She was already heading for the door. "You said yes, and I heard you."

The door was still partly open, and Anastasia pulled it all the way back to reveal Sylvia sitting at her desk with a perfectly neutral expression.

"Oh, I hope your security heard that we're going to the party together?" Anastasia gave Sylvia a victorious smile.

Sylvia looked up and smiled back.

"Oh, I'm very happy for you. Taking advantage of my boss while he's distracted was an excellent move, miss. Not every woman would think of asking questions while a man is reading documents and answering automatically."

Anastasia narrowed her eyes.

"Jealous and eavesdropping, dear?"

"Observing. It's part of my job."

"And what exactly are you observing?"

"That some women have to resort to tricks just to get an invitation to dinner. Personally, I only need to ask."

Anastasia gave a short laugh.

"Asking is one thing. Getting a yes is something else."

"Well, you got yours." Sylvia shrugged. "Mr. Miller happened to be distracted at the time, but what difference does that make?"

"A yes is a yes." Anastasia adjusted her hair. "And we have witnesses."

"We do," Sylvia agreed. "I'll make sure to help Mr. Miller prepare for the evening. Choose his suit, review security arrangements, check the guest list... I'll be nearby the entire night, just in case something unexpected happens."

"How thoughtful of you." There was steel in Anastasia's voice now.

"I'm very devoted security." Sylvia smiled again. "You said so yourself."

Anastasia snorted, gave Sylvia one final appraising look, and headed for the exit.

"Tell your boss I'm waiting for the details," she called over her shoulder. "And tell him I liked your coffee."

"I'll be sure to pass it along. Mr. Miller will be delighted to hear that."

When the door closed behind Anastasia, Sylvia appeared in the doorway of my office. She leaned against the frame, tilted her head, and looked at me through lowered lashes.

"Mr. Miller..." She said my name in a way that sent a shiver down my spine. "Is there anything you need?"

Her voice had dropped lower, taking on a soft, velvety quality, while playful sparks danced in her eyes. She had obviously listened to the entire conversation with Anastasia and had now decided to demonstrate that she knew a few tricks of her own.

I groaned inwardly. I was beginning to suspect she hadn't studied only martial arts. Maybe there had been seduction classes somewhere in there too. Some kind of kunoichi, honestly.

"I need you to stop doing that," I said wearily.

"Doing what, Mr. Miller?" She blinked innocently.

"All of this."

She snorted and straightened, instantly becoming ordinary Sylvia again.

"As you say, boss. But just so you know, I do it better than she does."

Then she left, abandoning me to my thoughts.

I leaned back in my chair and stared at the ceiling. First the mafia, then Howard Stark, and now two women, each with her own hidden agenda. Not a minute of peace. Still, if I thought about it, the shoe report was excellent. At least something was going well.