Ryan's trust in Frank Castle wasn't misplaced.
First of all, Frank had no choice. If he wanted to protect his wife and children, he had to join a faction. It wasn't about loyalty—it was about survival.
And secondly, Frank wasn't someone obsessed with power. He didn't care about hierarchy or ambition. He cared about results.
Besides, Ryan had long since taken precautions.
Every member of the Sullivan Family—his organization—had a mental imprint of absolute loyalty implanted through his mind-control spell.
As for whether Frank would secretly contact the authorities? Ryan didn't even worry about that.
Frank wasn't stupid. His nature made him allergic to the system. The government had failed him once, and he'd never make that mistake again.
The Sullivan Family's Standing
Among the thirteen most powerful gangs in Hell's Kitchen, the Sullivan Family was… different.
They specialized in undertaker work and industrial cleaning—jobs that kept their hands dirty but their records relatively clean. They rarely touched drugs or trafficking.
That had been the case since Ryan's "cheap" grandfather's time.
After building wealth, the family focused on buying property, hoarding land, and occasionally running nightclubs or bars.
They kept a low profile, quietly turning their underworld money into legitimate assets.
Even when Ryan's parents were alive, the family had tried several times to go clean and leave the criminal world behind.
Hell, even Matt Murdock—Daredevil himself—had once acted as their defense attorney.
Compared to the other vicious gangs, the Sullivans existed in a strange gray zone—half black, half white, but never fully evil.
For someone like Frank, who still had a moral bottom line buried beneath the blood, joining the Sullivan Family was the best option available.
After Frank left, Ryan didn't linger on it emotionally. He simply returned to the underground palace and resumed his cultivation.
Just because he'd reached perfection in Qi Cultivation didn't mean he couldn't improve further.
The Heaven River True Method was unique—it could continuously absorb spiritual energy even when the practitioner had hit a bottleneck.
The energy would purify and condense his magic endlessly, reinforcing his foundation and expanding his potential.
Ryan wasn't about to waste a single minute. The Marvel Universe was a cosmic minefield. Disaster after disaster.
And he wasn't planning to become collateral damage when some world-ending threat dropped by.
Especially not when the purple sweet potato with a god complex—Thanos—was destined to come knocking.
Ryan had already come to view Earth as his own domain. If possible, he'd rather erase that threat before Thanos ever set foot on the planet.
But that kind of plan demanded terrifying strength.
So, Ryan cultivated harder.
Meanwhile, Frank followed the address Ryan had given him and arrived at a lively bar in downtown New York.
After flashing the credentials Ryan provided, a mid-level enforcer led him through a hidden door into a back room.
Technically, it was more of a warehouse—and what a warehouse it was.
Weapons stacked from floor to ceiling. From M1911 pistols to Barrett sniper rifles, from Gatling guns to anti-tank rocket launchers—everything short of a damn tank was here.
Even a veteran like Frank blinked in disbelief.
This… this was enough firepower to equip a small military unit.
"Jesus," he muttered under his breath. "What kind of gang is this?"
The small leader chuckled, clearly amused. "Pretty wild, huh? Our Sullivan Family is one of New York's big thirteen. We might've fallen a little in recent years, but our foundation? Rock solid."
He grinned. "Boss trusts you. Said you've got full clearance. Take whatever you need, no questions asked."
Frank raised an eyebrow. The way these guys talked about Ryan—with genuine respect and even admiration—was unexpected.
The man introduced himself as Owen, a sharp-eyed Irish-American with a streetwise edge.
Seeing Frank's skeptical look, Owen lowered his voice.
"Look, buddy, don't be so surprised. Since you're one of the boss's picks, I'll give you a little hint."
"Boss isn't an ordinary man. He's got… power. The kind that makes the rest of us think twice."
He smirked. "Stick around. Do your job right, and the rewards? They'll blow your mind."
Frank didn't reply. He just gave a noncommittal grunt and turned back to the weapons.
A few minutes later, Owen nearly had a heart attack.
Frank was loading enough gear to invade a small country—vests, grenades, rifles, shotguns, and more—stuffed into a military duffel that could barely close.
"Jesus Christ!" Owen cursed. "Man, do you know what you're doing?"
Frank just gave him that deadpan Punisher stare.
"We're hitting a small street-level crew, not going to damn Iraq!"
Owen threw his hands up. "Hell, don't go through the front, you'll scare the customers! Use the back door—vehicles are ready."
Forty minutes later, near a quiet Brooklyn villa overlooking the Hudson River, a black van came to a stop.
Inside, seven or eight armed men sat tensely, glancing at Frank, who rested with his eyes closed.
Finally, Owen broke the silence. "Man, we're at the target. You're in charge tonight…"
Before he could finish, Frank's eyes snapped open—cold, sharp, and unblinking.
Owen immediately shut up.
Frank checked his weapons, then said flatly,
"I'll take point. You seven form a perimeter and provide suppressive fire. I'll handle everyone inside."
"Twenty minutes after breach, call in the clean-up crew."
"We pull out at thirty. Operation ends in one hour, tops."
The men exchanged nervous glances.
It wasn't a plan—it was an execution order.
And Frank Castle was about to deliver it personally.