𝐃𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐥'𝐬 𝐀𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧

"Hope I'm not interrupting," Wilson Fisk spoke as he walked in, getting close to Vanessa. "I was nearby."

Carrie took a quick glance down and spotted Matthew's left hand clenched into a fist, almost as if he was containing his own rage and anger at his arrival. She looked back up, seeing Fisk stepping even more closer to Vanessa.

"Not at all," Vanessa replied, taking his hand in hers. "We were just talking about you."

"I see," he leaned in and kissed Vanessa on her cheek.

This confirmed their connection. They were together. A couple.

The air in the gallery thickened as Fisk's imposing figure dominated the space. His presence was undeniable, a gravitational force pulling everyone's attention toward him. Carrie felt her pulse quicken, instinctively shifting closer to Matthew. She couldn't tell if it was fear or something else—something more primal—coursing through her veins. Matthew, though outwardly composed, radiated a tension she had never seen before. His clenched fist by his side betrayed the storm brewing beneath the surface.

"Wilson Fisk, Matthew..." Vanessa was about to introduce the two customers but got stumped on Matthew's surname. And Carrie's full name.

"Murdock," Matthew interrupted smoothly, his voice steady despite the tension radiating from him. He extended his hand toward Fisk, his expression unreadable behind his dark red glasses.

"Mr. Murdock," Fisk said, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder. "The attorney. I've heard about all your work in Hell's Kitchen."

Matthew nodded, his face betraying nothing. "Ah. I'm aware of yours as well," he replied, his voice calm, but Carrie could hear the unspoken edge beneath it. The air around them felt taut, a silent battle of wills unfolding between two men whose worlds collided in this seemingly serene gallery.

"I'm sorry, dear, I didn't get your name," Vanessa asked, turning her attention to Carrie.

Carrie's heart skipped a beat as Vanessa's attention turned toward her. She had been so focused on the tension between Matthew and Fisk that she hadn't anticipated becoming part of the exchange. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she forced herself to speak.

"Carrie," she said softly, trying to keep her voice steady. "Carrie Alison."

Vanessa's eyes lingered on her for a moment longer than necessary, a faint smile playing at her lips. Fisk, however, gave her a nod—polite, but distant. His interest was clearly focused elsewhere.

"A pleasure, Miss Alison," Fisk said, his deep voice resonating through the gallery. "I trust you're finding the art... thought-provoking?"

Carrie opened her mouth to respond, but before she could, Matthew subtly shifted his weight, stepping slightly in front of her as though shielding her from Fisk's gaze. It was a small movement, but Carrie felt it—a silent act of protection.

"Yes," Matthew cut in, his voice firm. "It's been quite the experience. Art has a way of revealing truths we sometimes overlook."

Fisk's lips curled into a small, calculated smile, his attention returning to Matthew. "Indeed it does," he said, his tone carrying a quiet authority. "Much like the law, I imagine."

The tension between them thickened again, and Carrie felt like an outsider witnessing something far more dangerous than an exchange of pleasantries. These men were sizing each other up, playing a game with layers she couldn't fully understand, but one thing was clear—neither trusted the other.

Vanessa, ever the poised hostess, gracefully broke the silence. "Mr. Murdock is thinking of purchasing some art. He was looking for some advice from a man of taste."