Chapter 40: Humbled Before the Door
Hell's Kitchen — The day of the meeting.
Fisk Tower's main entrance looked like a luxury car dealership had exploded. Rolls-Royces, Bentleys, Maybachs — all lined up along the curb, engines still ticking in the cold.
Every gang boss had arrived with an entourage, but Ethan's rules were clear: one escort per boss inside the building. No exceptions. The conference room was large, but not large enough to hold every trigger-happy lieutenant in Hell's Kitchen — and frankly, the rule existed to prevent an indoor firefight as much as anything else.
The excluded bodyguards clustered across the street, armed and visibly unhappy, watching the entrance like hawks.
"What's going on today?" A Black woman from the neighborhood stopped to stare at the parade of luxury vehicles. "I haven't seen this many big shots at Fisk Tower since... ever."
In Hell's Kitchen, a flashy car meant the owner was either powerful or about to lose that car by morning. Ordinary people didn't drive Maybachs around here and keep them.
"Word is, every gang in the Kitchen got called in for a meeting by that young man who runs the Lucky Dragon — Ethan Cross." A well-informed Asian woman standing nearby filled her in. "Something about opening a community school."
"A school? Well, that's wonderful! I think I saw that Ethan boy once when he was little — he's one of the only kids from the Kitchen who actually went to college, isn't he?"
"And now he's made something of himself and he's still thinking about us. I heard the blocks around his restaurant are the safest streets in the whole neighborhood. If I had the money, I'd move over there in a heartbeat." The Black woman's face lit up.
"If you had money, you wouldn't be living in Hell's Kitchen at all — you'd be gone," her friend replied.
"But I don't think this is going to be easy for him." The Asian woman's expression clouded. "Look at all those gang bosses out there — they're here to fight him on this. It's a shame. We old folks want to support the boy, but what can we do?"
The Black woman's face hardened. "Those gang animals should rot in hell. My grandson — he wasn't even fifteen — got caught in a gang crossfire. Lost his life for nothing. They should drop a bomb on every last one of them!"
The Asian woman's eyes went wide. She clamped a hand over her friend's mouth, glanced around frantically to make sure no gang members had overheard, and dragged her away from the area at speed.
Security was tight. The two streets flanking the tower had been completely sealed off — only invited guests carrying Ethan's invitation were allowed through. Five security guards manned the entrance alongside metal detectors and screening equipment. Every person entering was checked for weapons.
"What the hell is this?" One boss stopped at the checkpoint, bristling. "You're not letting us carry? I showed up — that should be enough respect. Since when can't a man bring a gun to his own meeting?"
"Yeah, what gives? No guns, no entry? Then we're not going in."
"How are we supposed to protect ourselves?!"
The complaints spread fast, bosses feeding off each other's indignation.
Bullseye — running security today — raised a hand for silence.
"Gentlemen, this is for your protection. If some people are armed and others aren't, that's an unfair situation for everyone. I give you my word — on behalf of Mr. Fisk — that every person who walks into this building today will walk out alive."
The mention of Fisk's name tamped down the worst of it. Most bosses grudgingly submitted to the screening.
Most. Not all.
One boss walked straight past the checkpoint. "I'm not getting scanned. What are you going to do about it?"
Bullseye produced a pen from somewhere — nobody saw where — and flicked it.
The pen whistled through the air like it had eyes of its own and punched clean through the man's hand.
"AHHHHH!" The boss clutched his punctured hand, screaming.
"I could have killed you," Bullseye said, his tone as casual as if he were commenting on the weather. "I didn't, because today is Ethan's event and I'm being polite. If there's a next time, it won't be your hand. It'll be your head."
The boss didn't say another word. He fled to his bodyguards to get the wound bandaged.
Every remaining boss in line watched this happen. The security screening suddenly felt very reasonable.
Bullseye surveyed the newly cooperative crowd and smiled. "Our organization doesn't like violence. As long as everyone cooperates, I guarantee nothing bad happens. You'll all leave this building safe and sound. Harmony breeds prosperity, as they say."
The reactions in the crowd varied — some sneered, some trembled, some kept their faces blank — but every last one of them handed over their weapons.
Bullseye's talent was innate: the ability to turn any object in his hands into a projectile of impossible accuracy. His résumé included slitting a throat with a playing card, spitting out a tooth hard enough to pierce a skull, throwing a paper airplane onto a distant rooftop, and killing a man from a hundred yards away with a toothpick through a window.
Nobody wanted to test him further.
The screening was proceeding smoothly when five ragged figures came stumbling toward the tower entrance — homeless men, lurching and staggering, heading straight for the front door.
The guards spotted them immediately. Weapons came up.
"Stop! This area is restricted!"
The five men didn't slow down. They kept running, dead-eyed and desperate.
As the distance closed, the guards saw it clearly: faces twisted with terror, the hollow look of men who knew they were about to die — and the unmistakable outline of bomb wiring protruding from their clothing.
"BOMBS! DEFENSIVE POSITIONS! PROTECT THE GUESTS!"
The guards opened fire, targeting legs only.
Inside, Bullseye heard the shots and calmly ushered the gang bosses deeper into the building — away from the entrance, orderly, no panic.
The five men went down, but the timers on their vests kept counting.
Guards scrambled to pile sandbags around the fallen bombers, trying to contain the blast radius. But the five bodies were too spread apart — not enough sandbags, not enough time. The guards pulled back.
"Goddamn it — this is your security?!"
"RUN!"
"I knew Ethan was up to something — this whole thing was a setup to kill us all!"
The gang bosses inside erupted in fury and panic.
BOOM.
The explosion ripped through the street.
But the building — nothing. Not a crack. Not a tremor. The bosses looked around, confused. If they hadn't heard the blast with their own ears, they'd have thought the whole thing was a prank.
They exchanged bewildered glances.
"Gentlemen — my apologies for the scare." Ethan walked calmly into the lobby, hands in his pockets. Beside him were Vongola Primo and Caine. "The situation has been handled. The bombs have been neutralized."
The bosses stared at each other. Questions ricocheted through the room. Had the bombs been real? If so, how had the building survived without a scratch? Had Ethan used some kind of power?
And if he had — if he could neutralize explosives with a wave of his hand — then what good was any weapon against him?
A new kind of wariness crept into several sets of eyes.
"Please proceed to the conference room," Ethan said. "The meeting will begin shortly."
He turned and walked toward the elevator without waiting for a response.
Behind him, a hallway full of gang bosses watched him go — some with fear, some with suspicion, and some with barely contained rage.
☆☆☆
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