Marvel's Iron Lady

Who could have imagined that in such a small neighborhood like Hell's Kitchen, one could find gangs formed by immigrants from Ireland, Japan, Korea, Italy, and half a dozen other countries, along with the local New Yorkers? Almost everyone in New York knew that Hell's Kitchen was no safe place. Even with the New York Police Department spending far more on maintaining law enforcement there than in other districts, it remained perilous.

Despite all this, two weeks after his boss, Wilson Fisk, was arrested, he still chose to accept a meeting request from a certain lady.

The man slowly stood up and, facing the only mirror in the room, carefully combed the hair at his temples with a finely crafted little comb.

He changed into a finely tailored charcoal-gray three-piece suit, complete with a folded silk handkerchief tucked into his jacket pocket. The beige buttons on his vest contrasted neatly with the iron-gray tie on his white shirt.

Everything about him in the mirror—his immaculate attire and sophisticated demeanor—made him look every bit the refined, polite gentleman.

Hell's Kitchen was still shrouded in pouring rain, or perhaps it was the entire city of New York, caught in the low-pressure gloom of the shift from summer to fall.

The black Lincoln, which his men had brought around, had been waiting outside his house for some time, but no one dared show even a hint of impatience towards him.

Braving the rain, he entered the car and headed toward uptown Manhattan, making his way to the private Osborne family hotel.

When he pushed open the door adorned with metallic engravings, his eyes were met with a lavishly decorated hotel lobby.

Intricate patterns adorned the sparkling ceiling, with soft light illuminating the space, casting a warm glow throughout the room.

Even amidst their recent financial troubles, the Osborne family still flaunted their wealth.

This private hotel, which did not cater to the public, constantly exuded the extravagant air of a nouveau riche.

It was as if a museum had been built to showcase the treasures of both the natural and artistic worlds, all gathered here by the magic of capital.

Priceless handwoven tapestries adorned the walls alongside two or three dozen finely framed paintings.

The hotel was designed with a hollow center, and the ceiling of the lobby was a transparent glass roof. Rain from the storm above pounded against the glass, producing a constant, noisy rhythm.

The walls displayed massive gilded ivory ornaments, while ornate bookshelves were filled with exquisitely bound volumes. There were even Chinese porcelain vases set against the walls.

The chandeliers above cast their intricate light on silver antiques displayed throughout, while Italian-style reliefs added to the décor.

In the center of the room, a grand fireplace crackled with a roaring fire, warding off the chill brought by the rainstorm.

All of this made the man who had stepped into the lobby and disrupted the tranquility feel glad he had chosen to wear such a high-end suit.

Though he held a significant rank within his gang—second only to the boss—his status as a gangster didn't open doors everywhere.

"I apologize for the weather today, but I'm pleased to finally meet you, Mr. Wesley."

The sudden voice of a woman drew James Wesley's gaze through the rectangular frames of his black glasses to the other side of the room.

Seated on a deep red leather sofa next to an inlaid marble table was a woman, eyes fixed on him.

"It's no trouble at all. I'm honored to meet you as well, Miss Stark. I've been looking forward to this meeting," Wesley replied, placing his black, long-handled umbrella in the stand near the entrance.

"Waiter, bring a coffee for this gentleman—their coffee here is quite good," she said, motioning to the lone attendant in the lobby.

"Uh… just add a bit more milk, thanks," Wesley added.

Aside from Miss Stark, Wesley, and the server, there was no one else in the room. After all, this was a private hotel, accessible only to those connected to the Osbornes.

The server quickly brought the aromatic coffee and cleared the dessert plates from Miss Stark's table.

Wesley sat across from Miss Stark, taking a small sip of his coffee but casting his eyes toward the window.

As summer gave way to fall, New York seemed unusually cold, especially under the relentless rain.

The rain had started the previous night and hadn't let up, bringing with it cold winds that cut through the city like a knife.

Rare layers of clouds blocked the sunlight, casting a hazy darkness over the entire city.

"You seem a bit on edge. Why is that, Mr. Wesley? Do you think this place is dangerous?" Miss Stark asked, her voice carrying a hint of playful mockery.

"You should understand, Miss Stark. In our line of work, no place is ever truly safe," Wesley replied, shaking his head slightly and setting down the delicate white porcelain mug.

"Our boss's situation is complicated. The police won't allow bail, and the boss himself doesn't want to be released," Wesley explained, his tone more serious now.

"He's spoken with me. For now, he doesn't want to return to the city. He's left the company and the gang's affairs in my hands."

As Wilson Fisk's right-hand man, Wesley was someone Fisk trusted deeply to handle business when he couldn't. Wesley had already met with New York's higher-ups on Fisk's behalf after his arrest.

Unfortunately, the NYPD seemed determined to send Fisk to prison without even considering bail.

Even now, Wesley couldn't figure out what evidence the police had that made them so confident in denying Fisk's release.

"I'm quite curious about that too—who's behind this? Who has the nerve to dig a pit this deep for Fisk?"

Miss Stark smiled, seemingly unconcerned with Fisk's imprisonment. She was more interested in discovering who had the audacity to set such a trap for him.

"I have some theories, but… lately, there's been some troubling news within the company. It might be related to that," Wesley admitted, a fleeting look of fear crossing his face before he quickly masked it.

However, Miss Stark, with her keen eye, had already noticed that brief flicker of terror on Wesley's face.

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