A cold light passed through Jimmy's eyes, though his voice softened. "Tai Shan—I know Frank was your cousin. He trusted you more than anyone. Which means you probably know about his backup resources. How about this: you coordinate them yourself and handle the problem with George Stacy?"
Tai Shan had barely gotten the words "those shooters aren't meant to be used casually" out of his mouth before he felt every eye in the room lock onto him.
"So Frank really did have a second crew," Wade—gold chain gleaming at his collar—said slowly, his tone anything but friendly. "And right now they answer to you."
"Tai Shan, we're all brothers here. You can't hide something like that from —"
"I've bled for this gang. I've put in my time. And today I'm going to —"
As the accusations piled on top of each other, Jimmy let the noise run for a moment, then spoke again:
"Tai Shan. The boss is gone. But you're sitting on a private army. Makes a man wonder—are you angling for that chair?"
He patted the armrest of Frank's empty leather throne.
The room went dead silent. Every man in it measured every other man with wary eyes. The air grew heavy, almost crushing.
Tai Shan broke first. He cursed — "Fuck!" — and walked out of the room surrounded by his crew.
After that, the rest of the underbosses and lieutenants followed, one by one, each taking their people and filtering out of the meeting, minds already working on their own angles.
Once the room had mostly cleared, Wade pulled Jimmy aside. "Jimmy—now that Frank's gone, what do we do about the Lillian situation? Do I keep digging?"
The moment Wade finished speaking, a flash of killing intent crossed Jimmy's face—then vanished, buried under an easy smile. "What's there to dig? Lillian walked off with a chunk of the gang's money, sure—but she made a clean promise to stay out of gang business from now on. She's got connections above us. We let her go."
Wade looked like he had more to say. But Jimmy had already turned away, face cold. The message was clear: with Frank dead, whatever leverage Wade had held over Jimmy was worthless now. Wade sighed and took his leave.
Maya—still perched on the rooftop above—had heard enough. She felt reassured. She was ready to go home.
Then Jimmy reached for the phone again.
She pulled her foot back and listened.
"Mr. Fisk—why did you pull back? I've already positioned people on the inside. If you move tonight and bring your men in, by morning every inch of Frank's territory will be yours."
Maya blinked. Jimmy, you absolute snake. Frank had been onto something when he didn't trust this man—just not onto enough.
She had to grudgingly admit she'd underestimated Jimmy's cunning. Frank's death had changed everything about Jimmy's calculus. While Frank was alive, Jimmy was at best a number-two man. Pledging himself openly to Wilson Fisk would have pushed him even further from power. But now, with Frank gone? He was choosing his life over a seat at the table—and that was the smart move.
Fisk's response was immediate:
"Jimmy. My decisions are not to be questioned. But I'll explain this once—as a courtesy to a new asset. Don't make me repeat myself."
The quiet, authoritative voice continued:
"Do you really believe Frank Gardes was killed by a beat cop? Yes, on the surface—Frank made a stupid mistake, ran out of luck. But listen carefully: I didn't arrange that. Which means there's a third party out there. I don't know whether Frank's death was a genuine accident or something engineered, and I'm not about to walk blind into a hunter's sights to find out. I told you to stir up infighting among Frank's men for a reason—I wanted to flush that hidden player out. If someone intervenes, I'll know who I'm dealing with and move accordingly. If it really was a freak accident and nothing more, I can mop up that scattered bunch of idiots at my leisure. For now: watch the fallout, keep the internal fighting alive, and report what you see. Understood?"
"Yes, Mr. Fisk. I understand completely. I'll stay on top of it."
Maya blinked, at a loss for words. Was this the moment to walk in and make her presence known?
She was the "third party" Fisk was talking about. Should she walk in right now and let him know she existed?
After a moment's thought—no. Tom's situation was resolved. She wanted nothing more to do with the Frank Gardes gang.
As for whether they'd continue using the docks for smuggling and trafficking under some new arrangement: she'd keep watch on that stretch of waterfront. She could eliminate Jimmy and his people entirely, cut out the problem at the root.
But that wasn't realistic. The demand came from above—wealthy, connected people who created the market that criminals risked their lives to serve. If Jimmy died, someone else she didn't know would slide into the role. Keeping Jimmy in place meant she had a known target to track.
The Frank Gardes incident had earned Maya a substantial haul of Influence Points. She'd already made up her mind: starting tomorrow, she was going to lean into this world's logic and become a street-level hero.
Okay, "street-level hero" sounded a little low-rent. But there were no alien invasions to stop yet, and Magneto's group was still way out of her league. She needed to grind lower-tier threats and level up.
Her mind made up, Maya headed home. She slept well.
The next day was Saturday. Maya spent the morning alternating between jutsu practice and reading. Around ten o'clock, she headed over to Old Huang's Sichuan restaurant for her usual shift.
While changing clothes, she noticed the Chinese people from N Street all swapping stories about the previous evening's incident.
Today Maya wasn't stationed at the front door—that had been a one-time thing for the restaurant's anniversary event. Her usual role was handling the cash, which was less simple than it sounded. There was no mobile payment, and even checks were used sparingly. Maya had earned Old Huang's trust through her lightning-fast mental arithmetic, and she applied it the same way today.
By around two in the afternoon, she left with a takeaway bag—a gift from Old Huang: his signature Sichuan poached chicken. She took it with her to the nearest Walmart.
Not to buy clothes for Tom this time. Today, she was here to build her own battle suit.
Every time she went out at night, she wore the same black hoodie. She felt like a mugger. The President's standards were considerably higher than that—the hoodie had been an emergency measure born of limited options. Now she had time to do this properly.
Maya had already settled on the design. She was going to register Spider-Man before Peter Parker had a chance.
Let the little spider have no path left—Maya was taking this one.
Not that she was some obsessive Spidey fanatic. Well—her past life had left her with a soft spot for Peter, she'd admit that. She'd watched the films and thought his suit looked genuinely cool. But the slick Spider-suits she remembered were the post-2017 versions—the ones Tony Stark bankrolled and built with nanomaterial. The cheap early-era versions? No feelings for those, past life or present.
What Maya actually wanted was to use the material of the original Spider-suit as the base for a completely new shell.
The Chinese phone dressed up in an iPhone case on the outside, basically.