Other than the decision to "hang every last member of the Latverian Royalty," there was little to criticize in the King of Latveria's policies. The advantage of having a wise dictator was that nothing would be delayed for even a moment by shortsighted fools. Salomon had long seen Latveria's political value and had unhesitatingly ordered public executions, sparing no one from legitimate sons to bastards. Aside from those too young, whom Salomon kept at his side for training—though in truth they were sent into the Praetorian Guard's modification chambers—or handed over to the Sisterhood, the clean, decisive massacre completely prevented a host of potential future troubles, such as the absurd discovery of some "royal bastard living in exile" in a valley somewhere. Latveria had no vacant-eyed reporters hired by rival powers and no swarm of stupid questions, so no one cared what happened after the Latverian Royalty were executed. "What is going on with you?" Natasha Romanoff circled a finger in the air. "Your power?"
Salomon knew what she meant.
"This is my essence, my soul. I accepted that fact long ago, but I rarely show it. From the current situation, it seems this condition will soon ease, though I don't particularly like that." He made a joke, then poured Natasha a coffee vodka made with an espresso capsule from the capsule coffee machine, suitable for after a meal. "If you drink a little more, you'll understand it better. Sometimes I find this ability rather annoying."
Natasha took the nearly frozen drink but did not press further. If Salomon wanted to tell her, he would have done so long ago.
"Experience it in the hot tub?"
"Of course. There are still several hours before the meeting begins. You can get some proper rest."
The meeting had not affected the lives