X-MEN- CH-86. Kingpin

Fisk was beginning to establish his underworld empire in New York. With his ruthless tactics, formidable abilities, and strict control over his subordinates, he had seized control of Hell's Kitchen. He had adopted the name "Kingpin," a title that struck fear into those who knew of him.

Of course, not everyone in this line of work was without their own ambitions. There were certainly those who did not fully submit to him, but for Kingpin, it didn't matter. What mattered was that they lacked the courage to challenge him directly.

Now that he had a wife and children to anchor him, Fisk retained some semblance of human warmth. His methods, therefore, were comparatively mild—though, of course, that was relative.

As the reigning power, Kingpin required his subordinates to report in detail the events occurring daily within Hell's Kitchen.

"Who are you?" Kingpin's voice cut through the room, his gaze fixed on a man leaning against the wall behind the crowd.

The stranger had a cigarette in his mouth, silently observing. Reflecting on it, Kingpin realized he did not know this man and couldn't recall when or with whom he had entered. This was his office, heavily guarded; not just anyone could wander in.

All eyes followed Kingpin's gaze. The gathered crowd, guards included, exchanged glances and confirmed that none of them recognized the stranger. Amid the chorus of guns being drawn, dozens of pistols, rifles, and shotguns were aimed at this silent intruder.

"Martin Horn... huh..." Martin straightened up and said with a smirk, "I saw you were busy, so I didn't want to disturb you, Mr. Kingpin."

As he spoke, everyone slowly lowered their guns and returned them to their original positions, forming a pathway for Martin. He walked up and took a seat across from Kingpin. The people behind him stood tensely, unsure of what would happen next.

Hell's Kitchen hadn't unified under Kingpin by chance—he was a man of steel nerves and unshakable composure.

"What happened to them?" Kingpin inquired, noticing his men's unusual calm.

"Just a little encouragement to avoid any unnecessary misunderstandings." Martin replied, releasing his hold on their minds. As the guards began to reach for their guns again, Kingpin waved them off, saying, "That's enough. Leave us."

"Yes, boss." His words were absolute; none of them hesitated. Once they left, Kingpin returned his focus to Martin.

"You don't seem like you're here to cause trouble... Horn… What's your relationship with the Horn Group?"

"It's my company."

Kingpin nodded, "Understood."

He picked up a cigar from his desk and offered it to Martin, who accepted. They both lit up, settling into a moment of mutual respect.

Kingpin spoke, "So, Mr. Horn, what brings you here?"

Martin took a drag on the cigar, then said, "I recently started a farm."

Kingpin replied, "Yes, I heard. Quite a few people were eyeing that plot in the west. Eventually, it was bought by the female CEO of the Horn Group."

Martin smiled, taking another puff, "Exactly. But recently, someone approached my farm manager with some interest in that land. I'm guessing they want to use it to grow something or maybe build a processing plant, a transfer station, or something along those lines. Yet, instead of coming to me directly for business, they've been asking around with local gang members."

"Mr. Horn, do you have an issue with the... flour business?"

"No, no. Just as long as they don't interfere with my territory or draw attention to my people. You play your game; I play mine."

"They're not my people." Kingpin replied with a calm smile.

"Alright, I believe you. But those people are from Hell's Kitchen—your territory."

"I'll find out who's behind it." Kingpin promised.

In truth, those people weren't Kingpin's subordinates. He had considered that piece of land himself but let go of the idea once Emma from the Horn Group acquired it. The Horn Group was a major player, and Kingpin had his eye on collaboration.

He ran legitimate businesses, many of them, which served as fronts for laundering his illicit income. His public identity was one of philanthropy; he made sure everyone profited, creating an environment where his activities went unchallenged.

Kingpin understood the consequences of offending an organization with vast wealth and influence. While fear wasn't an issue, the complications could be. He'd heard that the Horn Group employed numerous skilled individuals, some with ties to high-ranking officials.

Martin's calm yet authoritative demeanor convinced Kingpin that dealing with this issue could yield positive outcomes. First, Martin had made a show of his power by arriving undetected and controlling the room effortlessly; if Kingpin refused to cooperate, who knew what he might do?

Second, someone was clearly acting independently on Kingpin's turf—something he'd never tolerate. And third, maintaining friendly relations could prove beneficial in the future.

Martin stood and smiled, "Thank you, Kingpin. I'm easy to deal with; you can always talk to me if you have any issues. I respect you."

As Martin walked out, he added, "Now that our business is settled, I'll take my leave. Perhaps we'll share a drink together if we get the chance."

With a small wave, Martin vanished from the office. Kingpin turned his chair to look out through the floor-to-ceiling window, surveying his empire.

"This is all mine."

Calling in one of his trusted subordinates, Kingpin ordered, "Someone's trying to make moves on that land to the west. I want you to find out who they are—by tomorrow."

Among Kingpin's confidants, the most notorious would eventually be Bullseye, though he hadn't yet aligned with Kingpin. Martin's display of power made it clear to Kingpin that he was lacking. Guns and ammo could hold sway over the average person, but whether they'd be effective against someone like Martin was unknown.

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Martin exited the building and glanced around the parking lot. Not a single car bore even a scratch; it seemed no local thug dared cause trouble here.

As he drove aimlessly through New York's streets, he noticed a commotion ahead. Near the Broadway theater, a line of police cars blocked the road.

"Sir, there's an accident up ahead. Please take a detour. " A earby officer directed, before hurrying to inform the next driver.

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