Tony sat in stunned silence for a long moment, processing everything Smith had just dropped on him.
"I don't know anything about the older generation's grudges," Tony said finally. "But I can verify the facts."
He pulled out his phone, fingers flying across the screen as he accessed Stark Industries' historical archives—databases his father had maintained, patent records, old project files that most people had forgotten existed.
Within minutes, Tony found what he was looking for. His expression shifted from skepticism to uncomfortable acceptance.
"Confirmed," Tony said quietly. "Anton Vanko is listed as co-developer on the original arc reactor patents."
He scrolled further. "And there's a notation here—'Partnership dissolved due to irreconcilable differences regarding application ethics. A.V. removed from project and company roster by H.S. directive.'"
Tony looked up at Smith. "My father really did kick him out. And now his son has successfully miniaturized the reactor independently."
He pocketed his phone. "Alright. Tell me what Ivan wants. Is Vanko Industries going to compete directly with Stark Industries?"
Smith smiled slightly. "I heard the Federal Trade Commission is planning to investigate you for antitrust violations?"
Tony's expression soured. "Yeah, I know about it. Bunch of bureaucrats looking for campaign contributions disguised as regulatory oversight. I'm not paying them off—I'd rather spend that money on lawyers."
His eyes narrowed. "Wait. You're thinking—"
"Exactly," Smith confirmed. "Ivan created a battle suit, though it's relatively simple compared to yours. No missiles, no advanced targeting systems. He wants a public sparring match with you—prove the Vanko name deserves recognition."
Tony's competitive instincts immediately engaged. "What kind of weapons does his suit have?"
"Energy whips," Smith said. "Plasma cutters powered by his arc reactor. Very effective in close combat, can slice through steel, but limited range."
"Limited funding," Smith added. "He built the entire suit with a couple of million he got from selling a Dragon Ball to John."
Tony's eye twitched. He'd spent billions developing Iron Man technology, fought desperately in the Dragon Ball tournament, lost to Selene in the finals. But before that John Wick had casually purchased a Dragon Ball for millions.
The universe had a sick sense of humor.
"Since he doesn't have heavy weapons," Tony said, already strategizing, "I can use my portable suit. That's designed for emergencies, not full combat—should make for a fair fight."
He leaned forward. "Tell me your full plan. For Ivan, for Vanko Industries, all of it."
Smith outlined his vision—Vanko Industries focusing on clean energy systems and domestic robotics. Companion robots for elderly care, medical assistance, household management. No weapons manufacturing, no military contracts, purely civilian applications.
"That addresses the antitrust concerns," Tony noted. "Having a legitimate competitor in energy tech takes pressure off Stark Industries."
"As for Ivan personally," Smith continued, "I'm positioning him as a superhero. The third hero after you and me. He'll fight crime, uphold justice, eventually join the Avengers."
Tony nodded slowly, satisfaction growing. "That's... actually perfect. He gets recognition without destroying anything my father built. I get a competitor that makes the government happy. And we get another Avenger."
"Okay," Tony said decisively. "I accept this arrangement. After the race, we set up our sparring match. And tell Ivan he needs a better codename than 'Vanko'—maybe something with 'whip' in it. We can publicize the fight, use it to launch Vanko Industries properly."
Smith felt genuine gratitude. "You're a good friend, Tony. Helping me like this."
Tony waved dismissively. "You've saved my life multiple times. This is nothing."
But Smith was already planning—Tony's birthday was coming up. Time to give him another gift, something that would actually solve his arc reactor problem permanently.
Hotel de Paris - Monaco
The convoy arrived at Monaco's most prestigious hotel with mounted police escort. The moment the cars stopped, crowds erupted in cheers—tourists and racing enthusiasts recognizing both Tony Stark and the mysterious Smith Doyle.
Tony exited first, soaking in the attention with practiced ease. He addressed Pepper, who'd emerged from her separate vehicle looking slightly annoyed at being separated from him. "This is Europe. Whatever happens here, we let it happen."
Pepper's eyes narrowed. "Let what happen, exactly?"
"And what were you and Smith discussing that required excluding me?" she added pointedly.
Tony spotted Natasha entering the hotel in a striking red dress. "Natalie!" he called out.
She turned, professional smile in place. "Have a good trip, Mr. Stark."
"It's already excellent," Tony replied with his trademark charm.
Smith entered with his own group—Bulma looking excited about her first European trip, John Wick scanning for threats out of habit, and Ivan Vanko taking in the opulence with barely-concealed wonder.
A woman in elegant business attire immediately approached Smith, bowing respectfully. "Welcome, Master Smith."
Smith recognized Rose, a ranking member of the Monaco Assassin Brotherhood. "Are you here for the race?"
Rose shook her head. "I'm not interested in racing. I'm here to serve your needs. If you require anything, please inform me."
"I need a private space," Smith said. "Somewhere we won't be disturbed for a conversation. Can you arrange that?"
"Immediately," Rose confirmed, already gesturing to staff.
Nearby, Pepper was whispering urgently to Tony. "When did you hire her? Natalie, I mean."
Tony's response was deliberately provocative. "You forced me to."
"What did I force you to do?" Pepper's voice rose slightly.
Before their bickering could escalate, Smith intervened smoothly. "Tony, I've got a private room arranged. You and Natalie should join me. We need to discuss something."
Tony nodded, grateful for the interruption. "Natalie, Smith wants to see us."
Natasha followed without hesitation, her training allowing her to mask any curiosity about what Smith Doyle wanted.
Pepper watched them go, concern evident but trusting Smith enough not to object.
Private Conference Room
Rose had arranged a small meeting room off the hotel's main floor—soundproofed, secure, away from the tourist crowds. Smith waited until the door closed before speaking directly.
"Natasha," he said, dropping any pretense, "SHIELD sent you undercover with Tony because of the palladium poisoning situation. Correct?"
"Director Fury ordered me to get close to Tony," she confirmed. "Primary objectives: assess how he's handling the poisoning, and evaluate his suitability for Avengers Initiative membership."
Tony's head snapped toward her. "I'm already a fucking consultant! Now Fury's evaluating whether I'm qualified for the team I'm supposedly advising?"
He looked at Smith. "Does SHIELD have any other missions regarding me?"
Natasha glanced at Smith, who nodded permission. "No. Just those two objectives."
"Though," she added, "I've noticed Mr. Stark doesn't seem particularly bothered by the palladium poisoning anymore. Which suggests treatment has been obtained from... alternate sources."
Tony shrugged. "You'd have to ask your boss about that. Oh wait—" he gestured at Smith "—he's standing right here."
"It's a temporary solution," Smith said. "But significantly more effective than whatever SHIELD was planning to offer."
Natasha filed that information away.
Fury's leverage had evaporated. His carefully constructed plan to recruit Tony through manufactured crisis was worthless.
Tony crossed his arms. "So SHIELD really are a bunch of manipulative bastards. Sending undercover agents to spy on me, planning to swoop in when I was desperate enough to accept their terms."
"Pretty much," Smith agreed. "Which is why having our own intel on their operations is valuable."
He checked his watch. "Alright, now that everyone understands the situation, let's rejoin the party. We're here for racing and relaxation, not intelligence briefings."
The three of them exited the private room. Within minutes, hotel staff had redirected guests to fill the space, erasing any evidence that it had been reserved for private conversation.
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