From Russia with love part 2

Clark left the New York Bulletin with a smile on his face. Another story written, another story published. This one didn't pay much, true, but it wasn't about the money, it was about doing a job he liked and doing it well; at least now it was, since he didn't have to worry about getting money to pay for next month's rent anymore.

Time to fly a little bit, then. Things were relatively quiet in the world that day, especially in New York, but it was always nice for him to appear and remember criminals he was always there, watching. There were no natural disasters happening, the police and the firemen had things under control on the few situations he could hear and, surprisingly, no dire emergencies that needed his immediate attention.

All in all, it was a good day.

Using Kelex to block any cameras or satellites that could be pointed in his direction, Clark prepared himself to enter an alley, already ready to put on his skinsuit and take off. As soon as he thought about turning there, however, a woman ran to him.

"Excuse me, Mr. Kent?"

Clark stopped quickly and tried his best to appear casual, as if he weren't doing anything remotely out of normal; he wasn't so sure he managed to do it, but the woman in front of him didn't seem to notice anything. He looked at her, trying to remember if he had seen her before, but he immediately decided he hadn't.

Trying not to sound like some kind of pervert even to himself, Clark thought that he would've remembered the woman, because she did stand out from the crowd, with her blond hair, her beautiful face, her shapely figure and her shining blue eyes.

He stopped himself from rolling his eyes; well, wanting or not, he was kinda feeling like a perv now. Damn his brain.

"Can I help you?" Clark asked, lightly shaking his head to dispel his unwanted thoughts, smiling at her.

She hesitated for a moment.

"My name is Karen Page, I was wondering if we could speak for a moment?"

Karen was nervous and she was trying her best not to show it. Admittedly, it was a hard thing to do with her hands shaking like that, so she put her cup of coffee down and hid them under the table.

Mr. Kent – Clark, she corrected herself, internally, after he himself corrected her twice – probably noticed, but was polite enough not to say anything, simply drinking his own coffee while he watched the people in the coffeeshop from their table on the corner.

He was not what Karen expected, she admitted. After Ben Urich's advice, Karen researched everything she could about Clark Kent, trying to find out if he truly could help her. More importantly, trying to find out if she could trust him with her story. What she found was precious little.

There was a lot about his stories and even more about all the criminals he helped to arrest with his investigations. But about him? About Clark Kent himself? Almost nothing. He was clearly a private person, not concerned about fame or even money, if the rumors of the job offerings he refused were anything to go by. He was smart, something clearly evident by the investigations he pulled off, and he seemed to know a great deal about a lot of things, from different languages to forensics.

Clark was also just, deeply concerned about doing the right thing and utterly unafraid of reprisal from the really bad people he exposed.

That, more than anything, was what convinced Karen to try to meet him. Ben's advice was, of course, something she took into consideration, but someone in her situation had to be very careful about who to trust. And about who she would put at risk. Daniel, her coworker, suffered from her mistake and she would never do something like this again.

Still, the man in front of her was different than what she had imagined. Karen knew he was a young journalist, starting his career, but clearly someone with a lot of talent. A prodigy, someone who had a bright future in front of him. Expecting the very worse, something like that usually meant coldness, sometimes arrogance, and not a lot of empathy.

This couldn't be further from the truth.

He was smart, that was clear for anyone who talked to him even for a few seconds, but he was also humble, truly modest. Behind his glasses, his blue eyes were kind and understanding and not cold at all. He also had a great sense of humor and an easy smile, the kind that made Karen lower her guard, even when she was that nervous.

Clark Kent was also hot as hell, but that little tidbit wasn't relevant at all.

"So, Karen, why don't you tell me why we're here?" Clark said, after finishing telling her about the 'Mutant Factory' story, the only thing she could think to ask when she approached him in the street. He smiled. "As much as I'd like to believe that a beautiful woman just asked me out for coffee to talk about an old story, I think you have something else in mind."

Karen could feel herself blushing a little, but the nervousness she felt quickly took first place on all the emotions playing inside her. She grabbed her cup of coffee with both hands, trying to calm her nerves.

"You're right, I did," she finally admitted. "I-I need help with something and Ben Urich told me to look for you."

His eyebrows shot up. "Ben Urich? Really?"

She frowned, a little confused. "You don't know Ben?"

"I do, it's just… Well, to be honest, I didn't think he liked me very much," Clark said, leaning over the table a bit. "I crossed paths with him the second time I was in the Bulletin, delivering a story, and I was so excited. He's a legend in journalism, pretty much took down the entire Italian mafia by himself here in New York."

Karen smiled a little bit seeing the glow in his eyes; she could almost feel how excited he were back then.

"I was about to introduce myself to him," he continued ", but, to my surprise, he said he knew who I was. And before I could say anything, he said: 'Your Mutant Factory piece was satisfactory.' And then he left."

A giggle escaped her mouth when she saw his dumbstruck expression.

"I shared a few words with him after that," Clark said, "but nothing gave me the impression that he thought about me as anything other than the freelance guy he crossed paths with sometimes."

"Well, he does think highly of your skills, if his indication means anything," Karen said. "He said a lot of good things about your work."

"That's nice of him," Clark answered, pleased. Then, after a second, he looked at her with all his attention. "So, Karen, ready to tell me what you need help with?"

No, she was not, but she did it anyway.

Whatever Clark thought it would happen on that day, that wasn't it. What Karen Page told him wasn't simply a story, it was a conspiracy worthy of an old spy movie, something so outlandish, so impossible, that it simply couldn't be true.

And yet, looking into her scared eyes, Clark had no doubt she was telling the truth.

Karen Page had stumbled into a criminal plot that had left a trail of bodies all over New York. From innocents like her coworker, Daniel, to accomplices like her old boss, McClintock, and murderers that tried – and thankfully failed – to kill her, like Rance and the prison guard, Farnum. A string of victims, most conveniently ending their own lives before being able to talk.

And then there was the involvement of the Masked Vigilante.

According to Karen, not only she was saved by him from being assassinated by Rance, the Masked Man was also responsible for divulging the information Karen stole, effectively exposing Union Allied's crimes and potentially saving her life once again, since the men behind all those crimes had no more reason to go after Karen now, not with everything she knew already on the papers.

Murderers, vigilantes, a big company responsible for a great deal of Hell's Kitchen reconstruction involved in a scandal and who knows what else.

No, this really wasn't how Clark imagined his day would go at all.

"This is… This is a lot to take in," Clark exhaled.

Karen looked down, her hands shaking slightly.

"You don't believe me," she whispered.

Without thinking, Clark held her hand.

"I believe you," he said, in no uncertain terms. "I doubt you would make this all up just to waste my time." He hesitated, before adding in a low voice. "And I can see you're scared."

Karen didn't bother denying or pretending to be fine. She was scared and she had every reason to be. Those people were evil and they were not concerned about killing innocents. And the fact that Clark hadn't even heard about this before she told him was enough to worry him. This wasn't, in any way, a simple crime. It was a carefully woven plot, guided by ruthless and intelligent people with resources to bribe, hire, threaten, blackmail and eliminate pretty much anyone they needed to.

These people were creating a crime empire right under his nose and somehow the Masked Man was involved in this.

Clark was a bit surprised when Karen squeezed his hand.

"Thank you," she whispered and Clark could feel the relief in her voice. "You have no idea what this means to me. I tried to tell the police, I-I…" Karen stopped and dried her eyes with a napkin; she took a deep breath. "So, will you… Will you help me? I asked Ben for help, but he… He sent me to you. I-I have no one else to go to."

He didn't even hesitate. "Of course I'll help you. Don't worry, Karen, we're going to get to the bottom of this and the people who did this will face justice, you have my word."

Karen felt as if the weight of the entire world was lifted from her shoulders when Clark said that. She didn't know why, couldn't possibly comprehend the reason, but she believed him. More than that, she felt safe. It was a stupid feeling, of course, Clark was just a journalist, he had no way to ensure her wellbeing, especially under these circumstances, but that didn't change how she felt.

For someone who lived in fear ever since she woke up by the side of her murdered friend, that feeling of safeness was priceless.

"So what do we do now?" Karen asked, her voice almost cracking.

Clark was deep in thought for a moment. "This Masked Man that saved you, do you think he is the same vigilante that's been beating people up in Hell's Kitchen?"

That question surprised her a bit, but she answered with a nod.

"Well, there aren't many masked men beating people up in Hell's Kitchen, it's gotta be him." He nodded, still thinking. "Why are you asking?"

He looked at her. "This Masked Vigilante has been making life difficult for the Russians lately. Beating their men, getting in the way of their deliveries, destroying their products… I don't think it's a coincidence that he appeared to help you."

Karen took a second to understand what he was saying. "You think… You think the Russian Mafia is involved?" she whispered, alarmed, looking around the coffee shop.

Clark waited a second to answer. "That pension fund you discovered when you worked in Union Allied, how much money did it have?"

"A lot. There were so many zeros…"

"Enough money to run an entire criminal organization?"

Her eyes snapped up. "You think it's their money?!"

He sighed. "If it's that much money, then it's probably not only theirs. I'm thinking something of a joint account."

Karen had no idea how to answer to that.

Clark was concentrated, trying to tie all scraps of knowledge he had about this. How did the Union Allied scandal, the Russian Mafia and the Masked Vigilante fit together? What was the connection? Was Union Allied simply a front for money laundry, a way for the Russians to keep their money below the radar? If so, then what about the rest of the money? He had no doubt that an organization as famous and big as the Russian mob had a lot of money, but certainly not that much. So who were the others involved in this?

"What are you thinking?" Karen asked after a while.

He looked at her. "I'm trying to make sense of all this. I'm certain the Russians weren't the only ones hiding their money with Union Allied, no matter how profitable things may be going for them." Clark tapped a finger on his chin, distracted. "This is not the work of a single criminal organization, more of them are involved."

Karen just watched, in silence, as he thought things through.

"The Irish are pretty much broke," Clark continued, "so are the Albanians. The Nigerians and the Jamaicans are running a tiny little business in Harlem, they don't step in Hell's Kitchen. The Cartels were broke to pieces by Superman, when he destroyed their drug labs and their production all over the world. The Italians had one big man still left standing in New York, a guy named Rigoletto, but if my sources are right, he disappeared without a trace not too long ago. Most likely murdered. The Koreans have no foothold in Hell's Kitchen…"

"You know a lot about crime," Karen mentioned, a little surprised.

"Part of the job," Clark shrugged. Both jobs, really, but she didn't need to know that. "The Yakuza is still strong in Hell's Kitchen, even with Superman. They are mostly keeping themselves with their legal business and no violent operations, so they're surviving. The Chinese, on the other hand, are still going well. They're one of the few still dealing drugs and they're making a lot of money with it." He tilted his head, still peeved about that fact. "I heard Superman is doing his best, but they're really entrenched in Hell's Kitchen. And then, of course, we have the Russians."

He took a swig of his cold coffee before continuing.

"The Russians lost almost all their territory in New York, but they managed to regain a lot after the Incident. They were among the first to bring their crews to Hell's Kitchen after the Chitauri invaded and they managed to start a good operation. They secured the docks and, with it, they had a monopoly on the shipment business." Clark frowned. "Which, honestly, makes the murder of another mobster boss in Hell's Kitchen weird."

"What do you mean?" Karen asked.

"There was another guy, in Hell's Kitchen, also responsible for the delivery of products, but not via the docks. Guns, drugs, people… Well, not so much anymore, not since Superman, but he delivered what he could get his hands on. But he worked together with the Russians, there's no reason for them to start killing each other. War is costly."

"Not unless the Russians stood to gain more," Karen suggested. "Who's this guy that died? Who was this mobster?"

"A man named Prohaszka," Clark answered. "He–" Clark stopped talking when he heard Karen gasp; her blue eyes were wide. "You heard that name before," he said. It wasn't a question.

Still shocked, Karen nodded. "More than that. The firm I work for represented the man who killed him."

"You're a lawyer?" Clark asked, surprised. He shook his head, realizing that her profession shouldn't have been the main source of his surprise. "You represented Prohaszka's killer?"

"I'm just an assistant," Karen said, unusually defensive. "I started working there not too long ago, after I left Union Allied. They were the ones who helped me, I was their first case. They are good guys, they usually don't pick cases like that, they like to help people…" She stopped, realizing she was getting off subject. "We were approached by some guy that wanted us to represent John Healy, Prohaszka's murderer. I don't know why we took the case, the guy was a complete psycho, but I guess the pay was good… Or maybe they were just curious about the man who was hiring us and wanted to find out more."

"Who hired you?" Clark asked.

"The man never said his name, but he represented a company named Confederated Global Investments… Which was a front. I researched it myself. It was a subsidiary of a holding company, of a loan-out to a holding subsidiary and so on, so forth. But their money was good." Karen closed her eyes and took her hands to her face, tired. "You think those guys are the same ones behind Union Allied? Trying to put us under their control or something like that? Watch us? Watch me?"

"That's a strong possibility," Clark admitted. "What happened to John Healy?"

"Take a guess."

"He was 'suicided'?"

"Actually, from what I heard, this guy actually committed suicide," Karen said, "after he was released, which was weird. Plunged his head in a piece of metal. But I really don't trust the official version anymore, he might've been killed."

"Either way he's dead and unable to answer questions. I'm sensing a pattern here…" Clark sighed. "I'll take a look into it, see if I can find something else about this company and John Healy, but I think you were right in your assumption: the Russians took over Prohaszka's operations. Which is surprising, really, because a move like that should've started a war."

"Not if they had other organizations to back them up, make Prohaszka's men fall in line," Karen finished, eyes wide. "Organizations that, like the Russians, are using companies like Union Allied to hide and laundry money. My god, what the hell did I get into…"

Clark held her hand again, hearing her heart beating too fast; he could actually smell her fear.

"Karen, look at me." He squeezed her hand, grabbing her attention. "Look at me. I won't let anything happen to you, I promise."

"How?!" Karen exclaimed, her voice almost a whisper. "How can you promise me that, Clark? Look at what we are dealing with. These people are powerful, they have eyes everywhere, they are ruthless. I-I shouldn't have involved you, I shouldn't put people in risk, I–"

"Karen!" Clark said, a little strongly, squeezing her hand again. She looked at him. "I know how to protect myself, you don't have to worry about me. And I can take care of you too." He hesitated, then added in a very low voice. "I have contacts in SHIELD." She widened her eyes, shocked, but stopped struggling. He went on. "My stories pissed off a lot of people, but they made me some interesting friends. There's nothing these guys can do to hurt me and you, believe me."

That wasn't an outright lie, but it was a severely abridged version of the truth. Sure, Clark did have friends in SHIELD, but he wasn't counting on Natasha and Clint to protect them. But it was better than saying he was Superman and she hadn't anything to worry about when it came to a few mobsters trying to kill him. And now her, since he wouldn't let anything of the sort happen to Karen, not now that he actually knew this whole thing was happening.

Which was why he felt only a little bit guilty when he slipped an almost microscopic part of Kelex inside the watch around her wrist, taking advantage of the fact that he was holding her hand right now for that. He could hear and see her from far away, that was true, but with a part of Kelex on her he could keep her safe at all times.

A little creepy, maybe, but it wasn't like he was using that to stalk her.

"You know people in SHIELD?" she whispered, still shocked. "Can they help us?"

"Yes, they can. I'm actually meeting my contact there tonight. I'll make some inquiries about this." Meeting a contact to make some inquiries sounded less complicated than having dinner with Natasha to tell her about the sorcerers living in New York, so he went with that. "No one is going to hurt you and you don't have to worry about me, okay?"

For the second time in the conversation, the first being when Clark said he believed her, he felt Karen relax. She was still afraid and her heart was still faster than usual, but the knowledge that there was someone out there guaranteeing her safety made Karen feel a bit of hope.

"You have no idea what this means to me, Clark, no idea," Karen repeated, almost sobbing, covering her eyes. "I'm so scared, no one would help me, I-I… Not even Ben would. But you are helping me. You're–"

She stopped talking, her voice growing weaker as she tried to dry her tears. Clark felt his heart clench a bit when he saw her like that. Karen was a good person, just someone that was at the wrong place, at the wrong time, and decided to try to do the right thing. And then all this happened. People shouldn't be punished for doing what was right and he wouldn't allow that to happen.

"Karen, what happened to you was awful and no one should go through something like this," Clark said, his voice soft. "But you're not alone anymore, alright?" He waited a second. "And try not to judge Ben too harshly, I'm sure he didn't mean to turn his back on you. He sent you to me, didn't he?"

"He didn't help me," Karen said, glancing at him, her face red. She chuckled nervously. "I don't blame him for being scared, I understand, and no one is obligated to help me, but… But I guess expected him to," she said, her voice almost inaudible.

Clark sighed, looking at the table. "Ben has a lot on his plate, Karen. I'm sure he wanted to help you, but it's not up to him. His wife is sick. Some kind of degenerative disease, the kind that doesn't kill fast, but it makes you wish it did." She was looking at him with her jaw agape. "He doesn't have money to take care of her, not without insurance, and if loses his job or something happens to him…"

"There would be no one to take care of her," Karen finished. "God, I'm such an idiot!"

"You're not an idiot, you just didn't know," Clark corrected.

Karen didn't seem to agree, but she didn't say anything else. She just dried her tears, sipped her water and tried to calm herself. Then she glanced at him.

"What now?" she asked.

Clark thought a little bit. "Now, we try to gather more information. I'll ask some questions to my contacts, try to find out more about what's happening. And take a look at Union Allied and that Confederated Global Investments, see if it can lead us somewhere."

And, he added inside his mind, ask some questions directly to the Russians and, if he could, to the Masked Vigilante, but Karen didn't need to know that.

"I have an idea," Karen suggested, hesitant. "I said this to Ben when I met him, but… Union Allied is a construction company. Construction companies are, literally, brick and mortar. You can't just make cranes, trailers and office equipment disappear by changing some numbers on a paper. Union Allied's stuff is being liquidated and all that is going somewhere. It's a trail we can follow."

"File for bankruptcy and then restructure under a new name," Clark mentioned. "That's not uncommon."

"Yes, then the ones behind Union Allied are probably the same ones buying all the stuff being liquidated. They are both the sellers and the buyers." She smiled at him, happy that he seemed to agree with her idea. "There's an auction going on this week, we should go there and see who's buying this stuff."

"It's a good idea, except…"

"Except?" Karen asked.

Clark sighed. "Except that showing up in a place we know it's going to be filled with the people that tried to kill you, asking questions and standing out like a sore thumb is a sure way to inform them we're up to something. They know who you are, Karen, you can't do that."

"Oh," she exclaimed, as if the risks hadn't even crossed her mind.

"But it's a good idea," Clark added, seeing her expression turning gloomy. "We don't have to be there to know where the stuff is going, who's buying what. That's all carefully registered."

And Clark would make sure to pay attention from afar, without having to step inside the auction; perks of having supervision.

"So this is it?" Karen asked, seemingly excited. "We're really doing this?"

Clark couldn't help but to smile. "We are. Here, this is my number," he wrote his cellphone number on a napkin and gave it to her. "If you remember anything, if you have any idea, if you think anyone, anywhere, looked at you weirdly… You call me. No matter the time, call me." He looked at her, serious. "You're a brave woman, Karen, but don't mistake bravery for recklessness. If you think you're in danger, tell me. Okay?"

"Okay," she agreed, writing her own number on another napkin and giving it to him.

"I'll ask my questions today then I'll call you. We'll decide the next step together." Clark smiled again at her, then he looked at her glass of water. "Now, take that glass and throw the water in my face."

"What?!" Karen exclaimed, almost dropping her purse in surprise.

"You said it yourself, they could be watching," Clark explained, looking around the coffeeshop carefully. "You are talking to a journalist for almost an hour now. This doesn't look good."

"And how throwing water in your face is going to fix that?"

"There's another reason, a simple reason, why two people can be sitting inside a coffeeshop, talking for an hour," Clark said, raising an eyebrow. "A date. In this case, a date gone wrong. Pretend I said something stupid, throw that in my face, call me a pig and leave."

"I can't do that!" Karen said, horrified.

"Oh, don't worry, I won't be offended."

"That's not the point!"

"Well, what else do you have in mind to explain this?" Clark asked, exasperated. "We need a cover story."

Karen was deep in thought for about five seconds. Then she got up, walked to Clark and kissed him. It wasn't a simple peck on the lips, oh no, it was a full-blown kiss, the kind that was usually reserved for the ending of a romantic movie and Clark was too surprised to do anything but kiss her back. He heard people clapping, laughing and whistling in the coffeeshop and somewhere in his mind Clark imagined that the kiss had already fulfilled its purpose, but they were still going on strong.

Eventually, Karen stepped back, her face flushed.

"We have to do this again," she said, loudly, to a shell-shocked Clark and an impressed audience. Just like that, she turned around and left.

Well, that had been considerably better than his idea, Clark admitted, touching his own lips. This day was really proving itself interesting.

Claire Temple was bored out of her mind. And having an allergic reaction to cat fur, which only made things worse, since besides being bored she now had a running nose and red eyes. Pissed off, she glared at the cat, that stared back at her, still refusing to eat.

"Eat, you little bastard!" she exclaimed, only to be promptly ignored.

Truth be told, the cat was the least of her problems. Ever since she helped the Masked Man – or Mike, as she called him since she didn't know his real name – her life had spiraled out of control. One minute she is trying to save a bleeding man from dying inside her apartment, the other they have a Russian enforcer in her building, trying to kill them both.

It didn't end well for anybody. The Russian ended up tossed from the roof and in a coma and Claire had to leave her apartment and hide in her friend's place – that thankfully was out of town –, since none of them knew if the Russian managed to tell someone anything.

And until Mike dealt with the situation, she was stuck there, without being able to leave, work or do anything else than curse that damned cat.

It was better than being tortured and killed by the Russian Mafia, true, but not by much.

Sighing in frustration, Claire left the cat to his food and walked to the dark living room. Day, afternoon, night… The only thing that changed in her life right now was the amount of light she had, nothing else. She couldn't bear to watch anymore TV, there was nothing good to read and the internet did nothing but piss her off even more. All in all, Claire was having one hell of a night.

She was considering taking a shower and going to sleep when the door of the apartment was simply obliterated by a huge man charging against it.

Claire had a surge of adrenalin and was moving towards her purse before her brain even caught up to what was happening; moving towards the burner the Masked Man gave her. It didn't take a genius to know that the Russians had found her and Claire was pretty damn smart.

She reached the table and grabbed her purse, but before she could take the cellphone out of it the huge man grabbed her legs. Claire screamed and kicked, but the Russian lifted her like a ragdoll and tossed her to the other side of the room; the purse, however, was firmly held in her hand, as if her life depended on it.

It kinda did.

Claire landed painfully on her back, but instead of crying about it she started going through the stuff in her purse, until she finally found the cellphone; just when the Russian charged again, like a deranged rhino, making a straight line towards her, trampling the table and the chairs, tossing the sofa to the side and finally lifting her again and pressing Claire against the wall.

"Fight, little girl, fight!" he mocked, as Claire tried desperately to flee from his grasp.

He stopped to laugh pretty quickly when her friend's cat jumped between his legs, its claws digging deep in a very delicate area of the male body; that kind of pain, apparently, the man couldn't ignore.

Claire promised to buy a whole salmon to the little bastard if she survived this, seeing the huge Russian swirling madly in the middle of the apartment, the cat still stuck to his groin. Whatever reason the cat did that, it gave Claire enough time to press "send".

"Hello."

Right at the moment Claire heard his voice, another Russian appeared from behind her and used a taser against her neck. Weirdly, the last thing that crossed Claire's mind before she blacked out was how the hell she would fix that damn apartment if she survived this.

"My mom wanted me to be a butcher, you know that?" Foggy said, looking at Karen, as he guided Matt through the streets of Hell's Kitchen to a night of drinking at Josie's, as agreed that morning.

"Oh, no, not the 'Butcher Story'," Matt whined.

Karen laughed. "What 'Butcher Story'?"

Foggy, completely ignoring them, simply continued talking as if no one had interrupted him.

"I said: 'No, mom, I want to be a lawyer'. I don't remember what I said next–"

"No, you never do," Matt mentioned.

"–But I'm fairly certain it wasn't about bailing a piss-drunk electrician who nearly burned his house down," Foggy finished. "And now we're late for Josie's. Karen almost went home! How would we celebrate Josie's grand reopening without her, Matt?"

"That's a very good question, Foggy," Matt answered, pretending to think. "Maybe, and that's just a guess, you would tell me the 'Butcher Story' again while we drink cheap tequila."

Karen laughed again, as they crossed the street. "You're serious, your mom really wanted you to be a butcher?"

"Don't encourage him, Karen!"

"Yes, she did!" Foggy said, pleased. "I happen to hail from a long line of butchers, Miss Page. Since the dawn of Ireland, the Nelsons have been in the butcher business, famous across the Earth. Some say the first butcher shop in the US was built by a Nelson, right after he disembarked from the Mayflower itself."

"That's a lie," Matt quipped.

"Damn you, Matt, let me bask in the fake family glory for a minute!"

Karen was laughing again and her laughter was contagious, because soon they all were.

"Someone is in a good mood," Foggy said, looking at her. "I noticed when you were translating for me, but I forgot to ask. What did you do today?"

Now that Foggy mentioned, Karen did seem better. To Matt's enhanced senses, emotions were quite easy to grasp. Stress, anxiousness, fear… All that left an impression on the person. Smells, muscles contractions, accelerated blood flow… And Karen had all that, even after the whole deal with Union Allied was solved.

Now, though, she seemed happy and it was easy – and pleasing to Matt's senses – to feel how relaxed she was.

"I just had a good day, that's all," Karen answered, smiling, avoiding the question.

"Oh my god, you met someone!" Foggy exclaimed, half-joking, half-dreading, jumping to conclusions as always.

"No! Well, I did, but not like that!" Oh, no, poor Foggy. "No, really, there was no dating involved. He was just helping me with some stuff, that's all."

Yeah, poor Foggy, Matt thought again.

"Don't tell me you're getting married and leaving us!" Foggy said and she mock-slapped him.

"If anyone is leaving, it'll probably be you, to continue your work as a butcher," Karen joked.

"But I could hire you two! We could be the best butchers in Hell's Kitchen, hands down. Honestly, at this point we would probably make more money being butchers than we make being lawyers."

The sad thing about what Foggy said, was that it was probably true.

They kept joking and laughing for the next five minutes, until they finally arrived at Josie's Bar. Foggy opened his arms in a grand gesture.

"I present to you, Karen, Josie's Bar!" Foggy exclaimed.

There were a few seconds of complete silence.

"It's… Nice?"

"It's a dump," Foggy corrected her, then he opened a fond smile. "But it's our dump. Shall we?" he said, giving her his arm. Smiling, she joined her arm with his. "You coming, Matt? I have other arm right here."

Matt chuckled, but before he could say anything, his phone rang; the phone only one other person had the number to call.

"Go on, I have to take this," he said, worry filling him. Foggy and Karen nodded and entered and Matt answered the call. "Hello."

Claire didn't answer, but he could hear screams and fighting sounds.

Matt was already running towards the alley before the call ended a second later.

Natasha closed her eyes for a moment, listening to the pleasant music playing in the restaurant. She liked the place, even though she avoided going there too much; becoming a creature of habit was an easy way to get assassinated in her line of business.

Still, no one there knew who she was, not under her disguise, and she had done her job and assessed the place's staff beforehand. She heard some of the waiters guessing, trying to decide if she was a model or an actress or simply a rich customer, but they were well-trained enough not to bother her with silly questions. Natasha made her reservation under a fake name, paid for a private table, ordered the most expensive dishes they had and a bottle of wine that probably cost more than the whole staff made in a month.

That was enough for them to treat her like a queen.

"Mademoiselle, your guest has arrived," her private waiter informed her. She smiled and nodded in response and a few seconds later Clark entered the room.

Natasha smiled when she saw him; he did clean up nicely, didn't he? Clad in a dark suit, complete with a tie, Clark really did put famous actors to shame. It was a bit of an unfair comparison, of course, since no human had a body quite like that, but it was a wonder that he was able to keep a secret identity at all.

How many tall, handsome, blue eyed men, with muscled bodies like that, were there in the world? Not that many, she supposed.

Smiling, Natasha got up and kissed his cheek, seeing his expression flashing with surprise.

"Hi," he said, still looking at her. "You are–"

"Beautiful?" she finished.

He smiled, probably remembering a previous conversation they had.

"That too, but I was going to say 'brunette'," Clark said, repeating almost the same words from last time.

Natasha chuckled, noticing that Clark's eyes did a little once-over; a polite and quick one, of course, since Clark was a gentleman, but she didn't mind the attention, especially from him. She was a very attractive woman, Natasha knew that, and dressed in a short Superman-blue dress, with a generous cleavage and a form fitting cut, there were few people – men and women – that could keep their eyes off her.

Apparently not even "Supermen" could.

"I ordered for both of us, I hope you don't mind," Natasha said, as Clark sat down. She poured him some wine. "Have you ever tried French food?"

"When I was in France, yeah," Clark answered. He grinned. "But there they just call it 'food'."

She rolled her eyes at the joke. "When were you there?"

"Most recently? Two days ago," Clark said. "Some sailors had a small problem with their ship, they needed a hand to go back to the coast. It was lunch time, so I figured I could eat there." He tilted his head. "Pretty salty prices, though, for such small portions."

"Again with the money, Clark?"

"Hey, not all of us have an unlimited Stark credit card," he joked. "By the way, I'm paying today."

"I'm sure Tony will be delighted, since he paid last time."

"I have money now, no need for that," he said, opening the menu by the table; his eyes widened. "Well, maybe he can pay for the wine. What is this made of? Gold grapes?"

"Sure tastes like it," Natasha agreed, smelling her glass of wine.

Hesitantly, Clark copied her exact moves, smelling the wine before tasting it.

"So? What do you think?"

The fact that he had the gall to shrug told Natasha all she needed to know. She raised a single eyebrow.

"I do like wine," he explained, a little guilty, "but it's nothing I would die for, really."

"Don't you have 'super-palate' too?"

"Maybe that's the problem, I taste too much." He looked at the red wine, critically. "What do you taste when you drink this wine? Traces of black cherry, licorice and black pepper, all wrapped together with a touch of vanilla. A presence of leathery taste, oak – I'm thinking French, perhaps – a somewhat present floral scent… Violet, no doubt. Medium acidity and tannin, a bit more alcohol than usual… Something ranging between 13.5 and 13.8 ABV, I'd say."

Natasha's eyebrows went up at each word. She liked to think she understood wine, but she would be lying if she said her tasting was that accurate. Clark glanced at her.

"And that's all fine, I like those flavors," Clark continued. "Problem is, if I focus too much on them, if I concentrate on my 'super-palate', as you said, I start to taste more than I'd like." He looked at the glass, frowning. "For example, I can tell you that this glass was washed by some kind of fragrance-free detergent – which aren't really fragrance-free, by the way – and then sanitized by a mix of hot water and chlorine. I could give you the brands they used, if you'd like," Clark grinned at her apparent surprise. "The person that set the table was using silk gloves, but she touched a spot of the glass without it for some reason. I say 'she' because it was probably a woman, since I can taste traces of moisturizing cream, but I don't want to be sexist. And the last person who used this glass was also a woman – well, I think so, since I can taste lipstick, but again, I don't want to jump to conclusions – and she was drinking…" Clark touched his own lips with the tip of his tongue. "Something fruity… Peach, maybe, and honeyed. Some kind of white wine for certain."

She knew his senses were enhanced, that wasn't anything new for Natasha, but this? This shocked the hell out of her, she wouldn't lie, and her face showed it just how much.

"This… Is incredibly disturbing. How can you eat like this?" Natasha asked, giving up any pretense of indifference.

Clark smiled and shrugged. "Just like I manage not going crazy with my hearing, being swamped with smells every time I breathe or seeing through things or feeling every single detail when I touch something, by not focusing too much on my senses. Kryptonians really weren't made to live under a yellow sun like this, not for so long or without our native atmosphere to ground our abilities. It makes our senses go haywire. Very few could actually do this back then, it takes too much control." He shrugged again. "It's not so bad once you get used to it. I mean, eating something I like is an experience I literally can't describe, it's too good. Eating simple food helps too. The more processed, the more it tastes like something straight out of the periodic table. That's why I like Ma's food so much."

That really put things in perspective for Natasha. Clark pretended to be a human so well that even her, who knew exactly what he was, was fooled most of the time. Life through his eyes – and nose, and tongue, and ears, and skin – was probably so different than a human's that any comparison would be meaningless. She wondered if Thor was like that as well.

Natasha schooled her emotions once again, knowing by now that Clark didn't like to be treated as anything other than human.

"You know," she said, "I know some people who would pay mountains of dollars for a tongue quite like yours." Natasha raised a single eyebrow. "Wine tasting would be optional for some of them."

Clark's flushed cheeks brought her no small amount of amusement.

"I'm very happy with my current job, thank you very much," he said.

Before she could tease him any further, there was a bell sound outside the door; a second later, the door opened and the waiter entered, pushing a small food cart, followed by three other waiters. It was interesting seeing them work, almost like a rehearsed dance, as they twirled around the table serving one dish after the other.

"Bon appétit," the waiter said, bowing and leaving the room.

Clark was staring at all the food, marveled.

"This is… A lot of food," he said, looking at her.

"You do have a healthy appetite, I remember," she answered. "But I do urge you to reconsider paying because this is not going to be cheap."

"Maybe I can pay for dessert, then," Clark said, a little guilty, but starting to eat.

Watching him eat was, for a while, far more interesting than eating too, no matter how good the food smelled. Clark was as polite as ever, he used the right cutlery, and he ate at a relatively normal rate, but he did it with such gusto that it awed her. It was nice seeing someone as powerful as him taking pleasure in the little things.

She watched him eat for a few seconds, then started too, pulling a small plate of soup closer.

"So, Clark, now that you already gulped down half the food," Natasha said, good-naturedly," do you think you can tell me what you found out about the sorcerers?" He stopped his filled spoon halfway to his mouth, looking around as if assessing their privacy. "Private room and it's not bugged, we can talk."

He nodded and put the spoon down.

"Well, to be honest, I don't think anyone would've believed me anyway," he said and started talking.

Natasha soon understood why he said that.

The car stopped right in front of the building; for a few seconds, he didn't move, simply watching the entrance through the tinted windows, preparing himself for what could be one of the defining moments of his life. He checked his clothes, his eyes scanning his suit and shoes, trying to find any problem with them whatsoever. Finding none, he breathed deep.

Wilson Fisk opened the car door and got out, masking his nervousness, walking in large steps to the entrance, the cold wind of the night doing little to cool him down.

He barely paid any attention to whoever opened the door and crossed it, his eyes looking for someone. The place was full, as always, each table of the famous establishment occupied by couples, friends or families.

Except for one, where a single woman was sitting. Fisk walked to her.

When she finally noticed him, she got up; Wilson forgot how to walk for a moment, momentarily dazed by her.

"Miss Marianna," he greeted.

She smiled to him.

"Call me Vanessa, please."

Matt arrived at the apartment Claire was hiding to find the place completely trashed, the burner he gave her left behind and no sign of her.

Closing his hands into fists, Matt kicked a chair to the wall and looked out of the window, his muscles tense with rage and fear. This was his fault. He was the one who got her mixed up into this, he was the one that forced Claire to change her whole life simply because she chose to save his.

And now she was kidnapped, probably by the Russians, and Matt had no idea where she was.

How did they find her? How did they know? There was only one logical explanation: the man he dropped from the roof of her building, the only Russian that knew where Matt had hidden himself after almost being killed, had woke up. He told them about Claire's place, that was the only thing he could think of, and from there they somehow tracked Claire to her friend's apartment.

Matt was already jumping through the window when he arrived at that conclusion, running to Claire's apartment. Maybe there he would find some clue.

Clark sipped his wine again, letting it stay in his mouth only for enough time for him to appreciate its flavor and nothing else. Then he glanced at Natasha. She was still unusually motionless, looking at nowhere specific, shocked by what he told her.

Granted, Clark couldn't blame her, but he was getting a little worried.

"This is it, Clark," Natasha said, suddenly, focusing her eyes on him. "This is what will finally kill Fury."

"What?!"

She raised her eyebrows. "The Super-Soldier Serum was a mark in human history and it defined a war, but we adapted to that. Bruce's transformation was surprising, to say the least, but we learned to live with that. Stark's suits changed warfare around the world forever, but we contained it. Thor's arrival showed us exactly how low we fare in the universe's food chain, but we moved on. And then we had the Chitauri, the Kryptonians, the Dark Elves… Alien invasions that almost destroyed Earth, but we learned to fight them. But this?"

Natasha shook her head, slowly, reaching her glass of wine and downing it in one go.

"Magic, parallel dimensions, beings so powerful that they threaten entire universes, a magic squad that deal with supernatural threats, prophecies, an Infinity Stone that controls time… Clark, this is… I don't even know what to say."

He sighed. "Yeah, I was pretty humbled too."

"You were?" she asked, her eyes shooting up.

Clark smiled a bit because of Natasha's stunned expression. "Natasha, I was always different, but I didn't even know aliens were a thing before my father told me. All this? The Multiverse, the Sorcerer Supreme, entities that eat entire universes for breakfast… It's weird as hell for me too." He shrugged. "And given the size of those threats, I can't punch my way out of them anymore than you can. That feeling of powerlessness, of not actually being able to do a thing if one of them appears… Well, I feel it too."

Maybe it was what he said, maybe it was the second glass of wine, but Natasha eventually snapped out of her shock. She wasn't scared, Clark thought, not really, but it wasn't every day you had your entire existence turned upside down. This wasn't like the fact that the Norse gods existed – as aliens, from all things – or that magic was real. This was proof that there were other dimensions just within their reach and that there were beings out there so powerful that none of them could do a thing against them.

"You're right," she whispered, "of course. It's just… I really didn't expect to ever deal with something like this. I guess I was a fool for thinking Loki and the Chitauri would be the weirdest situation I would have to deal with."

"There was me too," Clark joked, trying to lighten the mood.

It seemed to work, because she smiled a little bit. "That's true. So, that woman was the Sorcerer Supreme, the guardian of the Sanctums Sanctorum, the sources of the magical barrier that keep this dimension safe from hostile dimensional entities… And she has an Infinity Stone. Is this correct?"

"Yep, pretty much."

"And she is teaching you to protect your mind, so we don't have a repeat of what happened with Lorelei," she stated. Clark nodded, agreeing. There was a minute of silence. "In your honest opinion, Clark, are they a threat?" Natasha asked, bluntly.

He shook his head. "Not if you don't make them one." Clark leaned forward, serious. "Natasha, hear me out. The Sorcerer Supreme and her Sanctums are the only thing in the way of total annihilation. I'm not talking about Earth being invaded or even destroyed, I'm literally talking about the end of the universe. For Christ's sake, do not let SHIELD antagonize her. Not only the Ancient One is not someone you want as an enemy, even if you do manage to defeat her, your prize will be this universe's doom."

Clark stopped for a second, still staring at Natasha, who was holding his gaze, attentive.

"The Time Stone is safe with her, no one is taking that, especially not SHIELD, and she is not abusing its power. Her sorcerers don't involve themselves in the events of the world, unless they need to face a magical threat, and the Ancient One is actively interested in the protection of this world, since without the Sanctums, there is no barrier. So please, for the love of everything you hold dear, convince Fury and everybody else there to leave them alone. Better yet, keep this information between you two, if possible. The last thing we need is the World Security Council doing something stupid or, I don't know, greedy people trying to acquire magic knowledge or even the Infinity Stone itself."

Something in Natasha's face shifted when he said that. She knew he noticed and, hesitantly, started to speak.

"Loki's Scepter is missing," she said, going straight to the point. Clark widened his eyes. "SHIELD had it under its protection since the Battle of New York and somehow it disappeared."

"Someone stole it?"

"That's the problem, Clark, a theft would've been noticed. The Scepter wasn't stolen, it was taken by someone with access to it and the fact that it happened was a secret even to Fury and Fury knows every secret there is to know." Natasha was more serious than Clark ever saw her. "Someone betrayed us."

That wasn't good at all. SHIELD was as powerful as an intelligence organization could possibly become. They knew almost everything, about everyone. They were everywhere, involved in everything. If there were people inside SHIELD powerful enough to steal something like that Scepter unnoticed, then that meant a group of bad guys had access to all that influence and information too. And something like that in the hands of criminals was nightmare fuel.

Something suddenly occurred to him.

"Do you think that the people who stole the Scepter could also have stolen Zod's body?" Clark asked. "And the rest of Kryptonian technology I couldn't find?"

Natasha shrugged, apologetically. "I have no idea, Clark. I don't know who did this. Fury and I are looking for the Scepter, quietly. If I find anything, I promise you'll be the first to know."

He nodded, thankful. She looked down for a few seconds, apparently considering something.

"SHIELD was compromised," she finally said. "I don't know yet how bad it is, but it certainly doesn't look good. I'll keep what you told me about the sorcerers between Fury and me."

"Thank you," he said and he meant it.

"It's for the best." She sighed. "If we couldn't keep the Scepter safe, I shudder to think what would happen with this bit of information."

She reached for the wine bottle and filled both their glasses again. Clark was immune to the effects of Earth alcohol, but Natasha shouldn't be; yet, she showed absolutely no signs of being intoxicated whatsoever. Russians, huh?

"Gotta tell you, Clark, I missed the days when all I had to deal with were terrorists, criminals and the occasional politician," Natasha said, sipping her wine. "Now we have alien invasions every year, magical objects missing, sorcerers, dimensional conquerors… It makes me nostalgic for a simple mission, like arresting a mobster. I didn't know it yet, but those were the days."

He chuckled, then suddenly remembered he wanted to ask some things to Natasha about that very subject.

"Say, Natasha, what do you know about the Russians?" Clark asked.

Natasha looked at him with an amused expression. "Well, we like bears, snow, vodka and Adidas' tracksuits for some reason. Oh, and don't try to invade our lands during winter, it never ends well."

Clark rolled his eyes. "I meant the Russian Mafia."

She gave him a tiny smile. "I know a bit. Usually dealing with organized crime is below my paygrade, but call it a patriotic curiosity. Why do you ask?"

Trying to remember all the details from his conversation with Karen, Clark started to explain.

Wilson Fisk tried the wine Wesley recommended. It was good, but truth was he didn't know much about wine, so he waited, apprehensive, to see what Vanessa thought about it. She sipped hers and smiled.

"It's delicious," she said.

He didn't know why that made him feel so happy. Fisk was a troubled individual, he knew that. His life was difficult and the trials he faced shaped him on the man he was. He was hard, ruthless and sometimes cruel, he had to be, but none of that brought him any pleasure. Wilson did what he did to achieve his goals and only that, but each time he was forced to go down that path it seemed he would lose a part of himself.

When he looked at Vanessa, he felt whole.

She held his gaze, unafraid, something no other person was brave enough to do.

"You don't do this much, do you?" she guessed.

"No," he admitted immediately. "I've been… preoccupied, for a long time."

Vanessa didn't ask for a clarification, looking around.

"This is nice," she said, about the restaurant. "I didn't even know it was here."

"Yes, it just opened last month."

"The city's really changing," she said.

"Not fast enough," Wilson remarked.

"I don't know. Be a shame to see all the character scrubbed away."

Wilson almost smiled. "You didn't grow up here, did you?"

Vanessa laughed. "What gave it away?"

Now he smiled.

"When I was a kid," Wilson started, "I used to dream what would it be like to… To live somewhere far away from Hell's Kitchen. Somewhere beautiful."

"What made you stay?"

"I didn't," he clarified. "When I was 12 years old, my mother, she sent me to stay with relatives. Had a farm, middle of nowhere. Those were good years."

"But you came back," Vanessa said.

"Yes. Time and distance, they afford a certain clarity. I realized that the city was a part of me, that it was in my blood." Wilson started at Vanessa's eyes. "And I would do anything to make it a better place, for people like you."

She held his stare and smiled, lifting her wine glass.

"To a better place," she said, proposing a toast.

They both drank to that.

Matt got to Claire's apartment and heard her neighbor right away; he was breathing fast, scared, but alone inside her apartment. Santino, if he recalled. Another person that helped him that night, when he foolishly fell into the Russian's trap; another person he put at risk.

"It's okay, Santino, it's me," he said, when the young man noticed his approach.

Santino was sitting in the middle of the kitchen, on the ground, leaning against the wall. Matt could smell blood on him, but nothing serious. Whatever they did, it scared him, but that was it.

"Do you remember me?" Matt asked, speaking Spanish.

"Yes," Santino answered, staring at him.

"Claire's been taken by some very bad people," Matt said, speaking softly. "I need your help. Please."

Santino was breathing faster now, sweating, his heart beating extremely fast. He was terrified.

"I didn't say anything," he cried. "Not at first. Then they took me up to the roof like you did with that man… They told me if I said anything to anyone, they'd come back for my mother."

He was crying harder now.

"Do you know where they took Claire?" Matt asked.

"No, I'm sorry," he shook his head. "Those men are going to hurt her because of me!"

"No, no, no, it's not your fault, Santino, it's mine," Matt said, holding his shoulder. Matt looked down, physically ill when he admitted that out loud. "Is there anything else you heard or saw? Anything that might help me find her?"

There were a few seconds of silence and Matt was beginning to think that was it, then Santino spoke: "I saw them get into a taxi. But not in the back, in the front. Like it was theirs."

"What was the company?" Matt asked, feeling a bit of hope flare inside himself. "Did you see a name?"

"Veles. Veles Taxi."

Matt was already running.

Natasha listened patiently as Clark explained everything that happened that afternoon. Karen asking for help, the Union Allied scandal, the Masked Man, the series of murders to cover it all up, the amount of money being hidden in Union Allied's pension fund… He told her everything and then allowed her some time to think.

As the minutes stretched, however, Clark started to become a bit impatient.

"What do you think?" he asked. She didn't look up, still focused.

"I think," she started, slowly, "that this might not be below my paygrade after all." Natasha looked at him. "SHIELD doesn't usually deal with organized crime. We help when we can, but our resources are limited and if we diverge them to this instead of tending to global security, eventually a bigger threat will slip through the cracks and cause a lot of damage. The police and the FBI usually do a good enough job here in the US."

"But?"

"But… Organized crime, no matter how successful, don't have the kind of money Miss Page stumbled upon. And in the unlikely case they do, I'd like to find out exactly how they managed this." Natasha stopped for a moment, thinking. "You said the Russians were involved in a takeover?"

"That's what it looks like, at least," Clark answered. "Old time mobsters are turning up dead, but there are no signs of a war going on. They're being absorbed. I know the Russians are into this, but I don't know the dept of their involvement and who else is involved. I was thinking this money could be a mafia joint account of some kind."

Natasha nodded slowly. "Possible, but it's still too much money. Either there are a lot more factions involved in this… Or a really big one behind all that. Anyway, I'd like to find out. What's your plan? Assuming you already have one."

"Follow the thread," Clark said. "I know two parts involved in all this in some capacity: the Masked Vigilante and the Russian Mafia. If I follow one of them, I may get to the rest."

"And by your previous question, your plan is to go after the Russians," Natasha guessed.

"The Masked Man is already going after them. I figured that if I go after them as well, the chances we cross paths are bigger. That's why I asked what you know about them."

She nodded, pensive, then stared at him. "The Russians in New York are led by two brothers, Vladimir and Anatoly Ranskahov. They were big shots in Moscow once upon a time, but they were betrayed, arrested and sent to a prison that might very well be Hell on Earth."

Clark frowned. "If they were arrested there, how are they here?"

"They are here," Natasha started, "because they carved a shiv from the ribs of a dead cellmate, attacked a guard, orchestrated a rebellion and escaped." Clark widened his eyes. "Make no mistake, Clark, these men are the real deal. There is a reason the Russian Mafia is feared all over the world. This is an organization that survived Stalin and the brutality of his regime and you don't get to lead something like that by being just anyone. They're dangerous, intelligent and fearless. It's no wonder they managed to assume command of the Russians in New York."

The idea of people like that walking free right there in Hell's Kitchen unsettled Clark.

"If they escaped from prison, why isn't no one sending them back? You know who they are and they are convicted criminals. Why are they allowed to roam through the country?"

"Now, that is where things get interesting," Natasha said, leaning forward. "I only know they were arrested in Moscow because I have contacts there. But any record of that arrest, the crimes they committed and even their time inside the prison simply doesn't exist anymore."

"How?" Clark asked, surprised.

Natasha shrugged. "I don't know. Someone with a lot of money and a lot of influence probably got interested in the Ranskahov brothers. Whatever the case, it kept the police away from them and gave them the chance to take control of the Russians and then take Hell's Kitchen. That is what called my attention to the case. I wanted to know who was the one behind them, who allowed them to take New York, because whoever it is, not even SHIELD knows their identity."

"Do you think this 'who' is the same one behind Union Allied and all that money?" Clark asked.

"I'm not one to believe in coincidences."

Clark was in silence for a while, trying to process everything Natasha told him; then, suddenly, he met her eyes.

"Why hasn't SHIELD involved themselves in this, Natasha?" he asked. "These guys are the worst sort of criminals and you guys already know who they are. I'm not saying you should kill them, but surely there is a way to deal with this situation."

Natasha's expression showed no emotion whatsoever, as always, but Clark could tell she was bothered by what he said.

"SHIELD believes," she started and Clark didn't miss the fact that she didn't include herself in this, "that they should deal with the big picture. Organized crime always existed and will always exist, there is no way around that. Even if they did arrest the Ranskahov brothers, other members of the Russian Mafia would continue the work as usual. If they didn't, other mobs would step in and steal their territory. And as I said, SHIELD resources aren't unlimited."

"But there has to be a middle ground, Natasha," Clark insisted. "I'm not saying SHIELD should solve all problems, but they could help. Stare at the big picture for too long and the little picture starts to fade away. Who takes care of the little people?"

She didn't answer for a long time, thinking about his words; then she smiled.

"You do," she said, tilting her head. "And it's past time you had some help. Tell me, Clark, do you like to dance?"

Clark had no idea how to answer to that abrupt change of subject. Was that some sort of code?

It wasn't a code, Clark realized half an hour later, looking around the dance floor. It was packed to the brim with drunk people jumping up and down, the music was loud and the lights were shining in all colors, the psychedelic display making his head hurt.

Natasha had barely allowed him time to finish eating before she dragged him out and into her car, refusing to tell him where they were going until they parked in front of the hotel. Clark had no idea hotels even had parties like that, but apparently in the Blue Moon Hotel they were common. And famous thorough the world for how good they were, supposedly; Clark really wasn't the best person to make that assessment.

Regardless, Clark was still as confused as he could possibly be as for the reason they were there. One second they were talking about the Russian Mafia, the other Natasha was dragging him there, to the middle of a huge party fueled by alcohol. He wasn't a fan of places like that, not with his enhanced senses and inability to get drunk, and the fact that they could barely walk through all those people only made things worse.

He had to admit, though, watching Natasha dancing to the beat was a sight to see.

It wasn't just because she was one of the most beautiful women he had ever laid eyes on. It wasn't because of the way her body moved, so naturally, as if she had been born dancing. It wasn't even because of the tantalizing flashes of skin her short dress revealed occasionally when she swayed to the music.

It was because how happy she looked when she was dancing.

Natasha didn't live an easy life, Clark knew that. He wasn't aware of the details, but he knew enough to realize she was lucky to be alive and even more lucky to have a mind of her own. She had her guard up every second of every day and even when she appeared relaxed or carefree, Clark knew she wasn't, not really. She was always prepared to fight, because that's how she always lived.

And yet, when she was dancing, Clark could see her relaxing. It was subtle, very subtle, and he was sure she would be prepared to deal with any threat in the split of a second if there was need for it. But for a few moments, at least for a little bit, Natasha was able to dance her worries away and Clark's senses picked up that immediately.

"Dance with me!" she asked, smiling, knowing he could hear her even with the music so loud.

So he did. It wasn't any kind of dance he knew of, not like the ones his mother made sure he learned, but Clark simply allowed his body to follow the beat as he danced close to Natasha, basking in her happiness while it lasted. He still had no idea what he was doing there, but at least they were having fun.

Slowly, but undoubtably, they started to move towards the bar and as soon as they were close enough Natasha turned and ordered them drinks. Clark used the time to learn more about the place, looking around, seeing what he could gather from that hotel. The people there were young, usually good looking and clearly had money to spend, since it wasn't a cheap place. Couples dancing together, bachelors trying to pick up dates, women dancing with their friends while they spared glances to the ones that interested them… Nothing unusual, he supposed.

Clark had to reconsider that when Natasha came back, holding not just a drink, that she made him taste almost immediately, but a truly beautiful woman by her side; a statuesque blonde, who appraised him with apparent gusto without any shame.

Natasha leaned closer and whispered by his ear. "This is Alexandra. She'll help spice up our sex life, darling."

He didn't know how exactly he stopped himself from coughing his drink all over the place.

Claire was hurting all over. Her face was bruised and bleeding and her mouth tasted like blood and dirt. She coughed, desperately, trying to think of a way to escape, of a way to do anything, when a huge hand grabbed her by the neck and tossed her against the taxi again. She groaned in pain.

"You answer, he stops hitting you," one of the men said, the one who seemed to be in charge.

There were eight of them. The one that seemed to be the boss – who was also the one who grabbed her in the apartment – the huge one who also was in her friend's apartment and six henchmen who were content to just watch her being tortured.

She didn't know where she was. After passing out, she woke up inside the trunk of a taxi and almost a second later she was grabbed and tossed on the ground. It looked like a garage or a repair shop, full of cars and tools and even one of those hydraulic lifts used to fix vehicles. It smelled like oil and gasoline.

And now blood too.

"I told you, I don't know who he is," Claire coughed, afraid.

The big guy lifted his fist and brought it down; Claire screamed, but the fist didn't hit her, it hit the car door behind her, leaving a perfect imprint of his closed hand. She started crying. She hated herself for it, but she couldn't help it, she was terrified.

"I d-don't know, I don't know, he never told me," she said, her voice barely coming out.

The huge guy roared and grabbed her by the neck again; that was it, Claire thought, this was how she died.

"Aleksei, put her down!" the boss ordered. "I need her alive."

The giant did as he was told and Claire exhaled deeply as soon as she could, coughing again. The boss was looking at her with cold eyes, not a bit of sympathy there.

"This brings me no pleasure," he said and she believed him; but it was also pretty clear he didn't care overly much about the whole thing. "There is no way out. No one will hear you down here, not even him…" he glanced up for a moment, as if to indicate the sky. He touched her face and Claire flinched, expecting pain, but he didn't hurt her. "Tell me who he is and this ends, you have my word."

She started crying again.

"I don't know! I swear to god, I don't know! He told me his name is Mike, but it's not his real name. I never saw his face."

All true, but what Claire didn't add was that she wouldn't tell him even if she did know. No matter how afraid she was.

The Russian stared at her for a long time, those unsettling cold eyes never blinking.

"I believe you," he finally said.

Before she could feel relieved, he grabbed a knife and raised it. Claire didn't even have a chance to scream when the lights suddenly went out. At the same second, something heavy split the air and collided with a metallic THUD against the Russian; Claire couldn't see, but she felt the man falling. He didn't get up.

He was here!

Aleksei was tense, turning from one side to the other, trying to see something, anything, in that darkness. He heard something being thrown and then someone falling, probably Anatoly, but he had no time to check. He could vaguely see shadowy forms, but the place was so dark that he might as well have his eyes closed.

That's when he heard something breaking and a piercing scream.

"AAAAHHHH!" a man yelled, making the hair on the back of his neck stand.

Then there was another hit and the sound died down. Aleksei was sweating, breathing fast, his heart beating so strongly his chest hurt. Something flew, passing right by the side of his head – he felt the wind – and collided against another man; he, too, fell unconscious.

Bones cracking, screams, punches, a man being tossed over the windshield of a car… Aleksei had no idea what was happening, he couldn't see, he couldn't fight. For the first time in his life, he wasn't the one hunting.

He was prey.

There was silence for a moment, where all he could hear was his own breath. Then the Masked Man attacked him. Aleksei felt his nose breaking under a fist, the blood pooling inside his throat, and he was tossed back a few steps. Before he had the chance to attack, to try anything, a metal rod hit his right knee and chin; Aleksei punched, blindly, only to hit absolutely nothing.

The Masked Man, however, promptly reacted, hitting his elbow and breaking his arm. Aleksei was screaming in pain, but that too was soon stopped when his throat was punched, sending him back. Right against the car lift; Aleksei was in so much pain that he didn't even realize when the Masked Man released the car on the lift.

Right on top of him. Aleksei felt half his body crushing under the vehicle before he finally lost consciousness.

"Is he alive?" Claire asked.

The Masked Vigilante – or Mike – had turned the lights back on after a few minutes; what greeted Claire was a vision straight out of a nightmare. People, bleeding and broken, fallen between the cars. Pools of blood and bones sticking out. And finally, a taxi on top of that giant man who tortured her, the heavy vehicle crushing the man against the ground.

"He'll live," he answered, helping her up. He touched her wounded face with extreme care. "Unfortunately."

In a few minutes, Claire would find it in herself the ability to disagree with his last statement, but at the moment she just didn't care.

"Let's get out of here," Claire said.

The Masked Man immediately complied.

Clark fell on the bed, his body barely putting up a fight against the infinitely weaker strength of the woman who pushed him. At the moment, all he could do was sit up and stare, frozen, as Alexandra danced for him.

Nothing in his life had ever prepared him for something like that. He simply didn't know what to do, how to react, and his voice seemed to have disappeared. Natasha, for a reason he couldn't possibly comprehend, had apparently hired an escort for both of them. She guided a shocked Clark towards a hotel room she also reserved, the three of them got in, she said she needed to freshen up and disappeared in the bathroom and Clark was left alone with the woman.

And now she was starting to take her clothes off.

Desperate, Clark glanced at the bathroom's door, expecting Natasha do get out and solve this situation, whatever that situation even was. But she wouldn't come out and Alexandra just wouldn't stop undressing, her black dress already halfway peeled.

What the hell was he supposed to do? Get out? Tell her to stop? Call Natasha? Clark didn't know why she was doing that, what was her plan – if there even was one – and he certainly didn't know what the protocol was here. For starters, he and Natasha definitely weren't a couple trying to spice things up and Clark was pretty sure that, whatever Natasha's plan was, she didn't expect him to just sleep with an escort.

And now the dress was gone. There was only a tiny lingerie left and by the look on Alexandra's face, that wouldn't last too long either.

"My, you're a handsome one," Alexandra purred, approaching him like a cat. "I'll definitely have fun with you two." She stopped right in front of him, smiling seductively, and grabbed his jacket. "Why don't you get rid of those clothes?"

Clark should've stopped things there. Whatever plans Natasha had – considering this was part of some plan and not just a joke – this was his limit. He wouldn't take his clothes off and he wouldn't, in any circumstance, sleep with that woman. It was time to put his foot down.

Except he wasn't moving, he wasn't saying anything and he could just stare, his brain confused, as Alexandra started to remove his jacket. Before she could get far, however, a hand grabbed Alexandra's. Natasha had arrived.

"He's shy," Natasha whispered, staring at Alexandra's eyes; she touched her face, suggestively. "Why don't you and I have a bit of fun first?"

And then they were kissing and Clark simply couldn't look elsewhere. He tried, he should've, but he didn't. He could just stare as Natasha and a very hot woman made out, hands touching everywhere, the sounds filling the quiet room. Five seconds, ten seconds, Clark lost count, all he could do was watch, shocked and marveled.

Then, out of nowhere, Alexandra collapsed on top of the bed, unconscious.

Clark looked from Natasha – her mouth still wet and red from kissing – to Alexandra, lying by his side, completely out.

"What the–" Clark breathed. "Natasha, what the hell happened?! What was that?"

"Sweet Dreams Lipstick," Natasha answered, simply. "They're laced with a sleep-inducing compound." Clark kept staring at her, waiting for the rest of the explanation, but she purposely misinterpreted his look. "It's old tech, Clark. Don't tell Steve, but we have them since Peggy Carter was still an active agent."

Clark simply stared dumbly for a moment, then shook his head.

"What are we doing here, Natasha?" he asked, getting up. "Why are we in this hotel? Why are we in a room with an unconscious escort?"

Natasha was pulling Alexandra to the middle of the bed, making sure she was lying comfortably.

"You did want to know about the Russians, didn't you?" she asked. "Well, before the Ranskahov brothers took power in Hell's Kitchen, the Russians followed another man. An old-timer named Sergei Mikhailov. Talented boss, but discreet. He retired to allow the new bloods to carry on, but he was a shrewd old man, he probably knows something about what happened."

Clark was momentarily surprised by what she said; he certainly didn't see that coming.

"Okay… But why are we here? More accurately, why are we here with her?"

"That's an easy one," she grinned. "The Blue Moon Hotel is famous for providing the best escorts in New York. They cater to the rich and powerful, from politicians to mobsters, guaranteeing privacy and a good time."

Clark sighed. "This is illegal, isn't it?"

She shrugged. "Probably, yes, but this is a fair place. The girls are well paid and taken care of, they're not here unwillingly and they can leave anytime they want. There are worse ways to live."

He wasn't so sure he agreed with that, but that was a conversation for another time.

"And what does Sergei Mikhailov has to do with this?"

"Why, he's a client, of course. A regular. And now that we're in the guest room's wing, we have access to him as well."

"He's here now?" Clark asked, surprised.

Natasha just smiled. "57 years old man, has a tattoo of an angel and a cross on his back. A big one."

Clark started scanning the place as soon as she said it, his x-ray vision surveilling all the hotel in seconds.

"22º floor. Grey hair and beard, angel and a cross on his back… And a devil on his right cheek."

Natasha frowned. "I don't remember any tattoos on his face."

"Not that cheek," Clark said, scratching his eyes as if he could clean them. Natasha chuckled.

"That one I knew nothing about," she said, going to the windows and opening them. "Shall we go up?" He glanced at the unconscious Alexandra. "She'll be fine, won't remember a thing, only that she had a good time."

He didn't enjoy leaving her there, especially not drugged, but he chose to believe Natasha. Jumping out, they both stood on the outside of the building, on the edge of the window of the 17º floor; the wind was howling.

"Usually, climbing would be such a boring task… Lucky us you can fly," Natasha said, embracing his neck with her arms; he felt his cheeks getting warmer when she got so close, especially after a show like that, but he lifted her and said nothing as he started to fly up.

"You do realize we could've done this from the beginning, right?" Clark said. "No need for escorts whatsoever."

"Huh… It never crossed my mind." He didn't believe her for a second. She grinned, approaching to whisper in his ear. "But it worked out. Now I know why they call you 'Man of Steel'."

If he were flying fast, Clark would've probably crashed when she said that.

"Are you sure about dessert?" Wilson asked. "They have an incredible Zuppa Inglese."

Vanessa laughed. "Don't children have that at birthday parties?"

"Yes," he agreed, smiling. "When I was a kid I loved it. Probably loved it a bit too much."

Wilson had never felt like that before. Free, able to expose himself, to show weakness, to poke fun at himself. It was a feeling unlike any other he ever felt and he lost himself in bliss when he looked at her.

"Well, now I have to know what it tastes like," Vanessa said. He smiled and ordered it. "Chocolate was always my downfall. Milk chocolate, not the dark stuff they say it's better for you."

"I can order something else."

"No, no, it's good to try new things. Get out of the comfort zone."

He could agree with that sentiment.

"Yes, we get caught up in what we're doing… Who we think we are."

"So…" Vanessa stared at him. "Who are you, Wilson?"

"Tonight I'm just a man, enjoying the company of a captivating woman."

They stared in each other's eyes, feeling a truly powerful connection. Maybe this was possible after all, Wilson thought. Maybe he could lower his guard, allow someone to get close, feel love. Maybe his life didn't have to be only darkness and war.

The doors of the restaurant opened with force. Every single one of his guards, sitting around him, got up. And just like that, the dream shattered.

Slowly, Fisk turned, seeing Anatoly approaching, eyes widened with a crazy glow and bruises all over his face.

"Sir, I need to speak to you," he said, fighting to pass through his guards.

"What's going on?" Vanessa asked. She was afraid.

"We need to go, now," Wilson said, getting up and leading Vanessa out. "I'm sorry."

"I wanted to tell you my brother and I gratefully accept your–"

"Wesley will take care of you," Wilson said, not even looking at him as he guided Vanessa out.

He was foolish for thinking he could have both worlds.

Clark and Natasha advanced through the long corridor, seeing the two guards posted at the door in the end. Two Russian bodyguards, by the look of it.

"He's alone in the room," Clark whispered. Kelex had already taken care of the hidden cameras, but the men would hear him if he spoke loudly. "The woman left a few minutes ago and hasn't come back yet."

"Good," Natasha said. "Follow my lead."

The bodyguard's eyes followed their moves as they approached, glued to Natasha's legs, Clark noticed. They probably believed she was one of the hotel's girls.

"Hi, boys, I brought a gift for Mr. Mikhailov, with the compliments of the Blue Moon Hotel," Natasha said, her voice oozing seduction. The men couldn't keep their eyes off her, but they did when she added: "Oh, no, not me: him."

And then she pointed at Clark.

Clark was sure that ruse would never have worked in the first place, but whatever small chances it had were promptly destroyed when his eyes widened like saucers. Realizing they weren't who Natasha said they were – as if they actually believed in the lie for even a second –, the men tried to attack, only to be immediately put to sleep by quick – but gentle – punches.

"Really?" he asked, looking at her.

She just smiled and grabbed the keycard from the fallen man, getting into the room. The room was much like the one they were before, except a bit bigger, full of candles and a little more richly decorated. The big change, however, was the naked Russian mobster lying on the bed, ass up, proudly displaying his tattoos to the world; Clark scratched his eyes again.

"The Devil on the right cheek is a new one," Natasha mentioned, loudly.

Clark watched as the overweight Russian mobster froze for a moment; then, in a show of speed that honestly surprised him, he turned around and lunged for what was probably a hidden gun by the side of the bed. Natasha, however, was just too fast. Before he could dream of taking his weapon, she already had her pistol out.

One single shot echoed in the room, hitting Sergei's arm.

"ARGHHH!" he screamed, falling back; apparently, though, it wasn't the pain that made him terrified. "You stupid bitch, the noise!"

"Calm down, Sergei, the room is soundproof," Natasha said, completely calm, getting closer.

"I don't give a fuck about the Hotel, he will hear!"

"'He'? 'He' who?" Natasha asked, as if she didn't know.

"You-Know-Who!" he yelled.

Clark rolled his eyes, sighing in exasperation. Natasha glanced at him, grinning.

"I think we're safe, Sergei," she said. "But, just to be sure, you should cooperate. Otherwise I'll shoot you again and Superman will surely appear. But since I'm one of the good guys now, only you will have to worry about drawing his attention."

He whined, clutching his bleeding arm. "I'm clean! I have nothing to hide."

"Don't lie to me, Sergei."

"I run a few games here and there, what do you care?" he barked. "Goddamn it, girl, why the hell are you shooting me?! You know I'm out!"

His brave defiance ended pretty quickly when Natasha put the pistol against his head. It wasn't, Clark noticed, the gun that scared him; it was her eyes. The woman in front of him wasn't Natasha anymore, it was the Black Widow.

"That's exactly why I'm here, Sergei," she said, forcing him to lean back as she pushed the gun on his forehead. "I want to know why you're out. Who forced you out. Who allowed the Ranskahov brothers to take control, who wiped clean their records, who the fuck is pulling the strings!"

The Russian was sweating, his heart beating fast. Clark could understand why, but he didn't like it. He didn't like seeing his friend disappearing inside the Black Widow. So he got closer and put a hand on her shoulder.

It was subtle, but he felt her muscles relaxing a bit.

Clark looked at the mobster.

"Talk," he ordered, without any niceness whatsoever.

"Who the hell are yo–"

Clark didn't give him the chance to finish, he simply grabbed him by the throat and lifted him a few inches from the bed, pressing him against the wall.

"I'm the person that'll listen to your confession," Clark said, leaning over him, his eyes threatening. "And only that. Someone is making a mess in Hell's Kitchen and is using the Russians for that. Money is being moved around, people are dying. You will tell me who is behind it."

He pressed his neck for a few more seconds then released, letting the Russian fall back to the bed, coughing.

"They'll kill me," he said, his voice hoarse. "They'll–"

"I can protect you," Natasha said. "SHIELD can."

Sergei started laughing. "Not against them, girl." He shook his head. "I told those idiot brothers not to get mixed up with those people. I told them it never ends well."

Natasha got closer.

"Mixed up with who?" she asked.

The old mafia boss looked up and Clark saw true fear on his expression.

"Yami no Te," he whispered.

Clark was surprised to see the same fear reflected on Natasha's expression as well.

Anatoly looked at Wesley. They were inside Fisk's car, moving to an unknown location, where they would finally make that deal and surrender their territory. He hated it. His brother hated it even more, but after what happened, after they missed their one chance to defeat the Masked Man, what choice did they have?

It was making a deal or losing everything and he swore he would never lose everything again.

"Even after all that, you didn't even get a name out of the girl?" Wesley asked.

Anatoly despised him, but he concealed that feeling. Now it wasn't the time for pride.

"No. She knew nothing," he said. "And the Man in the Mask arrived before we could find out more."

There was a moment of silence.

"You were right to reach out for us," Wesley said, his voice calm, as the car entered a building and started to go down. "Although a call would've been more appropriate."

"I wanted to meet in person, put the past behind us," Anatoly said.

The car continued going down and down, underground, far away from meddling aliens where they could speak. They arrived in a garage, dark, and stopped.

"They say the past is etched in stone," Wesley started, as the car stopped, "but it isn't. It's… Smoke, trapped in a closed room, swirling, changing. Buffeted by the passing of years and wishful thinking. But even though our perception of it changes, one thing remains constant. The past can never be completely erased. It lingers, like the scent of burning wood."

Anatoly had no idea what this guy was talking about, but he said nothing. Wesley's cellphone rang.

"Sir? Yes, passenger side."

"Was that him?" Anatoly asked.

"Hmm. He'd like to have a word with you."

He nodded; and then the window by his side exploded and Fisk grabbed him. Anatoly was tossed out of the car like a ragdoll, confused, not knowing what the hell was happening, but before he had any way of finding out he was punched.

Anatoly fell, but he was soon lifted again and punched one more time. And again, and again, and again, each hit feeling like a hammer. He felt his nose break, then his jaw and teeth, and as soon as he tried to fight back he was tossed down again. Fisk was yelling like an avatar of rage, his massive strength breaking every bone of Anatoly's body.

"You embarrassed me!" he yelled, tossing him against the car. "You embarrassed me in front of her!"

Fisk headbutted him again and again, until Anatoly's face was pretty much destroyed and he couldn't keep himself up anymore. There was still a slip of conscience left, a tiny bit of life in his body.

That's when Fisk grabbed him, placed his head against the car and repeatedly smashed the door against his skull. Anatoly didn't live past the first hit, but Fisk kept going until his head was completely removed.

Wesley got out of the car, walking slowly. Wilson was standing over Anatoly's body, shaking with rage, a drop of blood on his face; he took a handkerchief and offered him.

"Tell Mr. Potter I'll need a new suit," Wilson said, cleaning the blood drop, slowly.

He nodded, looking at Anatoly's corpse.

"And what do we do about him, sir?"

There was a moment of silence, then Wilson said:

"What any upstanding citizen does when he is threatened by a criminal: call the police." Then he looked up. "And call for Superman."

Wesley smiled. Maybe the problem with the Masked Man, the Russians and Superman would solve itself, after all.