Chapter 42: Night Visit to Kingpin
"Our problems in Europe..." an executive began, trying to refocus the discussion.
Bruce cut him off with a dismissive wave of his hand. "I am aware we cannot solve the city's problems. I am simply reminding you to account for them. Thoroughly."
The executives fell silent. The playboy façade was just that—a façade. The young man at the head of the table understood the company's vulnerabilities better than any of them.
"How is the Brooklyn restitution fund progressing?" Bruce turned his gaze to the head of the newly established foundation.
The man visibly wilted. "Because the incident was caused by Mr. Fisk personally, the New York City administration is insisting we assume full financial liability." The scale of the collider's damage was staggering—ruptured subway lines, structural damage to buildings. The bill would be astronomical.
"Who is insisting?" Bruce's voice was icy. Fisk's personal wealth, seized and liquidated, should have been more than enough to cover the damages. This was a personal crime, not a corporate one.
"The Mayor's office. The call came from the Mayor himself," the foundation head clarified, still sounding bewildered. A city councilor would have been expected, but the Mayor's direct involvement was unusual pressure.
Bruce understood perfectly. The political establishment in New York was sweating. Wilson Fisk was in prison, but the "black ledger" Bruce had taken from his bunker—the one detailing every corrupt official on his payroll—had not surfaced publicly. They were terrified Fisk might talk, or that the evidence might emerge another way. They couldn't kill him (yet), for fear of triggering a dead-man's switch. Their only move was to try and bleed the entity that had taken over Fisk's empire, hoping to cripple it and perhaps gain leverage.
"I will handle the city," Bruce stated flatly. He stood up. "But for the people of Brooklyn who were harmed, compensation proceeds. Full and immediate. Meeting adjourned."
He left the boardroom. Outside, his personal secretary was waiting, a landline phone in her hand.
"Sir, the police department is on the line. Regarding your vehicle."
Bruce took the receiver. "Yes."
"Mr. Kane, we regret to inform you that your Aston Martin was severely damaged in an altercation involving—"
"I am aware," Bruce interrupted, his tone bored. "My car was smashed. That is a matter between me and the insurance company, and arguably the costumed individuals involved. It is not a police matter. Is there anything else?"
The officer on the other end was left speechless.
Click.
Bruce handed the phone back to the secretary. "Order another one." He didn't wait for a response, heading for the private elevator to his penthouse office.
"Yes, Mr. Kane." The secretary watched him go, her eyes, sharp behind her glasses, following him with deep, analytical interest.
Alone in his office, Bruce sat in the darkening room, eyes closed. Some problems required a different kind of pressure. Some required the Bat.
Night cloaked New York. The Clinton Correctional Facility for Maximum-Security Offenders was a fortress, its reputation hardened by past failures and subsequent overhauls. It was now considered one of the most secure prisons on the Eastern Seaboard.
Tonight, it would fail again. Not with an escape, but with an intrusion.
"LIGHTS OUT!"
The guard's bark echoed. The prison plunged into darkness, the groans and shouts of inmates swallowed by the gloom.
At the very end of a special wing, one cell remained an island of light. Its occupant enjoyed privileges that defied prison regulations: books, a small writing desk, even a better grade of food. The guards said nothing. The man in the cell was Wilson Fisk.
Even in a cage, the former Kingpin of New York maintained his dominion. His lieutenant, Tombstone, stood watchful in the corner of the large cell.
The overhead light flickered once, twice.
Fisk looked up, a slow smile spreading across his face.
He didn't hear the door open. One moment it was shut, the next, a shadow filled the space within.
Tombstone moved, a blur of violence. The Bat was faster. A piston-driven punch exploded against Tombstone's nose, re-breaking what had only just healed. Blood sprayed. Before the enforcer could recover, Bruce grabbed his head and slammed it, CRACK, into the reinforced concrete wall. Tombstone slid to the floor, unconscious.
"It seems the Bat is in a foul mood," Fisk rumbled, not even glancing at his fallen bodyguard.
"Let me guess. Brooklyn." He leaned back, the picture of calm. "The city fathers are squeezing you. It must be… uncomfortable."
"The city is irrelevant to me," the Bat's voice grated. "I came to inform you of your future. It will be spent in this cell. You will die here."
Fisk rose to his full, imposing height, though the motion was slightly stiff, a lingering effect of the shattered knee. He still towered over the dark figure.
"You can do nothing. I will walk out of here," Fisk stated, his confidence unshaken.
"By tomorrow morning," Batman said, stepping closer until he was inside Fisk's personal space, looking up at the giant, "every official on your payroll will be facing impeachment. Several will be joining you as neighbors."
He held Fisk's gaze, the white lenses unblinking. "Your empire has days left. I am dismantling it, brick by brick."
Fisk's composure finally cracked. With a roar, his massive arms swept down in a crushing embrace, meant to snap spines.
He embraced empty air.
The Bat was gone. The cell door was shut and locked once more, as if it had never opened.
"NEW YORK WILL NEVER BE YOURS!" Fisk bellowed at the empty corridor, his voice echoing off the cold stone.
But the only answer was the returning silence, deeper and more complete than before. The shadow had delivered its message and vanished, leaving behind only the certainty of a crumbling kingdom and a life sentence in the light.
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