The next morning, New York was buried under low clouds and cold rain.
In an upscale cemetery in the Bronx, old Carlson stood before a fresh gravestone, leaning on his cane. The rain darkened his coat as it fell, and for a moment the ruthless patriarch looked like nothing more than a grieving father. A few tears slipped free despite his effort to remain composed.
"Let's go," he said hoarsely after a long silence. "There are more important matters today."
Escorted by his men, he turned and walked away from the grave.
Several rows behind him, Rowan stood beside another headstone, wand hidden in his sleeve.
"Serpensortia."
A gray-black mamba coiled into existence, slid into the grass, and vanished in the direction Carlson had just gone.
Less than a minute later, screams tore through the cemetery, followed by panicked shouting. The nearest hospital was half an hour away. A man of Carlson's age wouldn't last fifteen minutes after a bite like that.
With the patriarch dead, the Carlson family would implode. Senior members would fight for control, expose themselves, and start eliminating one another. When the bullets began flying, no one would suspect anything beyond internal warfare.
Three nights later, on a familiar rooftop, Leon spoke with barely contained awe.
"The Carlson family has torn itself apart," he said. "Their strength is gone. Tomorrow, I'll move in and take everything."
He looked at Rowan with open respect. What had unsettled him most wasn't the later shootings. It was the earlier deaths. A son killed by a freak accident. A father taken by a snake. Even knowing the truth, Leon couldn't see a trace of human intent.
Sometimes he wondered if, one day, he might simply die in an accident too.
"Where should I send your share?" Leon asked carefully.
"Don't," Rowan replied. "Keep it under your name. I'll take what I need when I need it."
Rowan had no legitimate accounts. Using others' risked exposure. Leon was the safest vault he had.
"Once you take their territory," Rowan added, "liquidate as much as possible. Sell assets. Mortgage anything banks will accept. Then wait for my call."
Leon froze. "All of it?"
Rowan nodded. "If you trust me."
Leon didn't hesitate. "I do. Completely."
To him, Rowan's abilities bordered on prophecy. If Rowan said Stark Industries was worth betting everything on, then it was.
One day later, the newly risen Leon family swept through Carlson territory, absorbing eighty percent of their holdings. Two days after that, Leon scraped together every dollar he could, even mortgaging his prized limousine, proving his resolve.
On the third day, the hidden hangar beneath the mutant school opened.
An invisible jet lifted silently into the sky, heading east toward Afghanistan.
Only Rowan and Issa were aboard.
Issa had learned to fly the jet under Professor Xavier's guidance during his lucid periods. It was faster, cleaner, and safer than any civilian route. No checkpoints. No paper trail.
Rowan left Wolverine behind. He didn't need him. And Tony Stark would recognize Logan instantly if they met. For now, anonymity mattered more than brute force.
Hours later, the jet hovered above the desert near Bagram Province.
Rowan raised his wand.
"Point Me."
A golden arrow formed in the air, drifting steadily as Issa adjusted the aircraft's heading. The spell couldn't account for altitude, but in open desert, direction was enough.
Rowan watched the arrow, eyes sharp.
Tony Stark was out there.
And he was coming.