"If we cut these two, the subordinate gangs will revolt, and our capital chain will break. This... this is practically cutting off our own arms."
"We will lose a lot of money."
For a mob, if you don't touch prostitution or drugs, what kind of mob are you?
A charity organization?
However, Makima was not angry.
She simply rested her chin on one hand, looking at Fisk as if looking at a short-sighted child:
"Mr. Fisk, you need to take a longer view."
"I heard... you've always intended to enter politics? To fundamentally change this city?"
Fisk trembled all over.
This was indeed his deepest ambition hidden in his heart, and his ultimate means to'save' Hells Kitchen—through power, not violence.
This was also why Fisk, despite having no superpowers, caused headaches for so many superheroes.
In terms of raw force, he wasn't top-tier in Marvel, but the law cannot sanction power.
Coincidentally, his arch-rivals, like Spider-Man and Daredevil, were all believers in the law and non-lethal justice, which made Fisk particularly difficult to deal with.
Makima's words struck his soul. She smiled slightly, speaking persuasively:
"In that case, this is a perfect opportunity to go straight and clean up your image, isn't it?"
"Imagine if a future mayoral candidate was a maintainer of order who, though from a humble background, resolutely cracked down on drugs and human trafficking. How would the public see you? The so-called losses are only temporary."
"Compared to that blood-stained, dirty money, power and prestige are the truly priceless things. With them, would you still worry about not having enough cash?"
Fisk fell silent.
If his previous submission to Makima's dominance was humiliating and painful, then after these few words, Fisk felt as if he had been enlightened; his eyes suddenly cleared. He looked up at the woman before him, unsure if it was the dominance ability subtly influencing him.
In those bloodshot eyes, a few hints of genuine respect actually emerged.
"But, as for the Russians and Madame Gao's side..." Wesley timely raised the practical difficulties: "That's how they make their living. If we ban these two businesses, they will definitely start a war immediately."
"Then let them start a war."
Makima stood up, straightened her collar, her tone as gentle as if she were discussing what to have for dinner:
"As a reward for your obedience..."
"We will help you deal with them."
Fisk and Wesley were taken aback.
This "we" refers to...?
A few days later.
A decree from the Fisk Group was like a ladle of cold water poured into a calm deep-fryer, instantly exploding the entire underworld of Hells Kitchen.
Stop drug trafficking? Ban human trafficking?
This made the gang leaders who relied on the Fisk Group or had partnerships with it feel both shocked and absurd.
To them, this was as ridiculous as a tiger suddenly announcing it was becoming a vegetarian.
Brooklyn, an abandoned inventory.
Smoke swirled, the smell of cigars mixing with the pungent aroma of vodka.
This was the core stronghold of the Russian mob.
"That fat bastard must be crazy!"
Anatoly slammed the table, spit flying: "He wants to cut off our supply and block the docks! Who does he think he is? God?"
"Calm down, brother."
Vladimir had a dark expression, wiping the handgun in his hand: "Fisk wants to go straight and be a respectable man? Ha, keep dreaming! Since he's being heartless, don't blame us for being unjust. I've already contacted The Irish; they're also very dissatisfied with Fisk."
"Tonight, as long as we unite, even that fat man will have to..."
However.
Just as this group of desperadoes was plotting how to overthrow Fisk's rule, the atmosphere outside was a foul mess.
Under the dim yellow lights, over a dozen shirtless, heavily tattooed Russian men were sitting around several dilapidated tables.
Some were carefully wiping sawed-off shotguns with grease-stained rags, some were shouting loudly as they threw down poker cards, and others were clutching vodka bottles, boastfully slurring about how many girls they could sleep with in one night.
At that moment.
Outside the inventory, that old industrial elevator suddenly made a noise.
Clang—Clang—
The sound of rusted gears and cables grinding violently was particularly ear-piercing in the silent corridor, even drowning out the noise inside the room.
The gang members who were playing cards and drinking froze.
"Huh?" They turned their heads in confusion, looking toward the tightly closed iron gate.
Some hadn't even put down their wine bottles, their faces blank.
Eh? Who is it?
At this hour, is there someone who hasn't come back yet?
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