AN: I've been skimming over the bad guys activities so far, because neither of my main POV characters really know what's going on with them (despite Matt's efforts, poor guy), and because I've tried to mostly avoid rewriting bits of the show just as they happened in canon. However, this chapter reaches the moment where things between Fisk and the Russians are about to come to a head. If parts are confusing, let me know, and I'll do my best to clarify. Also, you may recognize two scenes in this chapter as being pulled (with some modification) from episode 5, World on Fire.

At least now I know Wilson Fisk exits.

Matt had known Healy wasn't lying when he'd given up Fisk's name – and besides, no one would kill themselves over revealing a fake name – but when he'd tried to do research into Fisk today, he'd hit a brick wall. Nothing he tried had brought up anything about Fisk; it was as if the man was a ghost.

His lack of progress was the main reason he'd decided to go through with his idea of arranging a run in with Heather to see what he could find out. The conversation had confirmed that Heather was connected to Wilson Fisk – he was her brother. She was a solid link to getting to him, but Matt was at a loss as to what he should do with her.

Wilson Fisk was clearly deeply involved in the crime plaguing Hell's Kitchen, but Matt wasn't so sure how or even if Heather was. It was difficult to imagine someone as easy to fluster as Heather being involved in any kind of organized crime. Plus, she'd been lying when she said she was close to her family. Perhaps she knew that Wilson Fisk was involved in crime and tried to distance herself from him.

Stray words caught Matt's attention. " – some blind guy? It's not like he's a threat to her."

"Orders are orders," another voice answered. "We report everything she does to the boss."

Matt slowed his steps, listening in on the conversation. He focused, trying to pinpoint who was talking.

"I guess," the first voice said. Male, with the husky rasp of a long-time smoker. "You gotta admit though, this is one of the weirder jobs we've had to do."

"Doesn't matter," the second replied. Also male, sounded slighter younger than the first, though that could just be because the other guy smoked. "We're getting paid well to do an easy job."

Matt got a fix on them. The two men were average height and build, bundled up for the cold. They were drifting down the sidewalk slowly, following Heather. They were good at it, making sure they went unnoticed.

"I guess," the first man said. "Just seems weird he needs someone to follow his sister."

"He's not paying us to ask questions about it," the second man said.

Fisk is having her followed? Why?

The cellphone in his pocket vibrated, and the computerized voice spoke up. "Foggy. Foggy."

Matt sighed, shifting the items in his hands so he could dig the phone out. Foggy probably wanted to know why Matt's late lunch had turned into an extra long lunch, especially since they actually had a client to meet with this afternoon. It didn't sound like the men following Heather were an immediate threat to her, so Matt didn't mind focusing on his real job for a little while. Besides, now he had a better direction to work in later. Instead of trying to figure out a way to get more information from Heather, he could go after the men following her. They wouldn't be hard to find, and Matt was much more comfortable with the thought of interrogating them instead of Heather.

"Hey, Foggy. Sorry I'm running late. I promise, I'm on my way."

"And this," Heather said, gesturing at Maria's outfit, "is why I can't dress like a hobo when I go off with you."

Maria always managed to look chic, and tonight was no exception. She wore dark skinny jeans tucked into sleek boots, a richly colored burgundy sweater, small gold earrings, all topped with a black trench coat. Her short black hair was attractively tousled by the evening breeze, and her makeup perfect.

"You look lovely," Maria said, looping an arm through Heather's.

Heather laughed, knowing lovely wasn't the right word. Presentable would be more accurate. She'd clipped her hair up but hadn't bothered touching up her makeup, and she'd changed out of her work clothes into jeans, flats, and a button up under a cozy old sweater. "You're sweet," Heather said. "Now, what movie are we seeing that you didn't want to name over the phone?" She looked over the options being offered on the screen above the cashiers, trying to see if she could guess.

"Well," Maria said, then Heather spotted a likely title and groaned.

"No, not the dumb horror movie," Heather said.

"You don't know that it's dumb!" Maria protested. "You haven't seen it yet. It could be good!"

Heather sighed, but went along with Maria's choice. She didn't generally like horror movies. They didn't frighten her, but most horror movies seemed to depend on their protagonists being complete idiots, which was, in Heather's opinion, bad storytelling. It was rare to find a horror movie that genuinely frightened or entertained her, but Maria loved them.

Just look at it as an excuse to overindulge on candy. And maybe Maria will be right. Maybe it won't be so bad.

Maria was not right. The movie turned out to be just as poorly plotted as Heather had expected. The whole thing could have been solved in the first ten minutes if the protagonist had just had the sense to get in their car and drive away. But they didn't, and Heather had to sit through nearly two hours of bad decisions and cheesy death scenes.

As the credits rolled, Heather looked at Maria. "That was terrible. Next time, I'm picking the movie."

"It wasn't terrible!" Maria protested.

"It was," Heather said. "You have awful taste in movies. But it's okay, everyone has to have some flaws."

Maria pushed her shoulder playfully. "Fine. You pick next time."

They walked out the theater together, and Heather shivered at the cold. Maria linked her arm through Heather's again. "Come on, let's walk fast. The subway will be warmer than this, at least."

"Anything exciting happen at work?" Heather asked.

"If by exciting you mean terrible, then yes," Maria said. "That one security guard is back at the courthouse. You know, the one with the creepy mustache that always tries to flirt with me? I was hoping they'd moved him somewhere, but I guess he was just on vacation."

Heather made a sympathetic noise. "I'm sorry. Hey, if you told Dominique he was bothering you, then you could probably activate her scary mom mode."

Maria snorted. "He's annoying, not evil. I'm not trying to get him killed."

Heather let out a quiet laugh, and Maria tugged on her arm. "Tell me something funny that happened to you this week. That'll cheer me up."

"What makes you think I have a funny story?" Heather protested. "Earlier you were saying I probably spent my whole week in my apartment."

"Yeah, but you work with kids," Maria said. "They're always doing something funny."

Heather shook her head. The kids had actually been pretty tame this week. She'd probably think me running into that guy, Matt, was funny. Heather could feel her face heat at just the memory. It would definitely go down as one of her more awkward encounters.

"Oh my gosh, you're blushing," Maria said.

Heather looked at her in alarm. "No, I'm not!"

"You are! You're blushing! Something happened to you that didn't involve the kids, spill," Maria said gleefully.

Heather groaned. How could Maria even see the flush on her face in this dim lighting? There's no avoiding it now. Maria was like a dog with a bone when she caught a whiff of an entertaining story, especially if it involved her friends.

"I might have literally run into the same blind guy twice in the past two weeks," Heather reluctantly admitted.

Maria laughed. "How did you manage to do that?"

"Well the second time was your fault," Heather said in defense. She told Maria about both incidents, the first time at the police station and then the second time from earlier that afternoon.

Once Maria had stopped snickering at her misfortune, she said, "Actually, now that I think about it, I might know the guy you ran into."

"Seriously?" Heather asked. "How could you know him?"

"Well, not know him, know him," Maria said waving one hand. "If he's the guy I'm thinking of, he used to intern at Landman and Zack. What'd you say his partner's name was?"

Heather had to think about it for a moment. "I think Sergeant Mahoney called him Foggy?"

Maria nodded. "That's them then; Foggy Nelson and Matt Murdock. I didn't really get to know them, but I guess we were friendly-ish acquaintances. They were actually offered positions at Landman and Zack, but they turned the offers down to open their own practice. Hope they're doing okay. They seemed nice." She glanced sideways at Heather as they started down the steps to the subway. "And as I recall, Murdock wouldn't be the worst person in the world to run into."

Heather groaned. "No, don't you start. We have to hear enough of this from Becky."

"Don't worry, my stance on happy singledom has not changed," Maria laughed. "But that doesn't mean I can't admire."

Heather rolled her eyes. "Fine, he's nice looking. Doesn't make what happened any less awkward."

Maria shook her head. "Nice looking. I swear, you could win awards for your skills with understatement. Don't worry about it though. What are the chances you'll run into him again?"

Before this afternoon, Heather would have said none. Now, she wasn't so sure.

Matt's night didn't go anything like he had planned. As soon as he'd finished up work with Foggy, Claire had called him, and he'd realized that she'd been found by the Russians. From there it had been a desperate race to track her down before it was too late.

He had, to his eternal relief. Claire was safe, her injuries relatively minor, all things considered. She'd live. She'd heal. She'd be okay. But Matt was still shaken by the knowledge that she very nearly hadn't been, all because of him; because she was a good person, and had decided to help him. Her pain was on him, and if she'd died, that would have been on him too.

It didn't happen, Matt thought. She was there, sitting at his kitchen table. At his insistence, she'd staid at his place the night before, though it hadn't taken much insisting to get her to agree. Claire hadn't been eager to return home after being taken by the Russians.

She was less afraid this morning than she'd been last night, able to joke and tease with him, able to ask questions about his abilities. Claire was brave, and trying, and Matt desperately wanted to keep her safe.

"Claire," Matt said, leaning slightly forward in his seat. "They know who you are now." She looked away, some of her easy comfort from moments ago slipping away. "They're not going to stop. I'd like you to stay here, with me. Just until I figure something out."

She looked up sharply at his words and brushed damp hair out of her face. "That's a hell of a way to get a girl to move in."

Matt offered a smile, because she wasn't saying no. "It worked, didn't it?"

Claire let out a soft laugh, her chin dropping. Carefully, Matt reached out, let his fingers catch under her chin and tilt her head back up. Her pulse skipped, but she didn't pull away. He leaned in slowly, giving her time to change her mind, to say no. She didn't. When Matt pressed his lips to hers, he kept the touch gentle, mindful of her cuts and bruises.

When he pulled back, he let his forehead rest against hers, and Claire sighed. "I was wondering if we were ever going to do that," she whispered.

"I've been a little busy," Matt replied. He separated from her touch with some reluctance. A part of him would have preferred to stay in that moment with Claire, but he still had things to do. "I'll get you some clothes while I'm out." He stood heading to the counter to collect his phones. He didn't need to go in to the office since it was the weekend, but he did have things to take care of; getting some basic supplies for Claire while she stayed with him was just another addition to his list.

"Why don't you go to the police with all that you have on the Russians?" Claire asked as he got them.

"I wear a mask and beat on people," Matt said dryly. "Doesn't exactly mesh with police policy."

"You're going to end up in another dumpster if you try to take down the entire Russian mob yourself," Claire pointed out. She probably wasn't wrong, but it wasn't enough reason to stop.

"Maybe I only need to take down one man," Matt said.

"Fisk?" Claire asked, clearly recalling their previous conversation.

"Cut off the head of the snake," Matt said as he walked back to the chair he'd just been sitting in and rested his hands on the back of it, "the body dies."

"How do you know he's the head of the snake if you can't find anything on him?" Claire shifted in her seat, following his movement.

"There was a murder in a bowling alley, a man named Prohaszka," Matt said. "Owned the majority of Kitchen Cabs."

"They were turning those over in the garage they took me to," Claire said, making the connection.

"I think Fisk hired the man that killed Prohaszka," Matt said. "Everything leads back to him, but no one will talk." He hesitated for a second before adding, "And I have found one lead on him."

"You have?"

He nodded. "Turns out, Wilson Fisk has a sister. She doesn't keep quite as low a profile as he does."

"Is this sister involved?"

"I don't know," Matt admitted. He let go of the chair, moved over to where he had his cane leaning against the couch. "She doesn't really strike me as the kind of person who'd be involved in organized crime, but sometimes it's hard to tell."

Claire cocked her head to the side. "It sounds like you've already talked to her."

"I sort of have." He briefly sketched out the run in he'd orchestrated with Heather the day before.

"Kind of sounds like she might have some involvement, if she's got bodyguards following her."

"Thing is, I don't think she knows they're following her," Matt said. It certainly hadn't sounded like it, from the parts of the conversation that he'd been able to overhear. "They aren't just guarding her; they're reporting back to Fisk about her activities too. Plus, I'm pretty sure they're new."

"How could you know that?"

"I saved Heather from a mugger about two weeks ago," Matt said. "She didn't have anyone guarding her then. My guess, the men following her are in reaction to that."

"So, what, are you planning to interrogate this woman and see what she knows?" Claire asked.

"No," Matt said shortly. He wasn't going to risk hurting someone who could very well be innocent. "But I think the men following her are fair game."

Claire nodded slowly, her hair brushing against her shoulders at the movement. "If you need another lead to follow," she said, "I heard another name last night when they were – " her words faltered, and it took effort for Matt to keep his face neutral.

He hadn't had the chance to hurt those men nearly as much as they'd deserved.

She picked up her sentence, her words moving faster to cover for her lapse. "The prick with the baseball bat reacted when he heard it. Like a dog when you yank his leash."

"What was the name?"

"Vladimir."

Heather tapped her pen against the paper, studying it critically to make sure she wasn't forgetting anything. She needed to head to the grocery store, and she'd rather not have to rush back out and grab something important.

I think that's everything.

It'd had better be. Groceries were not Heather's favorite errand, and the fewer times she had to deal with it, the better.

Heather shoved the list in her purse and pulled on her jacket and scarf. She was almost at the door when she realized she was forgetting her cloth grocery bags, so she spun on her heel and snatched those up, then went back to the door. She swung it open, then started at the sight of a man with a hand raised to knock. Heather pressed a hand over her heart. "James! You startled me!"

"My apologies, Ms. Fisk," James Wesley said, a wry smile touching his face. "It was unintended, I assure you."

Heather smiled, waving away his apology. "Don't worry about it. What brings you around?" It had been a couple weeks since she'd seen Wilson's assistant.

"I'm between meetings in the area, so I thought I'd stop by and say hello. I also thought you might like these," James said, holding out a box. Heather perked up, immediately recognizing the logo of her favorite bakery.

"Oh, James, you shouldn't have!" Heather said, even as she reached out for the box. "Thank you; though I can't believe Wilson has you working on a Saturday."

"It's only because he is," James said.

Heather shook her head, letting out a little laugh. "Of course he is. Wilson never has figured out the meaning of taking things easy."

"What about you?" James asked. "Are you doing alright?"

She almost sighed; she'd thought she'd gotten past people asking if she was okay. The incident with the mugger had been two weeks ago now. Though, to be fair, she hadn't seen James during that time, so it probably shouldn't be a surprise that he'd ask.

Then a suspicion reared up in her mind, and she narrowed her eyes at him. "James," she said, her voice automatically slipping into the tone she used with her students when she caught them misbehaving. "Did Wilson send you to check up on me because I turned down his offer of a bodyguard?"

"That doesn't sound like something Mr. Fisk would do," James said, and Heather tipped her head doubtfully, tapping one foot, because they both knew that it was exactly the sort of thing that Wilson would do.

James sighed and held up his hands in surrender. "Okay, yes. But it's only because he cares about you, Ms. Fisk."

Heather let out a deep sigh and leaned against her door frame. "I know, but I'm a grown woman. I don't need a babysitter." She shook her head. Honestly, the lengths Wilson went to sometimes… "You can tell Wilson I'm fine. And if he must know, tell him I'm running errands, and then I'm settling in for a quiet evening at home. Also, he doesn't have to send people to check on me. He can just text me or something."

"I'll relay the message," James said. "I apologize for intruding; enjoy the rest of your day, Ms. Fisk."

He started to walk away, and Heather started to turn back into the apartment to drop off the box before heading out on her errands, but she paused and leaned back out in the hall. "Hey, James?"

He stopped and turned back to look at her, eyebrows raised in question. "I'm pretty sure I've told you this before, but you can call me Heather. You work for Wilson, not me."

He smiled. "Of course, Ms. Fisk."

She shook her head. "Have a good day, James." Heather ducked back in her apartment and set the box on her kitchen counter. She couldn't resist peaking quickly to see just what he'd brought her; half a dozen blueberry bagels. Oh, these'll be good.

Her curiosity satisfied, Heather headed out to finish her errands, looking forward to her evening with renewed vigor. Curling up with a new book, coffee, and a blueberry bagel topped with cream cheese sounded like the perfect way to relax. It's going to be a good night.

Vladimir tended to his brother's body gently, cleaning off the dried blood with a damp cloth. He didn't flinch or shy away from the gruesome sight of Anatoly's missing head; he'd seen just as bad before. The gentle, deliberate motions as he worked belied the fierce rage burning in his chest.

A door opened behind him, but Vladimir didn't bother looking up from his work. He'd been expecting this visitor.

"Hey, sorry about your…" Turk Barrett's voice trailed off for a moment. "…Just sorry, you know?"

Vladimir ignored the attempted condolences. He was nowhere near naive enough to think Turk was sincere. "Sergei tells me you know something. Something about the man who took my brother from me."

"Yeah, uh." Turk paused. Possibly he was uncomfortable having the conversation in the room with Anatoly's body lying on the table. Vladimir didn't care. "Look, I know this guy. We did a stretch in Ryker's. Now he's in a chop shop on the edge of the Kitchen. Told me an SUV came in yesterday. Black, expensive, back seat all splattered with blood and uh, brains."

Vladimir lifted his head, turning to look back at Turk for the first time since he and Sergei had entered the room. "This car. Who does it belong too?"

Turk shrugged slightly. "Some big white guy. Bald as shit."

He recognized that description. "Fisk?"

"He didn't get a name," Turk replied, "but my boy said he heard baldy say something about that guy in the black mask. Couldn't make it all out but it sounds like he and this mask dude are tight."

"He works for Fisk." The fury in his chest burned higher as it sank in what this meant. "All this time, Fisk has been playing us. Planning this." Planning to destroy Vladimir and Anatoly, to take everything they'd worked for, to betray them. He turned to Sergei, and spoke in Russian, knowing Turk wouldn't understand.

"Tell the men to pull back and get ready. Guns, rifles, grenades. All of it."

"All?" Sergei asked, a quiet wariness in his voice. He knew what this meant; that they were going to war against Fisk.

Vladimir's temper boiled. "All!" he shouted. There would be no hesitation. Fisk would pay for what he'd done.

Sergei nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Turk, spread the word on the streets," Vladimir said, moving towards the other man. "One million, for whoever can tell me where I can find Fisk. Tonight." Wilson Fisk was notoriously difficult to track down, but one million should be enough to make someone talk.

"One million?" Turk repeated. He nodded, almost smiling. "I'm on it."

Vladimir turned back to Anatoly as the other two left the room. Soon, brother. He couldn't bring Anatoly back to life, but he could make sure Fisk payed for what he'd done. Vladimir picked up the rag and returned to the chore of cleaning Anatoly's body.

If only there was some way to make Fisk feel the pain that he's put me through.

Vladimir paused in the middle of wiping away a streak of blood. He couldn't believe he'd almost forgotten. Back when this partnership had first begun, Vladimir and Anatoly had dug into the past of all their new partners; Madame Gao, Nobu, Owlsley, and Fisk. There was precious little to be found, which they'd expected. Fisk especially was a ghost, with no record of any kind that Vladimir or Anatoly had been able to dig up.

Except. Except they'd discovered a woman: Heather Fisk. It had only taken a little watching to figure out that she was Wilson Fisk's sister, though from what they'd observed she wasn't involved in any of his businesses. They'd never mentioned their knowledge of her. No point in telling all they were aware of, and one never knew when that sort of information could be useful.

Like now, when Fisk had had Anatoly murdered, and Vladimir was out for revenge.

Vladimir dropped the cloth and went for the door. "Sergei!"