A/N: I claim no ownership of any copy rited material(s).

Fisk had better be right about this guy, Bullseye thought as he paced the reception area of the Montesano business complex. The secretary eyed him nervously as he strode from one corner of the waiting room to the other. The door to his possible employer's office opened, and a nondescript man of about forty stepped out and looked at him with obvious condescension. Bullseye only gave him an unimpressed once-over and a sneer. Have I seen that prick before? He wondered to himself. He was almost certain he had, but his features were so unremarkable that Bullseye really could not tell.

He looked over at the secretary with arched eyebrows. "Um…go ahead in," she said, avoiding eye contact with him.

"Thank ye." He mumbled, and turned his back on her, walking into Montesano's office without knocking.

The man behind the desk was dressed in a dark, pinstriped suit that screamed money and power. However, his posture did not. He was huddled over paperwork, with his elbows on the desk. His salt and pepper hair was disheveled with several locks hanging over his furrowed brow, and it was not until Bullseye less than inconspicuously cleared his throat that he acknowledged the assassin.

"Bullseye," Daniel Montesano said, taking in the darkly-clad younger man.

Bullseye touched several fingers to the scar on his forehead and made a slight bow. "Aye," he said, managing a grin that was really more of a leer.

"Have a seat, if you like." Montesano offered. He regarded Bullseye as the hit man considered the offer, but chose to remain standing.

"You came highly recommended by Wilson Fisk. I need someone who is unaffiliated with any of my company's…goings-on." Montesano said as he opened a desk drawer, withdrew a folder, and set it on the desk, sliding it over to Bullseye who, after a moment picked it up and tucked it under his left arm and then waited for his host to continue.

"Everything you need to know about your job is in the folder. My daughter, Lark, has been given a contract on this man." Bullseye scratched the stubble on his chin and allowed his gaze to wander. Despite the fact that the color scheme of Montesano's office was predominantly cold, Bullseye noted the pictures that adorned the walls. In one was a child of perhaps seven with auburn hair and huge, blue eyes standing by a garden of roses. (He was reminded of Fisk. Stupid roses, he thought.) In another photo was a young woman who had to be the same person as the child in the other picture, only aged by about a decade. She sat astride a dappled stallion, holding a first-prize ribbon, and grinning broadly. He allowed his dark eyebrows to arch slightly. Bullseye found himself wondering how this girl had been raised. What would make her want to become a killer? There was a familiarity in this. Although he wanted to believe the girl to be a spoiled brat who needed her ass beaten a few times, it would be a long time before he'd forget another beauty and rival assassin who showed him a great fight.

"I'm willing to pay you fifty grand for you to get to him before she does." Though he tried to remain un-astounded, Bullseye blinked. He liked that number. He nodded, and turned to walk out, but stopped when Montesano said, "Wait."

Bullseye halted, though it was certainly not customary for him to respond to anyone's command. He turned to see Montesano standing –he was actually taller than Bullseye had initially thought –with a pleading expression on his face. Bullseye was unable to keep his mouth from grinning ever so slightly. Wait was not a command directed at him; Montesano was begging.

"Yeah?" Bullseye asked casually.

"I also need you to assure that my daughter is returned to my estate safely. She's been away for the past few days and it was only by pure luck that I found out what was going to happen. She can't fall into that business. I…"

"I'm not in the baby-sittin' business, Mr. Montesano. I'll do the guy for thirty thousand, but…"

"You didn't let me finish." Montesano said patiently. "In addition to fifty thousand for the kill, I will pay you another fifty thousand for Lark's safe return."

Bullseye shifted his weight form one foot to the other, taking into consideration the job description. It wasn't like he needed the money, but one hundred large would be a pretty chunk of change to have. So what if half the money wasn't earned from having put an end to a life? It would probably be the easiest money he had made in a while. He'd kill his target, return the girl to her father's side then be on his way back to New York.

"A'right." He said, taking one last look at the photographs of Lark Montesano.

Daniel Montesano watched Bullseye exit his office as he wondered (ironically) to himself just what kind of assassin Wilson Fisk had sent to him. Most he dealt with were chameleons, able to come and go, indistinguishable from any other Joe on the street. Not this man, though. No, his dark clothes, and piercings; his entire persona was meant for one thing: intimidation. Then there was that unnerving glint in his dark eyes. Daniel shuddered inwardly. This mad man was supposed to save his daughter?

Hopefully Lark would be back in her rightful home soon. There was no time to bring in anybody else. If she succeeded, Lark would only be endangering herself. How could she not see this? Reseating himself, he swiveled his leather chair to look at the picture of his daughter standing by her mother's rose garden. She'd been six years old and Celia had enlisted their daughter's help in pruning her flowers. Lark had seized one of the flowers by the stem, and promptly found out that there were more to roses than just the beauty of the crimson petals. Celia had comforted her, cleaning the blood from Lark's tiny hands and instructing her in how to better handle the treacherous blooms.

The groundskeepers had taken over Celia's garden after she died the winter after that picture was taken. His wife had left them and he watched his daughter grow into a far wilder rose than her mother had been. Lark had gained her mother's beauty and intelligence, but there was an odd detachment about his daughter that he blamed himself for. After he died she could, take over his business. He did not doubt that his daughter had the ability to so, but he would not allow it. He had already set aside provisions so that she would not have to worry about finances. She could live her life and be relatively untouched by his…business. If Celia were alive, none of this would have happened, he thought weakly to himself.

Running a hand through his graying hair, he sighed and returned to his paperwork. He was not looking forward to sitting through a board meeting and listening to proposals. Perhaps that evening he would go to his stable. When he went there anymore, it was to impress prospective clients; it had been a long time since he had gone there just for the hell of it. Maybe he would even be joined by his daughter. In the back of his mind, Daniel wondered if Bullseye's namesake scar had been self-inflicted.

Lark fastened her dagger into the sheath that was hidden beneath her red spaghetti strap shirt that fit her tightly enough to be appealing to the opposite sex and yet loosely enough to conceal her weapon. She watched herself in the full-length mirror as she did so. She'd done her make up, braided her hair and even took more than two minutes to assemble an outfit. All of this for a guy I'm gonna kill, she thought with a slight smile. She guided a belt through the belt loops of her black jeans which were comfortable and would be fairly easy to run in should events go awry. Inspecting her appearance in the mirror, she refrained from striking any action hero-esque poses. Her azure eyes were intelligent, her features sharp. She felt awkward in these clothes. In the back of her mind, she wondered if she had accessorized well enough. Though her body may have been small, she knew she could defend herself; of that she was confident.

She would let Salazar Gianatiempo take her out to dinner and maybe a movie and once the time was right…what was she going to do again? Oh, yeah, she thought, the old knife-through-the-heart. She could do it; she'd done it before; the only difference was, this time it would be for a profit. She suddenly felt cold.

She rehearsed her plan in her mind, taking her mind off of other unfortunate events. She would meet Gianatiempo at his restaurant, Magdalena's (It was a place she would have dined at regularly if her business had been different. The restaurant, which was popular among the locals, was casual and had the best chicken parmesan she'd ever tasted.), and would allow herself to be dragged through a 'date' until she would get him alone. Unfortunately for him, it wouldn't be the 'alone time' she would lead him to believe it would be. After her dagger had produced the desired effect, she would gather the belongings from the hotel then relocate to New York. She knew her home at her father's estate would not be uprooted. Her mother's touch on the interior design of the house, her mother's clothing, and other belongings had not been moved or modified in any way by her father in the sixteen years since her death. Lark was unsure whether or not she would return there, but knowing she could was everything.

Grabbing her black, leather Louis Viton purse from the bed in her hotel room, she walked toward the door and then repositioned herself in front of the mirror. Should I have gone tanning? Then thought: Nah.

Standing in the hotel room he had checked into under the name 'Benjamin Poindexter,' Bullseye looked at the quarter-sized scars on each of his hands, trying to remember the pain, yet somehow, he couldn't.

He sat on the twin bed in his hotel room reading over the dossier Montesano had provided him with. Salazar Gianatiempo had deep connections with the mob and…Blah, blah, blah, Bullseye thought, learning your opponent is necessary, no doubt, but offing this Mafioso moron is gonna be far too easy. His mark had nothing to bring to the game. The part about Lark Montesano was far more interesting. As well as being a gorgeous young woman, she was a sixth degree black belt and, like himself –though, to a much lesser degree, he was sure –an accomplished marksman. Bullseye wondered if it was truly Lark Montesano's career choice that distressed her father to such a degree that he would shell out one hundred big ones just to keep her from killing a man who was probably in competition with his business anyway. Could it really be a father's love? Bullseye thought to himself with a dry, sarcastic chuckle.

In the folder, Montesano specifically stated that he was under no circumstances to use any drugs or unnecessary physical force. Perhaps this would present more of a challenge than he originally thought.