Chapter 15: Hell's Kitchen Hits Back
Fisk Tower.
Wilson Fisk stood at his office window, cigar in hand, looking down at the chaos unfolding across Hell's Kitchen.
"Quite the evening," he remarked.
"Boss — want me to go handle it?" Bullseye stepped forward, reading the barely contained anger in Fisk's posture.
"No." Fisk didn't turn around. "Send the word out. Every gang in Hell's Kitchen is to dismantle every High Table operation in New York. Whatever they seize, they keep. Whoever contributes the most gets two months' protection fees waived."
He took a slow pull on the cigar.
"The Marquis sent these people, correct? His power base is in France. Contact every ally we have on that side of the Atlantic. Fifteen million dollars to whoever puts him in the ground."
"And one more thing — any Hell's Kitchen resident who brings in a confirmed kill on a High Table operative or anyone under their umbrella: ten thousand per head."
"Copy that, boss." Fisk's people moved immediately.
Fisk clasped his hands behind his back and gazed out at the Hell's Kitchen skyline. "The High Table prides itself on rules. But they came to my neighborhood and didn't follow ours. Time to show them what happens when the rules aren't respected."
· · ·
By the next morning, Hell's Kitchen had heard the news — and lost its collective mind.
Residents raided their closets for hardware, loaded up their cars, and rolled out of the neighborhood like an invading army.
A High Table–affiliated supermarket in Midtown: a crew of tattooed men kicked in the doors, sprayed the ceiling with automatic fire, cleaned out the registers, and torched the place on their way out.
A High Table assassin stepping out of a café in Brooklyn: flattened by a car that didn't even slow down.
Similar scenes played out across the city. And beyond.
· · ·
France — The Marquis's Estate
Gunfire. Explosions. Chaos.
The Marquis scrambled through the halls of his own mansion, flanked by bodyguards, dignity long gone.
"This is — how many waves is this?! Have every mercenary on the continent gone insane?!" He was practically screaming.
"Sir, you're currently worth fifteen million dollars on the open market," one of his guards informed him, ducking behind a marble column. "That kind of bounty will attract every gun-for-hire on earth. I'd expect more incoming."
"This is outrageous! I am one of the Twelve! They'll pay for this — I'll mobilize every High Table assassin and—"
A grenade bounced across the marble floor and rolled to a stop three feet from the Marquis.
He froze.
A bodyguard grabbed him by the collar and hauled him into a sprint. The blast ripped through the hallway behind them. The Marquis glanced back at the fireball, and for the first time in his life, felt genuine fear of a place called Hell's Kitchen.
"Fall back! Cover the Marquis! We need reinforcements!" a guard barked into his earpiece.
And so began the Marquis's days on the run. He kept telling himself that once he survived this wave, it would be over.
He was wrong. The next wave would cost him everything.
· · ·
The Lucky Dragon
Back home, Ethan had more pressing concerns: hiring a cook.
He sat across from a weathered-looking Asian man with a full head of white hair, scanning the résumé in his hands. "Stephen Chow, is it? Why this restaurant?"
"New in town. Looking for a hot meal and a roof." The man shrugged. "Word on the street is you run the safest block around, and the job comes with room and board."
Ethan's eyebrows climbed as he read further. "It says here you won an international culinary championship. So what happened? Why's a chef with credentials like these applying to work at my little hole-in-the-wall?"
"Ha! Ancient history." Stephen Chow waved it off with a self-deprecating laugh. "A real man doesn't dwell on past glories. So — do I get the job?"
"A chef's only as good as his cooking. What's your signature dish?"
"Oh, I've got a few. Buddha Jumps Over the Wall, Imperial Banquet spread — I can do those. But my real specialty?" He paused for effect. "Sorrowful Rice."
"Sorrowful Rice." Ethan leaned forward, genuinely intrigued. "That's one hell of a name for a dish."
He was about to ask for a demonstration when the restaurant door swung open. An unfamiliar older man walked in, with John Wick and Marcus close behind.
Ethan sighed and turned back to Stephen Chow. "You're hired. We'll do the cooking test later. Come back tomorrow — I've got business."
Stephen Chow took the hint and left without complaint. Ethan had no idea what kind of chef had just walked out of his restaurant.
"Ethan, this is Winston — former manager of the New York Continental," John said, making introductions. "Winston, this is Ethan Cross."
Ethan shook the older man's hand. "People don't usually drop by without a reason. What can I do for you, Mr. Winston?"
"I came to find John, originally. I had a plan to help him deal with his current situation." Winston was direct, businesslike. "But he tells me you're handling it. I was curious enough to come see for myself. And — I have a proposal."
Ethan didn't rush. He sat down, produced a tea set, and began brewing. He gestured for everyone to take a seat.
He poured four cups and slid them across the table. "Pu'er. From China. Please."
He took a sip, then continued. "I think I already know what you need. You want to rebuild your Continental."
Winston's eyebrows rose. Before he could respond, Ethan pressed on.
"I know. You all want revenge. I'll deal with the Marquis, and I'll get your Continental back up and running. But—"
Winston understood the pause. "Name your price. If you can get me my hotel and my revenge, money is no object."
Ethan smiled and shook his head. Then he pointed directly at Winston. "I don't want your money. I want you."
The temperature in the room dropped. Winston, John, and Marcus all stiffened, their expressions shifting to something between alarm and confusion.
Ethan saw their faces and nearly choked on his tea. "I'm not — no. I mean your loyalty. You, the Continental, and every resource attached to it. And I want the new Continental built here, in Hell's Kitchen. Your old one's rubble anyway."
Winston went quiet.
Ethan pressed the advantage. "I know what you're worried about — the High Table. I'll handle them. You'll operate freely, no interference. All I need is your allegiance."
"And how exactly do you plan to handle the High Table?" Winston chose his words carefully. "You understand — the Continental can't pledge loyalty to anyone outside the Twelve. That's not my personal reluctance; it's structural. Even if you eliminate the Marquis, others will come."
"The D'Antonio family's New York seat is practically extinct," Ethan said, taking another calm sip of tea. "I replace them. Simple. And if it can't be me personally, Kingpin slots in just fine."
He set down his cup.
"Then we invoke the High Table's own challenge protocol. The terms: a Continental in Hell's Kitchen, under my control."
One of the Twelve seats. Ethan was going to take it, and nothing short of divine intervention was going to stop him.
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