Wealth Is Power! (Marvel Comics)

A hum of dulled tone filled my penthouse, staring out at the pulsating veins of New York. A thin hint of sunlight peeked through the blackout curtains. Just another nice day in paradise. The slight popping of my joints reminded me that while my body may feel young, but my mind? It had carried lifetimes.
My phone buzzed on my bedside table. Not an alarm-those were for people with bosses. This was the first notification from the social media team, reminding me I had to play happy face for Steel Industries today.
Social media. Christ. The old me would have scoffed at the idea, but times changed and with them so did strategy. If I wanted to run the most corrupt, efficient criminal empire in this world, I needed a halo shining so bright it'd blind the world from the dirt under my fingernails.
I climbed out of bed, freshened up, put on a robe that was tailored, and waddled my way to the kitchen. My housekeeper nodded at my approach and gave me an espresso. "Morning, Mr. Steele."
"Morning, Maria," I replied with a thin, quick smile. She earned one-the woman ran my life smoothly after all.
I sipped the espresso as I made my way toward the home office; the rich, bitter taste was what woke me. The office was spotless-looking, with a fancy desk, more monitors, and a huge Steele Industries logo cut into the wall. The laptop was opened, streaming notifications across the screen.
"Alright, let's see what the kids are up to today," I whispered, relaxing my weight into the chair. My fingers danced across the keyboard as I pulled up the company's official Instagram, Twitter and Tiktok which was basically all me.
"Good morning, sir!" a peppy little voice chimed in through the speakers. Emily-the social media coordinator-she's bright-eyed, saw something in me, a millennial-type girl who could possibly make me into a brand or something.
"Morning, Emily. What's the plan?"
"The new corporate philanthropy video is ready to go online in an hour. It showcases the wing we've just funded in a hospital last month. I need a quick selfie video, telling people how much it means to give back."
I groaned inwardly but forced a smile. "Fine. Get the caption written, and I'll do that. Anything else?"
"There's this one tweet from a random guy saying that Steele Industries were exploiting workers in Southeast Asia. We can just leave it if you want, but I think it's better for you to respond. It might show how well you take criticism."
This was the land of social media, where anyone with a keyboard thought they could spar with titans. "I'll think about it. Send me his profile."
Emily's chirpy "You got it!" was followed by the line going dead.
I stood, took my phone, and moved toward the window, where the light was just right. I turned on the camera, putting on that half-thoughtful, half-approachable billionaire expression.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I'm Simon Steele," I said, allowing my tone to drip with warmth, sincerity—practice. "Here at Steele Industries, we're committed to building a better tomorrow. Which is why I'm proud to dedicate the Steele Children's Wing of Mercy General. Together we can make a difference."
I stopped it, played it back, and forwarded the video to Emily with a one-word message: "Post."
I clicked onto the Twitter profile of this character that was slamming my company. His handle was something puerile-"TruthWarrior82"-and he used a stock photo of a clenched fist for a profile picture. Cute.
His tweet went like this: "Steele Industries = modern-day slave drivers. Hides behind charity but exploits workers in third-world countries. #BoycottSteele."
I laughed sardonically. "Alright, Warrior, let's play."
I typed a response, careful to sound indignant yet professional at the same time:
"At Steele Industries, we pride ourselves on our ethical practices. If you have any concerns, please send a message with the details. We take accusations like this very seriously. DM me."
It was vague, ambiguous, and made me appear as a sympathetic CEO. Just what I needed.
Maria appeared in the doorway. "Breakfast, sir?"
"Not now, Maria." I waved her off, my attention to the notifications already coming in. The people were sure retweeting my reply to their praises for transparency.
"Simon Steele for President," one had said.
My lips curled into a smile. Social media was more than just a tool; it was also a weapon.
Today was going to be a good day. Dominic Fortunov was soon going to be nothing but a memory, like dust that the wind blows away. After that I was off to Los Angeles to meet my stepdaughter, and see the Iron Monger suit that I had managed to scavenge. But before the fun could begin, there were a few things I needed to do.
Maria had given me breakfast—eggs, toast, bacon, the usual. She was really great at making sure I kept up with appearance. Whatever I had left of my "humanity" to go with corruption empire. I was eating in silence like I was about to go off to a war and die for real. But I didn't feel nervous at all, just the anticipation. Dominic was like an itch you just can't quite scratch. The old Simon would've played with him, tried to make him beg, let him stew in his own misery. But that person was not me. I was done with the theatrics. The new Simon didn't have time for games.
The instant I was done, I rinsed off and stepped in front of my long mirror. The same yet different face stared back at me: white suit, ice-blue eyes, white hair slicked back; all polished, a facade. Beneath the veneer lay the Simon Steele still, but more control now, more power. Today was going to remind Dominic that no power in heaven or hell would stand in my way.
I reached into the drawer and grabbed my handgun, cold steel that seemed to remind me words carried only so far. I looked at the clip, verified it was fully loaded, then inserted it back into the holster under my jacket. The click sounded almost gratifying-been a promise.
"Maria," I called as I headed out the door. She had that look of something to say, but I didn't give her the opportunity.
"Take care of things here. I'm out."
"Yes, sir," she replied with never a flicker of emotional expression. That's why I liked her. Efficient. A good asset.
I left the apartment, stepped out into the cool, early morning air of the city. The street was starting to fill with the usual amalgam of business types, tourists, and the occasional bum, but all this was beyond me; I was going to rid myself of a problem, and Dominic had no idea what he was walking into.
The engine was silent. My car moved through the intersections like it wasn't of this world as these shitboxes surrounding me. I almost felt the engine's heat buzzing beneath me, like a heartbeat. It was not, however, the car that made my thoughts agile; it was Dominic. And then suddenly, old times come into mind, from back in the war. He was always there, a thorn in my side, always managing to foil my plans. But that was before I had become… Well, me.
I parked in a quiet spot near the warehouse where I knew Dominic would be. It was a crummy joint, too close to the docks for my taste. It stank of desperation and forgotten crimes of years past. Just what I needed. I stepped out and felt the gun weight at my hip. My team was in place-two at the front and two at the back-already knowing the routine.
I stepped inside, the creaking of the old floorboards beneath my feet echoing. Dark, it was, as if it hadn't been opened in decades. Voices echoed from far within the rooms-Dominic and his imbecile friends whom I was waiting for them to leave. I stretched my smile just a little.
"Alright, boys," I told my team, "This ends today."
I stepped closer to the voices, the echo of my footsteps loud and pulsating in the silence. Well-trained men moved without hesitation and in complete, deadly silence-we moved smoothly, very well-oiled machinery. No place for mistakes whatsoever.
We swung around the corner, and there he was-Dominic Fortunov. The man hadn't aged well. The hulking figure that used to cut an imposing figure now looked frail: an old dog past his prime. Still, I knew better than to underestimate him. He'd survived worse in the comics.
He froze at my appearance; his eyes narrowed, and his face contorted in a sneer as he tried to act cool. "Steele," he sneered, "knew it was only some time before you came crawling back; you always were a coward, even back then."
I smiled, my breath steady. "No, Dominic. I'm not crawling somewhere. I am ending what we started. Once and for all."
"You think you can just—"
I did not let him continue. I whipped my gun out, in a silky smooth motion, firing all of the rounds in that magazine into his chest. There had been no heroics, no speech to lead in, just the absolute finality of a bullet.
His body jerked back, but he didn't fall immediately. He staggered, gasping for breath, clutching his hands at the wound as if somehow he could staunch it. He could not. Not this time.
"You should have kept out of my way, Dominic," I growled, and watched as the life bled from him.
His eyes danced with something-some flash of fear, some realization, even regret-but it mattered little. I didn't care to hear his sad story.
"Finish it," I told one of my men, nodding toward the body.
One of them stepped forward now, a large man, heavy-jawed, wordlessly dragging Dominic's body across the room to its corner. I didn't have time for his death to be anything less than permanent. The old Simon would have perhaps allowed for some give in case of a mistake; I wasn't that man. I had no time for complications.
"Sever the head. Remove the heart," I said coldly.
The men wasted no time in working efficiently and swiftly, like it was just another tuesday. In the business I ruled, this was not novelty; it was necessity.
We wrapped up the pieces when the job was done, his head and his heart, and threw them in a bag. A little afterward, the rest of his body followed suit, as the river swallowed him like a beast. He wouldn't be found. Not ever. No one would come looking for Dominic Fortunov.
Perhaps his son Jerry would, but I had rewritten the story well in time before his son could be dragged into his father's mess with me.
As the ripples extended further across the water, the weight in my chest loosened. He was a problem that might well have ended everything in my struggle to be Simon Steele; he is gone.
Time to go to Los Angeles.
* * *
The private jet hummed gently through the air as it cut the sky, its sleek lines a symbol of power and privilege. I reclined in my leather seat nursing a tumbler of scotch, lost in thought, with the drink a silky smooth variant of the one I didn't see at the ordinary bar around, aged, and expensive, as is everything else these days.
Dominic was gone, dead. No body to recover, no loose ends to tie up, or rather, none to begin with. I'd seen to it. But my mind wasn't on him anymore. It had already moved ahead, already began planning out my next course of action. The Iron Monger suit. Years since I'd even thought of it, but now… It seemed like a thread just begging to be tied in with something much greater.
The old Simon Steele was an idiot, especially in the comics. He handed a weapon like that to a grunt who can't even get close to touching Iron Man, and this was all to kill Dominic which he failed at. A pathetic guy. It made sense though, Steele was old and couldn't function the suit well, but now I was young. With that suit, that's not something anyone else could use. That is a trump card for when the time calls for it.
I swirled the scotch in my glass, my eyes considering the clouds outside the window. A couple of hours away to the south lay Los Angeles. My estate there was one of my favorites-not because it was the biggest, though it was massive, but for its seclusion. A fortress masquerading as a mansion, its security detail composed of soldier-like men who'd jump in front of a bullet without hesitation if that's what it took to keep me safe.
And then there was Elena.
She was not my daughter by right, but in every other aspect, she'd matured under my roof since Heinrich's death. My late brother's little girl, now all grown up. A vision-she was beautiful, sharp, and as ruthless as I had made her be. She was raised as an extension of my will, a person that I could trust without worry. But now she has become more. The thought her made me hard as fuck.
These things still needed finesse, though. I wasn't some drooling moron who lost all control. Manipulation was an art, and I was an artist. Elena trusted me, admired me; after years of careful grooming, I'd set her up to be the perfect weapon. Now I'd make her into something more: my cocksleeve. Elena was no longer my stepdaughter to me but just another woman.
The pilot's voice dominated the plane as it came on the intercom. "Mr. Steele, we're beginning our descent into Los Angeles. Shouldn't be more than thirty minutes."
My scotch was done and before I placed the glass cup down. "Good. Let me know when we're on the ground."
The driver drew up in the curving driveway of the estate, its iron gates opening as it saw the car. There were armed guards at the entrance, flanking it with faces of granite-hard expression. As I emerged, they straightened, eyes resting on me a fraction longer than was polite. It was the same everywhere I went nowadays-people couldn't help but stare at the transformation.
"Mr. Steele," one of them began, a hint of awe in his voice. "Good to have you back, sir."
I nodded curtly. "Everything in order?"
"Yes, sir. The estate is secure."
"Good." I wasted no time on small talk. All these men to me were people with jobs to do, and that did not include small talk.
Inside, it was a surefire reminder of how immaculate I had left the estate: polished sci-fi-like floors to shine like glass, chandeliers twinkling bright as diamonds, and that palest whisper of lavender in the air. It was the type of place to make people feel small, insignificant. Just the way I liked it.
As I entered the sci-fi living room, Elena awaited. She was dressed to the nines in an elegant black dress that hugged her curves with dazzling stilettos that must have added at least a few inches to her stature. Her makeup was flawless, drawing attention to her sculptured features. Delicately pinned back, her black hair revealed a slender neck and collarbone. She was everything that I had taught her to be: graceful, assured, and deadly.
"Uncle Simon," she said, with the same uneven grin, but the eyes remained dim. And she called me that, although we both knew very well how nature connected us was far from blood. "Welcome back,"
"Elena," I said. My voice sounded like honey and jasmine, smooth but contained. "You're lovely as always."
She arched an eyebrow at me. "You're shining. LA does suit you, I presume?
I chortled, moving close. "Something like that. How have things been here? Any problems I should know about?"
"None. Everything's running smoothly. Your men are efficient, and I've been keeping an eye on the finances, as you asked."
I was pleased. "Good. I knew I could count on you."
She smirked pridefully. "Of course. You taught me well."
I continued to look at her for longer than what I should have done, my lips curving a little in a smile. She didn't move away from the intensity of my stare like she never does. That was another thing I like about her; unshakeable, unbreakable. She was mine to keep, though she had not realized that yet, I think.
"I am glad to hear it," I finally replied, my voice a little softer. "Why don't you join me for dinner tonight? We have a lot to discuss."
She raised one eyebrow, yet nodded. "I'd like that. What's on your mind?"
"Business, for the most part. We will get into that later, though. Right now, let's just savor this evening."
She smiled now, her demeanor having changed somewhat. "Alright, Uncle Simon. I'll see you at dinner."
She walked away, her big ass keeping my little guy up, and I was already ahead in my brain, thinking about how I could get my hands on Elena. Though I needed caution, it was probably easy. Elena was one loyal type that I needed something more from. I needed her to be mine in every sense of the word, and I knew what that meant.
I poured myself another drink, supporting myself on the marble counter and thinking about things to come. Dominic was out of the way, the Iron Monger suit was in my hands as a trump card, and Elena... well I already knew where she fitted into things hereafter. She was far from a famous marvel character, and with The Wealth System, my metaknowledge, & especially my youth, well I had no need for her anymore outside sexual use.
Step by step.