Earth-444.
Thor Odinson.
Dragging his injured leg, feeling Mjolnir weighing down his weakened arm, Thor trudged through the ash field strewn with the corpses of enemies and friends alike.
The Son of Odin grimaced, reproaching himself for his slowness and blindness; as a future ruler, he was duty-bound to foresee that their ancient enemies would sooner or later form an alliance and strike with all their might.
He should have, but he didn’t, far too occupied with immediate problems.
Inacceptable for a future king.
Thor was walking toward a specific place and a specific person—a friend and brother-in-arms who had long since become something akin to a brother.
Iron Man lay propped against the corpse of Thanos, breathing heavily and unable to rise, yet his will was enough to keep him from falling into unconsciousness and to use the remnants of his suit to ward off the maddening spawn of Knull, which were eager to seize another host to continue the slaughter.
The fear of fire among the creations of the god of darkness was as strong as ever.
With a slight mental effort, arcs of lightning incinerated the scattered creatures of darkness, and Odinson himself dropped heavily to one knee before his comrade, inspecting him.
The red-and-gold armor was covered in soot, with gaping tears here and there that the smart automation was unable to mend.
His arm was missing up to the shoulder, his left leg was melted and most likely fused right inside the suit, but the most terrible wound was in his chest.
It exposed to the Asgardian’s divine vision a frantically fluttering heart, still alive solely because of the nanorobots and implants that the eccentric billionaire had inserted into his own body in an effort to conquer his weaknesses.
Tony had once shared with them that his body had stopped coping with the loads that the new suit models could output; apparently, this was how he had solved the problem, reinforcing the core of his technology.
“Thor…you look like hell,” a muffled voice sounded from the helmet.
Even without seeing Stark’s face, Thor was certain it was adorned with an ironic, mocking smile.
“Look who’s talking,” Thor tried to force a smile, but it turned out completely wretched.
He knew that this time Lady Death had caught up with Stark for good; neither copies of consciousness uploaded into clones, nor resuscitation technology, nor magic would help.
The Thunder God’s divine gaze pierced into the very core of Stark, into his soul—shimmering with metal and arc reactor energy, now covered in a network of cracks and chips.
The Mad Titan was more than well-versed in magic, having come to the battle prepared and striking directly at the soul.
If not for Stark, perhaps all the defenders of Earth would have fallen to a final death.
“Tony, you won’t be able to come back this time,” Thor announced in a somber voice.
“I know,” came the calm reply.
“Funny, I’ve died so many times, but I’m still not used to it.”
With difficulty raising his sole intact arm, Tony opened his visor, revealing an uninjured, though excessively pale face.
“At least we took the main threats down with us,” he stated, sweeping his clouding eyes across the battlefield.
“It’ll be easier for you guys.”
“I cannot save you, friend,” the heir of Asgard said, raising Mjolnir.
“But I can grant you a final mercy.”
Placing his weapon against Stark’s chest, Thor concentrated, gritted his teeth harder, and severed a microscopic piece of his own soul.
The divine essence immediately began to fill the cracks and chips, striving to restore what was damaged and improve it, awakening the divine within Stark.
In any other situation, Thor would never have granted Stark even a chance at divinity.
Not because he didn’t trust him, but because for such a thing, he personally needed specific conditions—like missing pieces of a soul so it wouldn’t tear apart.
And well…
Odinson had feared granting his friend even a shadow of a chance of becoming a god, for Stark had already been in that state before, and in his pride, had bestowed his genius upon all of humanity.
Nothing good came of it, but at least he had possessed the sanity to reverse everything and renounce the powers clouding his vision.
Now, though…
now his soul would pass into the River of Souls, slipping from the grasp of Hel and Death herself, healing its wounds there and being reborn anew, protected from astral beasts by his power.
But most importantly…
most importantly, Tony Stark would retain his memory and personality, his grand knowledge—against which any wise Asgardian appeared a young fool—and along with them, his unique way of thinking.
The very way of thinking that had once forced a proud Thor to respect the weak and short-lived mortals of Midgard, showing their full potential.
“Sleep in peace, friend” the God of Thunder said, enduring the terrible pain of a self-inflicted tear in his soul, bidding farewell forever to one of his closest brothers-in-arms.
The transfer of the divine spark became the final straw for the wounded soul, which was barely holding its connection to the mortal coil.
Tony Stark died, only to continue his journey in another world and another life.
Anoher world.
Another time.
Poland.
Warsaw.
The prestigious private clinic received many individuals into its belly—good and bad, smart and not so much, healthy ones simply looking for a checkup, and sick ones who had neglected their health and came only when it became unbearable.
But far more than anything else, it saw children.
While all other departments were huddled in a single, albeit large, building, two full blocks were allocated for the children’s department, each of which could easily be turned into a fairly large warehouse.
“Congratulations, you have a healthy baby boy. Dare I say remarkably healthy,” Olgierd Wozniak, the head and founder of the Red Apple private clinic, smiled as he looked through his ocular augments at the pop-up report coming straight from the depths of the genetic lab.
The name had been dreamed up by his young son, and it was he who had inspired a far-from-bad man, even an idealist to some degree, to radically expand the children’s department of his own creation.
After all, unlike adults, children are innocent, and the sins of their parents only stain them in adulthood.
A unique compromise between conscience and the desire for a good life.
“Thank you, doctor,” a beautiful blue-eyed blonde with very impressive features smiled wearily.
Characteristically, everything was natural, except that her skin had been replaced with an implant, ridding the happy mother once and for all of the trouble of its upkeep and the flaws that appear with age.
“They will bring you the newborn in a moment, but in the meantime, would you like to discuss genetic correction?”
“Didn’t we already perform it?” asked the black-haired, brown-eyed giant over two meters tall and of an imposing build.
He was a long way from steroid-pumped bodybuilders, but Olgierd personally wouldn’t bet a broken coin on them.
He knew anatomy well, and where ugly muscleheads clumsily waddled due to their own bulk, the newly minted father moved smoothly and practically silently, and the very well-defined muscles of his arms and neck clearly hinted at no less strength in their owner.
“We eliminated malicious genes responsible for hereditary and dormant diseases, yes,” the doctor nodded readily.
“But now that the fetus is fully formed and the risks of malignant mutations are minimal, we can add something new and very useful to the child. Increase intelligence, make him sturdier, partially program his height and appearance, set the traits that you have, or that your parents and even their parents had. There is also an option to increase the newborn’s physiological tolerance to implants! It won’t guarantee he becomes a borg, but it might protect him from something like cyberpsychosis.”
“We’ll think about it,” the young mother replied, but it was clear she wasn’t very interested in what she heard.
Wozniak sighed in disappointment, both because of the lost profit and because of parents’ reluctance to make their children better, buying them a chance at success in advance.
But he was powerless here; genetic modifications had become relatively accessible only recently—before that, they were the prerogative of truly high-ranking individuals—and public trust in them had not yet formed.
The head of the clinic did not insist; he saw that his clients-patients were preoccupied, and besides, the newborn had already been brought in by that point.
“Looks like a peach,” Claire commented, smiling with a gentle motherly smile.
“Is that normal?” the father asked anxiously.
He had reasons to worry; both he and Claire were modified to a very high level, and he didn’t know how all of this would affect the child.
After all, for certain reasons, they didn’t have a list of all their upgrades, and undergoing a full examination meant putting themselves and their son at risk.
“Absolutely,” the doctor stated confidently.
“The baby is, of course, a month and a half premature, but that’s within the normal range for first-time mothers. Plus, he’s accelerated, and he had nothing left to do in his mother’s womb, and some minor liver issues will be resolved with a course of simple vitamins within a year after birth. As I said, your baby is completely healthy, perfectly healthy, and minor consequences of early birth occur in every third newborn.”
“Good,” the man breathed a sigh of relief.
Robert Stark, formerly known as Oleg Bykov, a former deputy head of internal security for the Leningrad KGB department, had gone through many wars and battles, receiving more than one genetic upgrade during his preparation for field service.
After all, upgrading flesh, though more complex, was sturdier, more autonomous, and far more discreet than the common and ubiquitous implants.
This was why Oleg-Robert truly worried about the health of his offspring, ultimately agreeing to the genetic correction to clean the genome of harmful pathologies.
Larisa didn’t add to his peace of mind either; she was a top-tier netrunner, highly valued by their former homeland, which was why she had received not only chrome tailored personally for her but also a series of bodily upgrades allowing her to do more than any other netrunner.
Initially, they planned to have a child from a genetic material bank where Robert’s sperm and Claire’s eggs had been stored, but their escape from the USSR—which after the war had definitively become an appendage to SovOil—made that impossible, as was retrieving the couple’s full medical records, forcing them to make do with a civilian, albeit elite, clinic.
Fortunately, everything turned out fine, and their son was born completely healthy.
“What will you name him?” Olgierd inquired, preparing to enter the new patient’s name into the clinic’s database.
“Tony,” the happy father smiled faintly.
“Tony Stark.”
Poland.
Warsaw.
The Stark Family Home.
A few years later.
An ordinary house in an old quarter of the capital city of Poland, quite large, but far from a mansion.
Just a reasonably decent house…
at first glance.
In reality, it was made of ultra-high-strength, chemically enhanced concrete that could withstand a tank shell, keep gas out of the house, and its heavy-duty windows could withstand large calibers.
Plus a pair of security droids, about five cameras, and seven hidden turrets outside the house, as well as one in each room and a massive underground floor comparable in its characteristics to a bunker.
The former KGB agents didn’t suffer from paranoia; they enjoyed it.
The young heir to this fortress disguised as a cozy home was currently sitting in the garage, which had been completely occupied by the young engineering genius, permanently evicting his father and turning the well-lit room—equipped with several machines and a mountain of tools—into his domain, where he slept, ate, and worked.
Right now, the eight-year-old boy was assembling his first netrunner chair, making disgruntled faces, while Robert and Claire watched it all, amused by their incredibly serious little toddler.
The migrants from the Union couldn’t say for sure whether they had simply gotten lucky with the child or if their genetic upgrades had played a part, but the blue-eyed boy was remarkably smart and quick-witted for his eight years, surpassing adults and far from stupid people in certain areas.
Tony had mastered the school curriculum at four years old, greatly surprising his parents and the specialists invited afterward, who confirmed that the toddler had swallowed an eleven-year curriculum from a simple brain-dance and hadn’t even hiccuped, demanding more.
In modern schools, if they are truly modern, there are no desks, pens, notebooks, or other vestiges of the last century.
Why?
There is only one answer, and its name is braindance—a special device that allows one to absorb vast amounts of information at an accelerated pace, gaining not only theoretical knowledge but also practical experience.
Want to wield a sword proficiently?
No problem, buy a full course of braindances and in a couple of months, you become a confident user, and if you splurge, a master; the main thing is not to forget to practice in reality every now and then.
Or just install synthetic muscles and upload the necessary movements into them.
Today’s schools have almost completely replaced universities in essence, giving children not just the basics of taught subjects, but a full higher education of a confident specialist capable of fixing household items, upgrading a car, quoting an ancient classic, writing a thesis on the advantages of various forms of state governance, and designing the architectural blueprint of a simple building.
And much, much more.
Simply put, after eleven years of schooling in modern institutions, children turn into individuals with an extremely broad outlook and an impressive list of skills.
And the better the school, the better their equipment, which accelerates the learning process, and the better their knowledge bases—and as a result, the final outcome of the education.
Now imagine a picture of a toddler absorbing this entire volume of knowledge intended for eleven years of study with a bunch of extra equipment, using only a basic, albeit modern, braindance.
It’s as if a six-year-old entered a university and passed a diploma thesis a year later; in theory, perhaps, such precedents (or close to them) existed in real history, but it was still astonishing and unique.
Tony had been a good, quiet child before this as well; he didn’t fuss, cried only when he soiled his diapers, caught everything on the fly, and was overall a goldmine of a baby for his parents.
But after his genius was revealed, the Stark couple took their son’s education seriously, procuring first-class knowledge bases for him and supporting his creative impulses in every possible way.
The only thing that caused concern was his socialization, but due to the child’s young age and the parents’ professional distortion, they didn’t worry much about it, teaching their son methods of control and securing loyalty instead of friendship.
Albeit gradually and in the form of a game.
Both Robert and Claire knew the price of friendship well, not putting much faith in it for a variety of reasons.
And generally speaking, they could hardly be called paragons of virtue and human values; two former operatives, and later directors of one of the most secretive, ruthless, and bloody agencies in the world, wouldn’t have lasted a year at their jobs if they considered human lives, freedoms, and welfare as anything more than what they truly were: dry statistics in casualty reports.
“Isn’t he just a darling?” Claire continued to gush.
“Takes after his mom.”
Now it sounded proud and smug.
Her neat nose was upturned, her blue eyes looking with superiority at her beloved man, who merely rolled his eyes and scratched his black stubble, which was about to turn into a beard.
Robert wasn’t bothered by this; they both knew she was joking and teasing her husband, in a kind and loving way.
But he still chose not to reply just in case, letting her enjoy herself.
Moreover, the first thing Tony had taken up was precisely mechanics, assembling a fully functional three-hundred-horsepower internal combustion engine, and he used what was practically junk.
And he had also upgraded his father’s fabricators along with Robert, increasing their operation speed and efficiency by twenty-three percent.
Not that they were heavily needed by Robert, especially in Poland where a quarter of the population feeds off the black market, but if one needed to obtain something illegal quickly, it was easier to build it yourself.
It comes out both cheaper and of higher quality that way.
He and Claire might work for President Skalk, receiving a very decent salary and full maintenance, but sometimes there was simply no time to get everything properly authorized.
Robert and Claire worked as Harbingers in Poland.
Of course, fugitives from their own country—where the “hush-hush” types were extremely prevalent—were not fated to end up in a modern-style analogue of the oprichnina, but the Starks were always clever with inventions (others simply didn’t make it to managerial positions in the KGB), and instead of fake names and faces, they stole someone else’s.
In those days, a crisis was flaring up in Poland, the economy was in ruins, people were leaving the cities and settling in villages, reverting to subsistence farming, and those who remained were ready to work for food because the national currency had depreciated.
The future Claire and Robert had a choice: either join the Russian immigrants who had founded the Russian diaspora, or steal other identities and live someone else’s life.
Considering that the modern Russian mafia, which originated among that very diaspora, was almost guaranteed to be connected to the Russian intelligence service, the choice was a forced one, since Robert had participated in an attempted coup d’état.
The last desperate attempt by ideological KGB agents trying to prevent the USSR from turning into what it had become today.
As is not difficult to guess, the attempt was unsuccessful, and almost all participants were purged, while the survivors either fled or completely sold out to the corporation.
And from then on, two skilled upgraded agents with decades of experience under their belts easily integrated into the new realities, weren’t greedy, didn’t stand out much, but proved themselves reliable enough cadres to be brought close to power, being invited to work in the newly formed “Harbinger” department.
Technically, it was a shadow structure, initially intended by the current President of Poland for fighting banditry and corruption, but being a realist, President Skalk quickly realized that his personal guard was too small, the problems were many, and almost a quarter of all Polish citizens were connected to the black market.
He had to come to terms with it and use the Harbingers to control gangs, corrupt officials, and purge particularly arrogant individuals who lost their bearings.
And this brought a peculiar result.
Granted, today’s cities in Poland are almost completely surrounded by fast-growing slums full of gangs, cyberpunks, and smugglers, but the country’s cities are clean and almost as safe as in the old days.
“We have negotiations soon,” Robert noted, bringing his wife down to the mundane earth.
The Harbingers had an irregular work schedule; as a rule, it was almost completely packed with a mountain of tasks since there were really few of them, but Robert and Carol were relatively lucky.
Carol, being one of the best netrunners in the organization, could work from home in a data center specially equipped in the basement, which possessed cutting-edge military-grade equipment, making her practically omnipotent in the Net.
Robert, meanwhile, was currently overseeing one of Arasaka’s projects, which had been invited to Poland years ago and had finally begun investing tangible sums into its economy, which had been destroyed and had not yet fully recovered from the Crash of the Old Net.
In fact, the country had no developed economy; instead, it had a shadow economy that attracted almost all more or less successful cyberpunks.
After all, due to its location and established problems, one could obtain anything on the Polish black market, from relics of the last century to advanced corporate developments.
And the structure that grew around all this was appropriate: top mechanics making the best custom weapons in Europe to order, netrunners capable of coding combat daemons up to AI viruses, and skilled ripperdocs with upgraded implants quite capable of saving someone from cyberpsychosis in its early stages.
All of this brought massive amounts of money into the country’s budget, even if it hindered it from developing and solving internal problems.
And this was exactly what attracted Arasaka’s attention to open its branch and start a project that was extremely important to them, which Robert was appointed to oversee from the state’s side.
And Claire too, as a specialist in programming and cybersecurity.
“Now why did you have to remind me?” Claire pouted.
“That Kushinada is one careerist bastard. I even feel sorry for the poor girl they put under him.”
“The work of our colleagues is none of our business,” Robert replied noticeably colder.
“Our task is to find the location, ensure security, solve local problems, and extract benefit for the state from this whole venture. And the benefit promises to be significant, as you know.”
“I know, I know,” Claire sighed, “an advanced academy for training netrunners from an early age, unlocking their full potential—it even sounds impressive. If we get at least a stripped-down methodology…” Claire cast a glance at her son.
“Exactly,” Robert nodded readily.
“A netrunner can always earn a piece of bread and butter, and if he has brains to boot, he won’t be exposed to danger either, living a good, quiet life.”
“Do you really think our Tony will sit still?” the matriarch of the family arched an eyebrow, remembering that same washing machine dismantled down to the last bolt or the “modified” refrigerator that actually began acting as an air conditioner for the kitchen and adjacent rooms…
while simultaneously covering everything with frost within a three-meter radius.
“No one is stopping me from hoping,” Robert smiled almost imperceptibly.
He was too accustomed to keeping a straight face and wearing masks, which made his facial expressions extremely unexpressive.
To outsiders, he seemed like a block of ice altogether, and only close people could discern human emotions on his face.
“Right, right,” the mother of one restless toddler sighed slightly sadly.
Unlike her husband, she worried about her son far more, because despite all of Robert’s positive qualities, he was quite an unfeeling block of wood.
Not to say she was any better, but unlike her husband, she retained at least some semblance of empathy.
And she wanted grandchildren.
And without his own company where he could meet other people, it would be extremely difficult for Tony to meet a good girl.
“Alright, I’m going to pack, and you make sure Tony doesn’t set our house on fire… again.”
“Uh-huh,” her husband replied, sitting in his favorite spot and opening a fresh issue of a newspaper.
They didn’t want to disturb their son in any way; when Tony got into a creative frenzy, although he didn’t lose touch with reality, he became extremely irritated.
He wasn’t rude, he didn’t talk back, he didn’t throw tantrums, but a pair of blue eyes (from mom!) would look with such reproach that the pair of considerably hardened killers felt like ultimate villains stealing candy from a baby.
Young Stark himself, as had been said, was busy.
With what?
He was trying to implement an idea that had come to him in a dream.
What kind of idea and dreams?
It was hard to answer, but the fact remained: little Tony had been aware of himself from the very moment of his birth, knew several languages, including programming languages, history, engineering, and a range of other knowledge that, theoretically, had no business being in a newborn whose brain wasn’t even fully formed yet.
And he also had the understanding that this was completely abnormal, and it was better to keep quiet about such things, even before his parents.
They loved him and all that, but they wouldn’t be able to do anything about their son’s quirks anyway, so why fray their nerves unnecessarily?
So the young genius and future playboy, billionaire, and philanthropist kept quiet, not suffering from his exceptionality, but enjoying it.
As for the dreams, everything was simple: every time he fell asleep, he saw colorful, vivid, and highly alluring dreams about another life and a world where heroes and villains fought in an eternal confrontation with one another—a struggle of order and chaos, the present and the future, the old and the new.
And he, an ordinary man, a bug in armor, going into battle on equal footing with titans.
Tony was proud of this.
He didn’t know for sure whether they were dreams or reality, he didn’t even know the theory of reincarnation, but that didn’t stop him from being proud that he, an ordinary man, had been able to stand on par with gods, mutants, super-soldiers, and sorcerers through his own mind and genius.
And right now, it was being decided whether his dreams were the delirium of an inflamed mind or something truly worthwhile—something that needed attention and time to figure out.
In young Stark’s head, there were numerous diagrams, blueprints, projects, and scientific discoveries, but due to his physical, financial, and material limitations, the young son of the Stark couple had to restrict his desires.
Nanotechnology was still a long way from his hands, as was armor made from a mixture of gold and titanium.
Or tungsten.
Or adamantium.
On the other hand, he had almost everything necessary for another project.
Tuning brain functions to optimize the body.
In the dream, this had allowed him to program new health criteria into his own mind, seriously increasing Tony’s physical capabilities and strength.
Strength, agility, speed, endurance, memory—everything rose to peak values, rivaling Olympic champions; excess fat stopped accumulating on his sides and cheeks, his organs were in perfect condition with proper nutrition, and his regeneration spiked to three times the norm, and his lifespan promised to reach one hundred and fifty to two hundred years.
But most importantly, no scars, skin problems, wrinkles, or consequences of injuries, even the most severe ones.
Furthermore, according to the same calculations, the effect would be much higher if applied to a child between six and ten years old, while the body had not yet begun its transition into the adult stage—rigid, but far sturdier and more stable.
Tony already imagined how he, already a genius outstripping all his peers, would be taller than everyone, stronger than everyone, faster, healthier, and more handsome.
Such thoughts made something in his stomach tickle pleasantly, causing a desire to squeal with delight, tilt his nose higher, and look down on everyone else condescendingly.
Actually, that was why the heir of the Stark couple was rummaging through his own netrunning equipment.
The reconfiguration would pass quickly, from one to three seconds, but collecting information, recording, and storing it with subsequent transfer to a biological medium was a far from trivial task, requiring meticulous preparation and appropriate equipment.
Fortunately, Tony had all of this, and what he didn’t have, he created on the home fabricators.
You couldn’t create anything particularly large on them, and the internals would have to be refined afterward because it was just simpler that way than writing the necessary software from scratch, but skilled hands, the help of a father who understood engineering well (and most importantly, was strong), and a segmented structure solved all problems.
All that was left was to assemble and configure it all…
and then run a mountain of calculations.
Tony Stark.
Same location.
Four months later.
“Seriously?” Tony asked, his eyes wide with shock as he looked at a Militech combat droid painted in a neon-pink color, featuring a holographic interface instead of an armored plate, which displayed a sickeningly sweet anime smiley face with cat ears and a tail.
“Yep,” Claire replied with a smug grin, proudly puffing out her chest and putting her hands on her hips.
She had exerted her utmost effort on her project for a nanny robot, taking a few days off, having previously checked everything properly, and ultimately writing a program so complex that it had every chance of developing into a full-fledged AI over the years.
An AI whose primary task was Tony’s well-being and development.
The hardest part had been harnessing Robert, forcing him to set aside his beloved iron shooting-irons and properly improve the coordination, speed, strength, and durability of her creation.
Or, as she preferred it, the iron shell for the soul she had created, when she fooled around and pretended to be a witch from a fantasy manga rather than an extremely skilled programmer-hacker.
“Daaaaaaaad, talk some sense into your wife,” Tony immediately requested backup, already imagining how much freedom he would lose and how many problems he would acquire.
“…” In response, Robert—a massive, muscular man capable of tearing metal with his bare hands—cowardly turned away from his own son in a difficult life situation.
Yes, he was whipped, so what?
“Traitor,” Tony commented.
“You need supervision, young man. And since we are often away for work, the Omnissiah will watch over you and your destructive impulses,” yes, the mistress of the house was not only an anime fan but also a lover of Warhammer.
“They are not destructive at all!” the unjustly oppressed boy tried to rebel.
“You blew up the garage,” but the rebellion was harshly crushed before it even began.
“Well… it wasn’t exactly blown up.”
“Not up for discussion,” a hand chopped through the air in response, cutting off any objections and attempts to soften the sentence.
“Maybe… maybe…” Tony thought frantically.
He knew his mother; if nothing changed right now, this piece of iron would be permanently registered as his nanny!
“Maybe we can ask Mrs. Kushinada? She’s on maternity leave with her daughter anyway! Besides, a living person is always more reliable than an untested machine in field conditions. What if it breaks? Or what if a bug slipped into its program?”
“There are no bugs in my programs,” she informed him with ironclad certainty.
“…” Robert remained silent in response, but he slanted his eyes at his wife VERY expressively.
Literally a week ago, she had scolded her son for an untested project that ultimately blew up their garage and almost killed Tony himself.
And after that, she wonders where their son gets it from?
“We can combine them,” he suggested an option that generally suited him.
Unlike Ryu Kushinada, whose unscrupulous ambition and coldness had become a byword, but with whom leaving his son with a raw prototype wasn’t something he particularly wanted, the young woman who had recently given birth had a responsible character and grew up in a family where the word “safety” was not a synonym for “boring” or “just a little risky,” but a guarantee of survival and prosperity.
“Hm-m-m…” the blue-eyed blonde pondered.
“Fine.”
She nodded graciously.
“We’ll work out a deal.”
And she smiled mischievously, looking at her son.
Alas, Tony only realized after the fact what he had condemned himself to with his long tongue.