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"Who's the one in charge?" Tony Stark asked.
Alex replied candidly, "At my level, I don't know their identities. But there are two people currently vying to become the public face."
"A little guy named Epstein, and a Black man they call Puff Daddy."
"A... Black man?" Tony was stunned.
"Yeah, that's how bizarre this world is. A guy who clawed his way into a considerable amount of Hollywood resources through vulgar means now thinks he's on equal footing with us."
"I remember that guy… Wasn't he—"
"A fairly new upstart rapper. He's got some smarts, I'll give him that. But no self-awareness."
Tony asked, "So one of those two hired the assassins?"
"No, no. The killers were just hired help, I think. Same goes for the fake FBI agents you mentioned—they were probably part of a cleanup crew."
"Which assassin organization has the strength to pull that off? CIA?"
"Maybe the CIA has a hand in it behind the scenes—I can't say for sure. But if I had to guess, the only group on the West Coast capable of impersonating the FBI and covering things up like that would be that one organization."
"The Continental Hotel. Ever heard of it, Tony?"
"No. Never. How do I find them?"
"Why bother?" Alex said. "It's just a tool. Even if you do find them and demand justice, as long as you pay enough, the people who crossed you will disappear the next day. But the organization itself will remain. You can't destroy them—unless all you want is a bit of catharsis."
"Isn't anyone going to do something about all this?" Tony growled, visibly frustrated.
Alex took a drink and spoke some harsh truths. "It's still a part of America. Just like how we live on a planet where you can't keep only the daylight and wish away the night."
Tony fell silent. After a moment, he downed the rest of his whiskey and asked, "There's one more thing I want to know."
"Go ahead. But I can't promise I'll have an answer."
"My father… Howard. Was he involved in any of this?"
"I'm not sure if you're more afraid that he was involved, or disappointed that he wasn't. But I can tell you the answer—he wasn't."
"Let's put it this way, Tony. These dealings have been around for a long time. Howard was a genius, no doubt. And with that genius, he won the military's favor and amassed considerable wealth. But he still wasn't qualified to join those circles."
Alex added, "I hope that answer doesn't offend you. But it's the truth. Howard was smart, he had resources—but not enough to stand shoulder to shoulder with them.
"Maybe if you take over and keep growing Stark Industries over the next few generations, improving and expanding, then one day—without even applying—you'll be invited into that circle."
"And who are they?" Tony asked.
Raising his glass, Alex listed off calmly, "Whether you've heard of them or not—The Red Shoe Club, The White Robe Society, Freemasons, The Illuminati, Yale's Skull and Bones, Old Money, Blue-Blood Aristocrats, or even Hydra...
"Some are still active, some have vanished into history, others simply went underground. But all of them are just small subsets of a much larger whole—a collective without a name, rituals, or public identity.
"There's no formal gatherings or oaths. But once you reach a certain height, your vision will naturally begin to see that landscape."
"Disgusting," Tony muttered. "They actually think it's an honor to be part of their little club?"
"Of course not everyone wants in," Alex said, following Tony's tone. "That's why they stay in the shadows. They can't become a formal power or organization. That's the only comforting fact in all this."
Just as the two of them were about to continue talking, a servant knocked on the door.
"Young Master Tony, dinner is ready."
Alex finished off his whiskey and said, "That's about all I know. If you want to dig further, you'll have to find the rest of the answers yourself. I don't know anything more."
"Alright. I handpicked tonight's French chef myself. Let's hope his cooking won't disappoint."
At the dining table, Henry and the others had already taken their seats. Since the two new arrivals were men, no one stood up to greet them.
When Katharine Hepburn saw Tony return, she immediately chuckled and said, "Little Tony, where exactly did you meet this friend of yours? He doesn't quite feel like someone a Stark would know."
Her smiling words held a blade. Tony Stark found himself momentarily speechless.
Henry, however, responded with a laugh, "How should I put it… Let's just say our first meeting wasn't exactly a friendly one. Katharine, are you sure you want to hear this kind of story?"
"Oh, unfriendly, huh? That makes it even more worth hearing, doesn't it?" Katharine replied with a grin, eyes fixed on the flustered Tony.
Tony pointed at Henry and said, "You—don't say a word." Then quickly turned to the servant and added, "And you—serve the food, now."
Katharine laughed joyfully. "Anything that can make a Stark man this uncomfortable—I'm dying to hear more."
Tony stubbornly retorted, "There's nothing interesting about it. And besides, I was the one who looked after him. If I hadn't, he'd be dead."
"Oh? Henry, is that true?" Katharine turned to him, asking with interest.
Spreading his hands with a smile, Henry replied, "Absolutely. Just as Mr. Stark said."
It was unwise to get too familiar too quickly. Going around poking fun at someone when the relationship wasn't deep enough only bred resentment. Henry had no desire to offend Tony—though, ironically, this deferential attitude annoyed the younger Stark even more.
Luckily, before Tony could say anything in return, the service team had already brought out the aperitifs, marking the official start of dinner.
Tony downed his glass in one gulp, then gestured for a refill. The cool liquor helped him calm down a bit.
Finally, he said, "I know what you're going to say—that if we'd done nothing, those gunmen would've left on their own. But how were we supposed to know that at the time?"
"Alright, I get it," Katharine said. "But what's this about gunmen? Little Tony, care to fully explain yourself?"
"Oh, hell." Tony felt a chill run down his spine. He'd just spilled something he wasn't supposed to.
He'd had two official stories—one for close acquaintances, saying he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, looking for a place to hide. The other, more public version was full of exaggerated bravado about taking down assassins singlehandedly.
No one expected that version to be true…
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