Preface & Acknowledgements
In eagerly awaiting the second season of Marvel's Daredevil, I found myself faced with an irresistible urge to pen to paper a haphazard series of thoughts and observations that, supplemented by a growing collection of graphic novels as well as encouraged by rumor of development choices shaping the much-anticipated second season, eventually manifested into my own vision of what events transpired between seasons 1 and seasons 2 of the TV series, Marvel's Daredevil. Out of respect to the writers of the TV series and its director, to whom I thank dearly for the very existence of both this work and my latest impetus to write at all, I will attempt to keep the characters as faithful to the TV show as I believe possible within the framework of my ability as a writer, and hold to the established canon that has been revealed thus far. In the spirit of the show, several new characters will be introduced throughout the course of this ongoing series that are not present in the TV series, but that are characters in the Marvel Universe itself: Silvermane, Bullseye, The Rapier, Typhoid Mary, and potentially guest feature characters from peripheral Marvel movies and television. OCs will generally be kept at a bare minimum, and will serve only to advance major elements of the plot. I would also like to thank the soundboard for my ideas, epiphanies and revelations as well as my steadfast critic and sufferer of the dreaded rough draft, fellow Fanfiction author Henta1Rampag3, whose work I recommend highly to admirers of professional-level fanfiction.

EPISODE I

AN EYE FOR AN EYE

By Caudimordax

With sight beyond sight, Matt Murdock gazed upon the city he'd shed so much blood for. Long after the Kingpin's fires had gone out, the world was still aglow with the crimson embers of evolving purpose for the Daredevil. His heightened abilities intuited the neighborhood's lattice of overcrowded streets by painting a mental image built from an accumulated library of distinct sounds along with perceivable variations in smell, taste, pressure, balance and direction. In so doing, he could sense each and every one of them—the sons and daughters of Hell's Kitchen. Fathers. Mothers. Husbands. Wives. Girlfriends. Boyfriends. The children at play on the front stoops of the tenement slums. The dope slinger operating just outside the entrance to the IRT Flushing Line at 34th and Hudson Yards. The agitated day trader flipping stocks over a Bluetooth headset while he impatiently roosted in queue at Johnny Panini's for his daily intake of prosciutto and mozzarella. These people and their stories, their dreams and their nightmares, their confessions and their secrets, comprised the divergent thrum of Hell's Kitchen. It was a throbbing and erratic pulse so absorbed with its own cacophonous nature less than 48 hours after the arrest and incarceration of one of Manhattan's most murderous psychopaths, it was already back to business as usual. Murdock began to feel his blood boil as it slowly dawned on him that to the very people he'd sworn to protect, the recent wave of crime and death that left much of their community in ruins warranted a level of outrage equivalent to losing cellular service in a tunnel. A multinational turf war was reduced to a byline in the Bulletin. Just another piece of Kitchen history grossly misrepresented on the evening news by some corporate shill reporter to her viewership, the glib cabbie to his fare, the politically-sensitive art student to anybody on the subway that would listen. But as Wilson Fisk's accounts dried up and his connections ran to ground, the people of Hell's Kitchen would simply forget this man and all the ill he'd done them. For whether out of fear, ignorance or simply indifference, nobody wanted to face the reality of the situation. No one was enraged by the terrible ordeal this city and its villains had put them through. Not a soul would thank the Devil of Hell's Kitchen for putting a stop to it. Hatred, Murdock had begun to discover, along with an unflinching desire for payback, were the only truly galvanizing emotions. And yet, even after all the carnage and chaos the Kingpin left in his wake, the rage and grief Matt so ardently believed was the commonality he shared with these people were absent. And this the devil within Murdock could not abide.

Long before he'd reached the door to the rooftop of the building where Nelson & Murdock's righteously-shoestring legal enterprise operated, Matt could discern the distinct timbre of Foggy's well-worn Italian leather wingtip dress shoes squeaking up the tiled staircase, his ragged breathing and erratic heartbeat indicative of something urgent or distressing. By the time the Daredevil's closest confidant had reached the top of the stairwell, Nelson required a moment to regain his composure—and his breath—before throwing open the rusty old door to the roar of the urban jungle each of them called home. Foggy didn't bother announcing his presence; after the recent revelation that his blind best friend saw the world with a degree of clarity and precision he'd never know himself, Nelson had angrily abandoned most of the pretenses he'd spent almost a decade affording his legal comrade out of respect and a selfless desire to share the world of lines, shapes, colors and beautiful girls with him. Perhaps one of the things that angered him most—beyond the obvious betrayal and breach of trust, of course—was the feeling of uselessness he found himself completely unable to shake. Before he'd learned the truth, Matt had always been the devilishly handsome of the two, confident, determined, impossibly educated and inextricably perceptive. But he'd been blind. And Foggy had always been there to take his arm in his own and lead him around, over and through the dangerous metropolitan geometry that might present the average sightless resident with an exhausting menu of daily challenges. But he now knew that not only could Matt negotiate a crosswalk during rush hour traffic, but he could defend himself against armed thugs and criminals. He could effortlessly deduce which women were goddesses and which were goats. He had graduated with the highest honors possible from Columbia Law. He spoke multiple languages. He dressed well. And everyone could not help but love him. The gravitational pull of Murdock's social kung-fu was inescapable. So where did that leave Foggy? Was his destiny simply to play the role of the awkward, quirky, second-best and overly-judicious sidekick? His resentment was barely masked as he came astride his best friend.

"You weren't planning on stylishly leaping off the edge to go fight crime under cover of darkness were you, because I probably wouldn't be able to stop you," Foggy grunted miserably.

"I wouldn't ask you to," Matt replied softly, sadly.

Nelson's brow furrowed as he wiped his mouth on his jacket sleeve. "Jesus, Matt! You know, in the past couple of days I've been so pissed off at you, but it was punctuated by moments of clarity where I imagined a world in which I could forgive you for everything you've done."

"Foggy…"

"No, Matt, listen. And I know you listen better than most people, so listen good. I thought about a world where I could forgive you, because in that world you were a good person that…Christ…somehow…in the end…despite how unbelievably led astray you'd been…how far you'd lost your way…that you cared about people. Genuinely cared about them. That everything you'd done…everything you would…keep on doing…was because you cared about them." Nelson staggered a moment, but regained his balance.

"Foggy are you drunk?"

"Considerably. But I'm not finished yet." He belched loudly before continuing. "But Matt…you're just…hell-bent on pushing everybody away. You just…you can't ever really let people in, can you? My God, Matt, it's fucking unbelievable that you can see the world so clearly but be so goddamn blind to the most important thing in this shit life, and that's each other, Matt. Because caring as much about somebody else as much as you care about yourself reminds us of why it's so special to be human. Matt…what…what are you fighting for if not to allow these relationships to flourish? And when you care about somebody that much, Matt…" His lower lip trembled and his eyes misted as he spoke. "…when you care about somebody that much Matt, you darn well better try to stop them from jumping off roofs."

"I'm sorry, Foggy," Matt said. "I really am. I've said it more than a dozen times and I can't… I don't know how many more I'll have to say before you believe me."

"I don't want you to say you're sorry," the other groaned.

"Then what do you want?" Murdock countered with a sigh.

"I want you to trust me."

"I do trust you, Nelson."

"Make me believe that, Matt. Make me understand why, night after night, you forsake the people who love and care about you by dressing up like some whack-job cosplayer and putting your life…your life, Matt…at risk in order to…what…give the beating of a lifetime to some hotshot criminals?"

"Fisk is behind bars, isn't he?"

"Yeah, and so what, Matt?" Foggy spread his arms wide. "Look around you! Has anything… anything at all…gotten any better around here since you dispensed your street justice on the Kingpin and delivered him to the police?"

Matt was silent, but his jaw squared and tensed.

"Have the crackheads stopped dealing?" Foggy went on. "Have Landman and Zach stopped defending scumbags? Have the police stopped taking payoffs? Have the newspapers printed sensational stories about how much the glorious and renewed community of Hell's Kitchen is poised to flourish and rise from the ashes of corruption and iniquity? In fact…has a single person in those streets below I know you're listening to deviated even slightly from their normal bullshit lives because of what you've done?"

Murdock heaved with audible regret and frustration. He removed his sunglasses, folded them, and replaced them in his vest pocket. He stared Nelson straight where he estimated his eyes should be. "What do you want me to do, Foggy?"

"You see, Matt, nothing's changed because all you've done is use crime to stop crime. And if all people see is a never-ending chain of crime, then they can't have hope. Because not everybody can be like you, Matt Murdock. Not everybody's strong, and quick, and fucking badass at mixed martial arts. Most people are just…boring or fat or slow or…God…worse still, mundane. And what you've done here, Matt…it's something that's just…comic book stuff. Normal people…people like me…we can't just leap off buildings and sprint off into the night and take down the bad guys with...batons, or whatever those things you fight with are."

"They're called eskrima sticks," Murdock pointed out clinically but without condescension in his voice.

"Whatever," the other scowled. "Matt, my point is…people need hope. And to give them hope, well, you've got to give them faith. Faith in the system. Faith in the idea that no matter how rich and powerful and well-connected guys like Fisk become, they're not immune to or above the law. And that lawyers like you and me…like Nelson and Murdock…will fight them but not in a Russian chop shop, Matt, but in a real arena—the court of law. They need to see that these scumbags cannot and will not get away with exploiting them and robbing them and raping them and killing them because we will hold them accountable. And if they are not judged in the eyes of God, well, they'll be judged in the eyes of twelve jurors, a judge, a bailiff, and a room full of lawyers. And it… it has to begin there because if civilized society lacks the means to defend itself against evil, well, then, Matt, we're already lost and we're no better than the guys you beat up on night after night."

Matt was quiet for some time as he internalized what his best friend said to him. Ultimately, he knew Foggy was right. That's why he'd gone to law school in the first place, and he'd left Landman and Zach to start his own firm with Foggy—to build community through a belief in the legal system and due process. But his own faith in the law had been tested, time and time again (he thought of the father that molested his own daughter), mocked by others (Stick, who ridiculed his "naïve crush on the America's most famous prostitute: Lady Liberty"), and eventually shattered by his own hand. Nelson was right; he had lost his way. But there had been moments—like when he'd defended Karen Page; like when he'd defended John Healy—that he felt like he'd used a more exquisite and satisfying form of kung-fu to masterful effect: the truly ancient art of speaking. Argumentation. Logic, rhetoric and persuasion. At these, he was peerless, and with these gifts he was truly deadly in a courtroom. Even without calling upon his enhanced hearing and other secret talents, when he set his mind to winning over a jury, every speech he'd ever given was a tour de force of gutsy legal seduction. His skills were feared by virtually every intern on the L&Z roster. And whether a defense attorney or a prosecutor, he was a force to be reckoned with. Why had he lost sight of that? How had his festering cynicism gone unnoticed for so long?

Even though Murdock could not actually see his best friend, he could not bear to look at him as he admitted, "If you ask for the truth, you might not like what you're going to hear."

"I don't care. You owe me this."

Matt sighed heavily. "Foggy…the truth is…I…I like hurting people… I… I just don't think it's enough for these people…after everything they've done…to just… sit in some prison somewhere in some big, spacious, comfortable cell with all the privileges they can afford because they've paid off the guards and the warden or…hell…threatened their friends or their families. Foggy…these people ruin lives… they take lives. Indiscriminately. Like they're nothing. They deal with people like they're…" He shuddered visibly. "Like they're goddamn currency. Commodities trading on the stock market uptown. And they…they…need to know the actual feeling of suffering. They need to know what pain feels like, because to these people…it's…it's an abstract concept they laugh about over champagne at fundraiser dinners."

"And I suppose you are the person that gets to decide who should feel pain and how much, am I right?"

"Well somebody has to."

"Why you?"

"Because…"

"Because what? What, Matt?"

At length, the Devil of Hell's Kitchen replied, "You remember the story I told you about the little girl whose father was raping her? And what I did to him afterwards?"

Nelson recoiled visibly in his drunkenness, but managed to nod.

"What I never told you before was that when I beat that man to within an inch of his life, he spent the next few months in the hospital eating through a straw. And the thing was, for those next few months…I'd never slept so soundly in my entire life. You see, Foggy, I have to do this because…I'm not a good person. And I've…I've hurt...a lot…of people. You…Karen…Claire… Hurting people is what I do, Nelson. And…I've gotten really…really…good at it. I am simply what I am—an instrument of justice. Finely tuned to bring evil men to justice. One thing I've learned growing up in this city is that sometimes you need a wolf to kill a wolf. Do you see any other wolves around the neighborhood?"

Nelson stared at Murdock with a look of crushing, annihilating sadness and pity. "If I could spell it out for you in braille, Matt, I would, because you just can't see it. You're a brilliant lawyer. You're a man of conviction, belief, integrity. But you're using your gifts all wrong, and it's going to be the death of you if you don't stop."

"Nobody lives forever," Matt conceded.

"If you're so eager to die, why did you bother with Columbia or Landman and Zach or Nelson & Murdock at all? Huh? Why?" Foggy's anger was contorting his words into blubbering phrases and raspy utterances.

"I… I don't know," Murdock said truthfully. "Maybe because there's a devil and an angel inside of me, and the angel just isn't ready to die yet. Who knows? Maybe I just feel like I can do even more good if I attack the problems of this city from both sides of the equation."

"Eventually, you're going to have to pick a side."

"Eventually," Matt stressed the operative word in his friend's observation.

Foggy spat off the ledge of the rooftop. "I need another drink. I'm starting to sober up."

"I think you should call it quits for the night. Has Karen closed up the office yet?"

"She went home early. She's been calling it quits earlier and earlier the last few nights. Hasn't really spoken that much either, actually, but I mean, can't say I blame her. Things have been freakin' tense around here." He thought a moment. "Hey, why'd you even have to ask me that? Couldn't you just tell if she was still in the building by listening for her heartbeat or smelling her perfume or something?"

Matt smiled softly. "I was…I could have…but what else are friends for?"

The two were silent again for some time before the conversation picked up again.

"So…you're not going to stop…are you?"

"There's nobody to fight momentarily."

"Matt…there's always gonna be somebody to fight. You know that. I know that."

"Well…whenever they decide to make their debut…I'll be right here. Listening."

"Is Nelson & Murdock still opening its doors to new clients or are we totally caput?"

"Well I can't pay the electric bill by dressing up in a little horned suit and getting into fights in condemned industrial locales, so let's not throw out our legal dictionaries just yet."

"Fair enough," Foggy sniffled, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. "We need to talk things over with Karen though. We've got to get some kind of system going that we all adhere to. All this secret-keeping has to stop, Matt. I'm putting my foot down on this one, even if you can still kick my ass."

Matt chuckled airily. "No disagreement there. Send her a message. Tell her we'll meet tomorrow morning for coffee someplace. The three of us."

"I'll set it up."

"Good. Thanks. And tell her I'm sorry."

"Anything more specific?"

Matt thought a moment. "Just tell her I'm sorry. I'll figure out how to explain everything to her when I've worked it all out myself in my own head."

"Fine, Matt, but don't take forever. I feel, somehow, like she's drifting away from us. I mean, yeah, it's been stressful lately, but I also feel like there's something else going on. Something she hasn't told us."

Matt nodded and cleared his throat. "I know. I noticed it too. She's been trying really hard to hide it…but…something's happened. I'm not sure what."

"So…I mean… can you just like…read her mind or something?"

Murdock gave a singular but genuine laugh. "Hah! Now you're confusing me with the guy running that institute for special kids or whatever out in the burbs to the northeast."

"Yeah, well, who knows what other surprises about you I still have to unearth?"

"Honestly, Foggy, there's nothing more to tell. You know everything there is to know."

Except it wasn't exactly everything. As Matt returned the focus of his senses to the streets below, he dwelled on the notion that he feared most: that without crime and chaos in the world, he had no purpose. He needed evil to exist or else he lost his own identity. He hadn't donned the mask and become the man in the mask because the city had asked him to. Hell's Kitchen was simply that—Hell—and it was simply a devil's lot to live in it. Wilson Fisk and his associates hadn't created the Daredevil; he'd already taken up residence in Murdock's soul long before that. Only lately had the son of a bitch begun once again to charge him rent.

"Prisoner number 1976131 stand your fat ass up, spread your legs, and place your hands against the wall," the prison guard shouted over the vulgar cacophony of C-Block.

For several moments, the prisoner sat motionless, seated on the edge of his cot, staring blankly at the wall before him. Then he turned to face the guard and fixed eyes upon him. They were coal-black, opalescent orbs that seemed at all times calculating and judging. But they were also cloudy and faraway. He stood slowly, a considerable effort for his large, weary frame.

"Your name," the prisoner said softly. "Your…name…is Dwayne Jackson…isn't that right?"

The guard sneered and shuffled into the cell, conducted a thorough examination of the prisoner's person, checking for any manner of improvised weapons, shanks, or other contraband paraphernalia. Then, one by one, he maneuvered and cuffed the prisoner's enormous hands behind his back.

"Is this…is this really necessary, Mr. Jackson?" the prisoner grunted as he was restrained with a completely unnecessary amount of force. "I have complied, without violence or argument, to everything you've ever asked me to do. I am not the sort of man who would just…brutalize a figure of authority such as yourself. I have demonstrated…to…argh!...to great effect that…that I do not mean you or your…or your colleagues ill. Do you…do you have to put me in cuffs like I'm some kind of…criminal?"

Dwayne Jackson gave a gruff laugh. "You are a criminal, prisoner 1976131. You're a fucking murderer and a rich sleazebag and a profiteer on the misfortunes of the people of this city. You are a criminal, Wilson, you are the sort of man who would brutalize a prison guard, and you are exactly where you belong. So yes, I am going to cuff you. And I don't give a rat's ass if you're Tony Fuckin' Stark, you're gonna get treated just like everybody else."

Dwayne Jackson gave the staunch frame of Wilson Fisk a brisk shove out of his cell and began to walk him down to C-Block intake and in the general direction of the interchange to the Quadrangle where the G-Pop, Processing & Visitor Wing, the medical facilities, and the recreational areas met at a central nexus.

"Where are you taking me, Jackson?" Fisk wondered. "It's not time for exercise. Breakfast was only one hundred and thirteen minutes ago. Now fourteen minutes. What's going on?"

"Shut the fuck up, Fisk," the guard remarked, annoyed. "You know damn well I ain't supposed to say shit to you."

Wilson was lead through a series of hallways where prison security was tightest. This was due to his proximity to V&P (prison lingo for Visitors & Processing). The Kingpin shuffled as best he could, his balance poor due both to fatigue and the absurd pace the guard insisted he keep. Fisk could only speculate what sort of trouble was afoot, and he knew he'd get nothing out of the tight-lipped, surly Jackson.

"I'd like to use the lavatory," Wilson murmured, suddenly feeling an irrational sense of fear and dread brewing in his abdomen.

"Piss your pants," Dwayne said. "Ok face the wall beside the door and don't move a goddamn muscle."

The two came to a small but apparently secure door that had two prison guards posted outside of it. They were attired exactly like Jackson, but these guards possessed firearms whereas the C-Block guards were traditionally outfitted with standard-issue Tasers and Billy clubs. Fisk did as he was told, but eyed the two guards with heightened suspicion and unease.

"H…hey," he stammered. "Uh…excuse me…maybe you could tell me what I'm doing here. Why I've been yanked out of my cell with no explanation?"

Jackson nodded at the guard nearest him. "Percy, why don't you and Troy go take your smoke break early today. And take your time."

The armed guards exchanged glances, smiled and nodded toward one another.

"Yeah, sure," Percy replied before he and his cohort abandoned their posts and walked back down the hallway from whence the Kingpin and his escort had just came.

"Hey. Hey! Where are you going?" Wilson cried. "I…I demand to know what's going on here!"

Jackson waved his ID card over a scanner just to the left of the doorframe, then pressed his thumb down on the biometric scanner below it. His prints were scanned and approved by an on-site database presumably located beneath the Warden's office in a secured vault of reinforced concrete that could realistically survive most carpet bombings and bunker-busting missiles. The door opened.

"Inside," Dwayne ordered, grabbing Wilson's cuffed wrists and guiding him into the mysterious chamber.

"I don't want to go in there!" Fisk roared, struggling and trying to brace himself in the doorway. But Jackson himself wasn't a small man, and his sinewy arms and positional advantage saw him able to force his charge through the doorway and into the dark room.

When the door slammed shut and locked behind him, Fisk began to panic with a renewed level of terror. Though it had always been looming in the back of his mind, he'd known that he had countless adversaries who each wanted their pound of flesh for things the Kingpin had done to them—and in many cases their friends, families, and loved ones—and whether he was dead or alive didn't matter to a great number of them. And he knew that even in a six-by-eight foot cell in the bowels of Rikers Island prison, he could be got to. Fisk himself had been able to reach out, indeed on several occasions, to inmates in Rikers to finish the job on inmates who had evaded his wrath on the outside. It would be easy for a man of influence and power to reach out themselves and see the Kingpin's last breath ripped from his body on the inside. He thought of Vanessa. His blood ran cold.

"Wilson," a familiar voice rasped with dark purport.

Fisk spun around and found himself staring at a nondescript, black table behind which sat a man he had not seen in many years. He was impeccably dressed to the nines in a pinstripe black suit and matching fedora hat. A gold and black ascot framed his collarbone, drawing attention to an angular, grizzled jawline and leathery, Mediterranean skin. His salt-and-pepper hair was long and tumbled about his shoulders with reckless abandon. A pair of frost-blue eyes remained fixed upon Fisk's now paralyzed figure. From his left breast pocket he procured an ornate, golden case of about the size and thickness of a cassette tape, opened it, and removed a black and gold-ringed MS brand cigarette. He then fished a zippo lighter out of his trouser pocket then set the cigarette ablaze. The man inhaled deeply, purposefully, then exhaled, filling the room with a listless haze.

"Would you care for a cigarette, Wilson?" the man asked politely.

The Kingpin regarded the other carefully. "I don't smoke anymore."

"And as a result, Wilson, you've put on considerable weight since we last met. The city you stole from me…the city that you…evicted…me from…has made you bloated and amoebic. Look at you. You've become one of the very spoiled, self-entitled fat cats you used to despise."

"Are you here to kill me?" Fisk asked darkly.

"Sit down, Wilson," the other replied cooly. The Kingpin complied, slowly and mechanically, for there was little choice. He took the chair opposite his guest. "Although it would admittedly delight me considerably for your death to be by my own hand—we (he hit the cigarette) have a sort of (then exhaled) saying in Italy…occhio per occhio, dente per dente…in English, this is like saying, 'An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth'…but, ah, I'm sure you get the meaning—it would not be pragmatic or beneficial to do so here and now in this very room. At least not just yet."

"Then what do you want?" the Kingpin grumbled. "Are you…are you here to…to gloat…to boast that I'm…" he gestured around himself, "…in here…and you're out there to do…whatever it is that you do these days. There's nothing you can say that I don't already know. Nothing you can do to me that won't make my life irreparably worse than it is."

The well-dressed gentleman took a long, luxurious puff of his cigarette. "Ah, but you see, that is where you are terribly, terribly wrong, Wilson. You see, your problem was that you thought you could make the city work for you and your juvenile interests. Getting the Russians and the Chinese and the Japanese to work cooperatively in tandem…" he laughed and clapped his hands together in mock applause. "Impressive. Inventive, even. And that business with the councilman… Cherryh… some might even call that a political masterstroke. But you see, Wilson, you tried to take over this city…" The man stamped his cigarette out on the table, then rose from his chair. His ice-blue eyes gleamed in the wan light of the interrogation chamber. "I, Silvio Manfredi, am this city, Wilson. And I have come here to tell you that there are going to be a lot of changes around here! Hell's Kitchen will be mine! The money will be mine! The drugs will be mine! And the people will be mine! Every. Last. One. Including that lovely arm-candy of yours…regrettably I've forgotten her name. I shall have to go acquaint myself with her more formally after I'm all settled in."

"If you…so much as mention…her name…if y-y-you harm…one single hair…on Vanessa's head…"

"You'll what, Wilson? You'll what?" Manfredi taunted him. "Where are all your trusted minions and monsters now? Who do you think is going to get you out of here? It's over, Fisk. Yesterday was your time. Today is my time. I just wanted, out of respect, to announce my intentions to you formally. It's how things were done in the old days. Back before people like you gave the Maggia a bad name."

"I'll kill you," Fisk whispered. His hands trembled with barely-constrained rage and enmity. "Every last one of you."

"Perhaps," Manfredi smirked. "But not today, I think. Besides, someone has to mop up the mess you made after you ceased being useful and went off the reservation. People will be held accountable, most of all you, but everything has its time and place. And then there's the somewhat…vexing issue…of this…Daredevil person. What can you tell me about him?"

For the first time in years, Wilson Fisk felt all traces of fear and anxiety leave his body as though he had been exsanguinated by a supernatural force. There was only a cauldron of vengeance and vendetta boiling inside of him. If he could not be the instrument of his old rival's barbaric destruction, perhaps he could manipulate Manfredi into a confrontation with the Devil of Hell's Kitchen, a confrontation in which that insufferable cur of a vigilante would emerge victorious and rid his existence of this Italian menace one and for all. Fisk's lips curled into a hateful sneer.

"The devil you seek…is a man of singular drive and focus. He is unwavering, self-righteous, and motivated. He cannot be bought. Not with money. Not with fancy cars or lavish apartments or political appointments or affluent privilege. He is well-trained, well-armed, and if you cross him…hah…when…you cross him…if he has not finished you off already, he will find you. He will cause you insurmountable pain and and inconvenience, and you will underestimate him and throw subordinates at him until there is no one left to throw. And he will not stop until he gets to you, because when you go to war with the devil, he either comes home with his shield, or he comes home on it. I can promise you this—he…thinks…the Kitchen is his, and he will fight you for it. And I hope…oh, Silvio, I truly, truly do hope…that you involve him with the Maggia, because he will finish the job I started all those years ago…all those years ago when you were still as insignificant as you are now." The Kingpin laughed heartily. "This is not the city you remember it to be, Manfredi. I've kicked the hornets' nest, and all the wasps this city has in its hive are about to buzz buzz buzz after whoever becomes the new beekeeper. All the worthy players are about to reveal themselves. Everybody wants a piece."

"Yes," Manfredi said, adjusting his ascot. "Yes they do. But this pie only has so many pieces. But you know who always gets a piece, Wilson? The baker. And this city…my city…will pay whatever price I decide to sell the pie at. Or they will burn in the ovens of my enterprise. Guard!"

The door clicked as the biometric scanner was again activated. A moment later office Jackson entered the room.

"I wish you the very best of luck," Fisk said. "And remember what I said. If you even try to go near Vanessa…"

"Oh, Wilson," Manfredi replied, clicking his tongue against gritted teeth. "Don't you fret. I don't plan on killing the future Madame Fisk unless you're there to watch me do it!"

"You bastard!" roared Kingpin, lunging forth at the other, but to no avail as Dwayne leapt to restrain him. "If you…if you go near her…kill you!" Fisk panted between ragged gasps.

"It was good to see you again, Wilson," the other nodded his head courteously.

As prisoner number 1976131 was dragged trembling and sweating back toward C-Block, he realized then and there he had to get out. He had to break free. For Vanessa's sake. Nothing else mattered. But he had no clue how. He had no connections or power he could exploit in his current position. Wesley was dead. And he was certainly next. In Rikers, somebody would get to him.

The Kingpin sat in his cell in silent deliberation for the next several hours, staring at the bleak, faded white wall across from his cot. The feeling of loneliness, isolation, and disconnection was like a radiant abyss that reflexively echoed his chaotic and cruel and impulsive nature. It was maddening. After a while, Fisk set to work tearing his pillowcase up into shredded strips and wrapped them round his gargantuan fists. With a measured tempo, he began to slam his fists into the wall of the cell. He thundered his clenched hands against the bleakness of the wall, taking chips of plaster and concrete out of the wall, dusting the floor with a chalk-like residue, the same residue that now covered his bleeding fists. "Kick him again," he kept repeating to himself with every punch. Kick him again!

Fate, it seems, is not without a sense of irony. That same day, Fisk would have a second visitor. A visitor that carried far better news than the first.

To be continued...