CHAPTER 44

The hulking figure seated beneath the dim chandelier was none other than Wilson Fisk, the famed billionaire entrepreneur and public philanthropist of New York City. A titan of industry in the eyes of the world, his name adorned charity auctions, art galas, and business expos alike. But behind the curtain of public appearances and philanthropic headlines lay his true identity—Kingpin, the most ruthless crime lord in the Eastern United States.

Everyone who mattered in the criminal underworld, from Brooklyn to Hell's Kitchen, whispered the name "Kingpin" like a myth. His hand reached into drug trafficking, arms deals, extortion rings, and more. Though few had seen him in person, his influence was unmistakable. If you moved product in New York, you paid Fisk's toll—or bled.

Jon Harmon had been one of his key lieutenants, the primary overseer of narcotics distribution within the Bloodhead Gang, a vital subsidiary of Fisk's criminal network. The Bloodhead Gang controlled the lion's share of meth and synthetic drugs that flooded the Bronx and Lower Manhattan. That made Harmon's operations the financial backbone of Fisk's underground empire in New York—a veritable cash cow.

But now the cow was slaughtered.

Harmon had been taken out, and not by police or rival crews. No, this was something different. The entire incident was clean—too clean. No fingerprints. No DNA. Not even ballistic evidence. The villa he used as his base of operations had been torn apart and left smoldering.

And worst of all, no one knew who did it.

It was an insult. A direct strike to Fisk's authority. To be blindsided like this, without even a trail to follow, was equivalent to a slap in the face delivered in the middle of a public square.

Kingpin leaned forward in his massive, reinforced chair. His thick fingers tapped rhythmically against the armrest, his fury contained beneath a surface of unnatural calm. He had lost a high-value asset. And if he did nothing in response, his enemies would smell weakness.

Across the room, Alistair Smythe—his trusted technologist and the architect behind the Spider-Slayer initiative—floated forward in his hover-chair. His voice was cautious but steady as he broke the silence.

"Mr. Fisk, the man overseeing the investigation swore on his life that he followed every lead. The attacker was meticulous. Surgical. The only piece of evidence left behind was a low-resolution image taken from a damaged surveillance camera near Harmon's villa."

Alistair extended a gloved hand, passing a printed photo to Fisk.

Fisk took the image and examined it in silence. The foreground was dominated by the burning wreckage of Harmon's villa, still belching smoke. In the lower right corner, almost lost in shadow beneath overgrown hedges, was a blurry silhouette. Hooded. Cloaked in black. Only the faint gleam of white, almond-shaped eyes shone beneath the hood—barely discernible, yet unmistakably predatory.

Fisk narrowed his eyes.

"Another costumed clown," he growled. "Just like that damn wall-crawler."

Fisk's hatred for Spider-Man was deep and personal. The teenage vigilante had interfered with his gun-running operations, disrupted money laundering routes, and even exposed key shell companies. He never dealt fatal blows—but he wore Fisk down like a relentless mosquito.

Now, it seemed, another masked pest had entered the game.

Alistair continued: "There have been rumors filtering up from the street crews—survivors of robberies, ambushes, and drug raids. They talk about a man, possibly enhanced, wearing black… hunting criminals. He's fast. Strong. Brutal."

He pointed to the photo. "They're calling him Venom."

Fisk stared down at the image. The name sounded familiar. There had been reports in Brooklyn and Queens—murky incidents involving vigilantes with monstrous strength and strange abilities. At the time, Fisk dismissed it as urban legend or one of Norman Osborn's biotech prototypes gone rogue.

But this wasn't rumor anymore.

After a pause, Fisk handed the photo back and stood slowly, looming like a mountain of muscle and tailored silk.

"Alistair… this 'Venom'—I want him dead. I want it done publicly. Spectacularly."

His voice dropped, rich with menace.

"Assign Tombstone and Rhino. Together. Make an example of him. Let the whole city know: those who trespass on my territory will pay the ultimate price."

Alistair inclined his head in understanding. "Understood, sir. I'll mobilize them immediately."

Fisk turned back toward the window, watching the city lights glimmer below like insects beneath glass.

"In this city, you either rule with fear… or get buried by it."

After issuing those cold, calculated orders, Kingpin cast a rare approving glance at Alistair Smythe and spoke in a measured, almost paternal tone.

"Don't worry, Alistair," Fisk said, folding his massive hands in front of him. "That wall-crawling nuisance will pay the price soon enough. And when he does, you will finally have your father's vengeance."

He leaned forward slightly, his voice lowering into a manipulative whisper.

"You're brilliant—driven. You only ever lacked the space to fully express that genius. Now I've given you resources, personnel, funding, and complete freedom. The rest is up to you."

At the mention of Spider-Man, a flicker of hatred sparked in Alistair's eyes. He gritted his teeth and responded with a grim nod.

"I'm grateful for everything you've provided, Mr. Fisk. And I've never forgotten the cost Spider-Man forced my father to pay. When the next generation of Spider-Slayers is ready, he'll suffer. I'll make sure of it."

Fisk smiled thinly, content. That burning hatred, weaponized properly, was more valuable than any salary. He could bend that fire to his will.

Alistair's father, Spencer Smythe, had also been a scientific prodigy—an expert in cybernetics and robotics who originally created the first Spider-Slayers at the request of J. Jonah Jameson. But Spencer's obsession with destroying Spider-Man consumed him. When his final plan failed, he died in an explosion inside a self-destructing lab, leaving his son crippled, embittered, and hungry for revenge.

Alistair blamed Spider-Man not just for his father's death, but for the trajectory of his entire life. Kingpin had seen the potential in that rage and nurtured it, giving Alistair both the laboratory and legitimacy he needed to pick up his father's work. In return, Fisk gained a loyal and brilliant ally.

Kingpin's investment was minimal, but the return was exponential: a top-tier inventor under his command, a powerful anti-Spider-Man weapon under development, and another enemy thrown against the hero who'd become a thorn in Fisk's empire.

He thrived on deals like that.

Now, with Venom—this new masked vigilante—attacking his underworld assets, it was time to use Alistair's genius again. After discussing the plan to eliminate Venom, Fisk turned back to business.

"What's the status on the molecular stability project?" he asked flatly.

Alistair launched into a detailed explanation about adaptive alloys and neural interface uplinks, listing various stages of his in-progress upgrades to the Spider-Slayers. Fisk listened in silence, then gave a brief wave of his hand to dismiss him.

"You may go."

Alistair wasted no time. He turned and exited the office, already mentally mapping out deployment strategies for Tombstone, Rhino, and the resource shifts required to accelerate the Venom response plan. He was diligent—meticulous. When it came to research, he never faltered. That's why Fisk trusted him.

Left alone in the penthouse suite, Wilson Fisk settled back into his reinforced leather chair, gazing down through the towering floor-to-ceiling windows of his Hell's Kitchen skyscraper. Neon lights sparkled across Manhattan like a sprawling circuit board.

This was his domain.

New York was his kingdom, and crime was the instrument through which he ruled it.

Venom had crossed a line—he'd taken out one of Fisk's most profitable assets and dared to operate like a vigilante in his city. That couldn't go unanswered. Kingpin didn't just punish betrayal. He made it hurt.

And he wasn't foolish enough to think he ruled unchallenged. Rivals watched from the shadows—Hammerhead, Silvermane, the Owl, even whispers of resurgent Hydra cells. Any sign of weakness would be blood in the water.

That's why Venom had to fall. Publicly. Violently. Decisively.

Only then would Fisk's empire remain untouchable.