Chapter 10: The Godson and the Godfather
New York. Hell's Kitchen. The Lucky Dragon.
Ethan leaned against the bar counter, phone pressed to his ear.
"I trust you saw the news just now, my dear godson?" Wilson Fisk's voice rumbled through the speaker like gravel rolling downhill.
"Thanks to the tip, I made a killing this time. More money in one play than some of my businesses pull in all year." A deep, booming laugh. "Ha! I have to admit — the stock market is much more relaxing than my usual line of work."
So that was why Fisk was calling. He'd watched the same press conference — Tony Stark shutting down the weapons division — and cashed in on the same short position Ethan had told him about.
"Glad to hear it. As for when to close the position, I'm sure your people know what they're doing." Ethan cut straight to the point. "So — now that we've got the capital, the community school. Can we start moving on that?"
"Already in motion. But I'm warning you — there's going to be resistance. Not everyone in Hell's Kitchen is as... cooperative as I am."
A pause. Then, softer: "And you know I would've funded it even without the stock money, right? You're my godson. I just wish you'd actually call me Godfather once in a while."
"You know I don't do the whole religion thing. And I'm pretty sure you don't either. If my old man hadn't set this up before he died —"
"Don't talk about your father that way." Fisk's voice carried no anger — just the firm tone of a man accustomed to being obeyed. "The best decision that man ever made was asking me to be your godfather."
"And I still don't understand why you insist on building schools and running restaurants when you came back to the Kitchen. You could take over my operation. Let me retire early for once."
"Hard pass." Ethan didn't hesitate. "You've got Richard for that."
"You know as well as I do — Richard isn't built for this world." Fisk's voice softened the way it only ever did when he talked about his son. "If he stepped into my shoes, they'd eat him alive. I just want him and Vanessa to live a normal, peaceful life."
"And even if I did take over," Ethan continued, "you know I'd gut half your operations on day one. The stuff I won't tolerate — you know exactly what I mean. Your lieutenants would revolt. It wouldn't just be Hell's Kitchen that goes sideways — the entire underworld would light up."
"This weekend," Fisk said, his tone shifting to something that brooked zero argument. "I'm bringing Vanessa and Richard to dinner at your place. You've been gone on one of your little freelance trips and they haven't seen you in weeks. Vanessa says she misses you, you little punk. Don't even think about saying no."
"...Fine."
Wilson Fisk. The Kingpin.
Six-foot-seven. Three hundred and fifty pounds. Body fat percentage somewhere around two percent — because every ounce of that mass was muscle, bone, and pure, distilled menace.
In the Marvel Universe, an estimated forty percent of all organized crime on the East Coast had some connection to him. When people thought of Hell's Kitchen villains, they didn't think of a lineup — they thought of one man. Daredevil, Spider-Man, the Punisher — they'd all taken their shots at the Kingpin. None of them had put him down for good.
And yet — Ethan didn't hate the guy.
Fisk wasn't like other Marvel villains. He didn't want to conquer the world. He didn't want to snap half of existence out of reality. He didn't have delusions of godhood. Wilson Fisk wanted to make money. That was it. Whatever was profitable, he pursued. Were his methods legal? God, no. But his ambitions were refreshingly terrestrial.
There were hard lines, of course. Ethan had made it clear from a young age that he considered the drug trade an absolute dealbreaker. And Fisk — to his credit — had kept that boundary.
In a strange way, Ethan respected him. Fisk was one of the only people in the Marvel Universe who'd clawed his way to the top without mutations, without serums, without cosmic intervention. Just discipline, intelligence, and the kind of ruthlessness that came from growing up with nothing. He'd educated himself, built an empire, and dragged himself out of Hell's Kitchen by sheer force of will.
Compare that to a certain web-slinger who lived in poverty, gained incredible powers, and then... continued living in poverty. Running around in spandex stopping purse snatchers while his personal life collapsed around him. Uncle dead. Girlfriend gone. Fired from every job. Ethan wasn't against heroism — he just believed you had to take care of your own house first. Comics were comics. In real life, most people were too busy keeping the lights on to worry about saving strangers.
Ethan's father had asked Fisk to be his godfather the day Ethan was born.
Now, for the uninitiated: a godfather in the Western tradition isn't quite the same as what some cultures call a "sworn father" or honorary uncle. It's rooted in Christian baptismal rites. When a child is baptized, the godfather stands in and makes vows on the infant's behalf — because, obviously, a baby isn't doing much public speaking. The godfather takes on a genuine obligation: guide the child's upbringing, and if the parents die, step in as a guardian.
It's a serious commitment. More than ceremonial.
The problem was that Ethan — shaped by five thousand years of cultural pragmatism from his previous life — was about as religious as a brick. If he was going to believe in any higher power, it would be Sun Wukong, not the Catholic Church. Calling anyone "Godfather" with a straight face was physically difficult for him.
Fisk, being a fellow pragmatist, had never pushed the issue. But the bond between them was real. Fisk had watched over Ethan after his father's death, kept the Kitchen's worst elements away from the apartment building, and — in his own heavy-handed way — made sure the kid survived to adulthood.
Vanessa was Fisk's wife. Richard Fisk was their son.
In many parallel Marvel timelines, Vanessa and Richard met terrible ends — killed by Fisk's enemies, their deaths serving as the catalyst that pushed the Kingpin from "ruthless businessman" to "apocalyptic warlord." It was the classic comic-book formula: kill the family, unlock the villain's final form.
In those timelines, Fisk had responded by nearly starting World War IV, eventually deciding that a king shouldn't have attachments, and spiraling into full-blown supervillainy. The kind where he'd stare into the middle distance and monologue about sacrifice.
But this wasn't those timelines. Ethan was here. And as long as he had a say in things, Vanessa and Richard were going to live long, boring, uneventful lives.
Ethan's influence had tempered Fisk considerably. The Kingpin of this timeline was still dangerous — you didn't get to the top of New York's underworld by being gentle — but he wasn't the cold-blooded monster of other realities. Ethan had taught him the most important business principle he knew: get rich quietly.
In the comics, Fisk had a talent for picking fights with everyone — not just the street-level heroes like Daredevil and the Punisher, but heavy hitters like the X-Men and the Fantastic Four. Without someone pulling his leash, the man would eventually have ninety percent of Earth's superhero community gunning for him.
Ethan's job was to make sure that didn't happen.
"One more thing," Fisk said, his voice dropping back to business mode. "Hell's Kitchen's been restless while you were away. A few days ago, some rats tried to break into your restaurant. My people handled it."
"And there's been unusual activity — the Hand and the High Table have both been spotted in the Kitchen recently. Looks like they're searching for someone."
His tone hardened. "Be careful. I'm going to have a conversation with their people. Operating on my territory without so much as a courtesy call? They think Wilson Fisk has gone soft?" A low, dangerous rumble. "Other people might be afraid of the High Table. I'm not. That glorified dinner party of cosplaying aristocrats doesn't impress me."
"Noted." Ethan's voice was casual, unconcerned. "Honestly? I hope they do come. Renovating the school is expensive, and I could use the extra income."