Marvel Magic Case Files

Chapter 1453 The Villain's Family Affairs (First Update)

Ever since Vanessa entered Wilson Fisk's life and was poisoned at the party, Fisk's actions had become increasingly secretive. James Wesley didn't delve into the reasons, because he and Wilson Fisk possessed the rarest asset in this industry: trust. Both knew the other wouldn't betray them for money, reputation, or anything else, because they had both grown up on the streets and shared a bond of friendship that extended to their families and lives. Their silence wasn't based on rules, but on trust. James Wesley's discontent stemmed primarily from the anxieties of Wilson Fisk's trading partner; he feared that sooner or later, that partner would demand something they couldn't give.

But now that the deal was done and the contract signed, James Wesley intended to maximize its value. No matter how he disguised himself with suits and watches, he was essentially a ravenous wolf in the streets, the stale blood oozing from his teeth and fur a testament to the enemies he had torn apart. "Let me be involved, my friend," James Wesley earnestly suggested before leaving the office. "Continuing this business will benefit me; I can't let you bear all the costs."

"You're such a gentle villain, James."

"Charming." James Wesley pushed up his gold-rimmed glasses. "You're missing an adjective: charming."

Only after he left the office did Wilson Fiske sit back down in his chair, tossing his diamond cane aside. Exhaustion returned. James Wesley had underestimated his predicament; he had been warned about the future of the world, that he needed to control a deep-water port on both the East and West coasts, possess a transcontinental highway or railroad, ideally with airports capable of accommodating large cargo planes and various large warehouses along its route.

Wilson Fisk wasn't a fool; he could see that the transport line was likely to be used for military purposes. He only saw a glimpse of a grand plan, yet he had to bear such a painful price. He wasn't interested in grand ideals, and being forced to hold onto something put him under immense pressure every moment. Although the FBI couldn't possibly see the purpose of those transport lines—because it was just a very ordinary line that he had funded and maintained—the danger lay not only in the exorbitant costs of maintaining the route and cultivating relationships with state politicians, but also in the fact that he had to install satellite transmitters and receivers along the way.

This is a crime serious enough to warrant an investigation by the Department of Homeland Security and the military.

James Wesley knew nothing of this; he had no idea that Wilson Fisk had a third identity beyond businessman and gangster. His pact with the devil bound him, and the ambush on the stairs at the banquet had given him a glimpse of terror. Now he was like a hedge fund manager planning to short real estate before the 2008 subprime mortgage crisis—certain that this strategy would yield maximum returns, but nobody knew when that moment would arrive, or whether they could hold out until then.

Wilson Fisk sat in his office until closing time, when all the building's staff had left and security personnel had conducted their routine patrols to remove everyone except the cleaning staff. Only then did he close the blinds behind the glass curtain wall, turn off all the lights in the office except for the desk lamp on his desk. He opened a drawer and, with his fingertips, pulled out a piece of colored cardboard from among the layers of documents, careful not to let his sweaty hands touch the paint on it.

It was a small postmodern art piece drawn on cardboard, by Vanessa. Not everyone could understand the meaning in Vanessa's painting, but Wilson Fisk was one of the few. He could see the emotions and metaphors Vanessa poured into this small painting—the abundant washes of red and blue intertwined at the top and bottom of the canvas, forming a vaguely limbed purple kitten, with golden paint spreading from the kitten's paws, gradually extending towards an unseen top—this was the reason he had to persevere. For the unborn child and Vanessa, for the future of this little family.

As the sun finally pierced the gloomy, damp night sky and clouds of the English Isles, casting its cold rays upon the snow-covered glass greenhouses and gently caressing the dew-kissed rosebuds, the brown bear cubs in the forest awoke from their artificially constructed, insulated enclosures. Due to genetic modification and their feeding habits, they had no need for hibernation. These energetic cubs awoke at the sound of a soft bell, then one by one, slowly emerged from their dens, rolling and chasing each other in the snow, while simultaneously herding out the sheep that slept with them in the greenhouse.

Laura Crawford woke up early and had been waiting there for some time to observe the genetically modified bear cubs. But actually, she was there to calm herself down. Not only because she had been looking for food after waking up last night, and the embarrassing scene she had witnessed on the manor had kept her tossing and turning, but also because opportunities to get close to safe wild animals were rare, especially after hearing from Diana that the bear cubs were highly intelligent and understood not to harm humans. Being able to freely stroke the furry brown bears would help her forget what she had seen the night before.

"Winston, could you please invite Miss Crawford to the dining room? She's up too early and is prone to catching a cold, and the bear cubs are starving." Even though the dining room's heating was on late today due to last night's busy work, Bayonetta seemed affected by the temperature; to be precise, all witches are unaffected by temperature. "We have some other activities today. While we're at it, could you ask her if she'd like to attend an art exhibition? Your foster mother is taking us to visit the painter we met, Vanessa, remember? Apparently, it's her last exhibition; after that, she'll have to rest."

Wearing a tuxedo, Winston nodded and shuffled out of the restaurant with unsteady steps.

"I may never get used to serving giants," his aging brain mused. He didn't need to do anything to retrieve Laura Crawford from the forest; the armed girls would handle it upon receiving orders, a gesture he knew was the plantation mistress's consideration for his aging body. However, he was still constantly startled by the sheer size of the plantation mistress and those golden-armored warriors. He had never seen anyone so tall in his life. They were mythical giants, not ordinary people, and Winston was deeply concerned about the Crawford family heir's association with such figures.

"Vanessa is making money, clean money printed with the vanity and stupidity of internet nouveau riche. If swindling money from fools is illegal, then her crime is no less serious than her husband's. Oh... while you're at it, take that canvas that the Cheshire Cat messed up in the studio yesterday; it might fetch a good price. After all, we can't let the cat get something for nothing."

"I'm sure there's something you haven't said," Joan of Arc said.

"That's right, after all, this is a breakfast table, and I don't want to mention the wallpaper stained with bodily fluids while enjoying my crispy bacon, Italian sausage, and Iberian ham."

"I'm tasting that familiar bit of sarcasm." Joan of Arc glanced at Wanda beside her, her face full of mockery. "If you want to know if this man in front of you is being impersonated, just listen to him talk. When he comments on something, if you can't help but punch him in the face, then he's not being impersonated. But we probably won't need to use that method; he was quite energetic last night, not stopping until dawn... Don't be so shy, Ceresia, you've always liked this method, haven't you?"

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(End of this chapter)