Chapter 41: Bastards Living in Hell
Inside the conference room of Fisk Tower.
The decor was opulent without being warm — luxury wrapped in cold steel and dark stone. Around the oval conference table sat the gang bosses of Hell's Kitchen, and every face told a different story. Some were grim. Some were sly. Some were carved from pure cruelty.
Their eyes had the same quality as a winter wind off the East River — sharp enough to draw blood.
They wore suits cut from every imaginable fabric — silk smooth as water, wool pressed into perfect lines — each ensemble announcing its owner's particular taste. But no amount of expensive tailoring could quite scrub off where these men had come from. The Hell's Kitchen stayed under the silk.
When the door opened and Ethan walked in, the air in the room solidified.
He moved without hurry to the far end of the table and sat at the head. Then he simply looked around the room, letting his gaze settle on each man for a moment before moving on.
Eyes met his. Eyes slid away. Whatever was in their faces — wariness, curiosity, contempt, even a flicker of surprise at the sheer audacity of this kid sitting at the head of the table — none of them held his stare.
The tension in the room cranked up another notch. Every man at the table seemed to be silently counting down to whatever came next.
Fisk apparently had no objection at all to Ethan taking the head seat. He'd settled into the chair to Ethan's right, content to let the kid run the show.
When the moment felt right, Fisk raised a hand for quiet.
"Thank you all for showing me the courtesy of being here today. I won't take up your time — this isn't my meeting."
"As most of you already know, my godson Ethan is the one who called you together. I'll let him speak for himself."
Ethan leaned forward.
"Gentlemen — fellow bastards living in hell. Welcome."
His voice was low and resonant, the kind that pulled attention without effort.
The room exploded.
"What did you just call us?"
"Is this what you brought us here for? To insult us?"
"Who the hell do you think you are, talking to us like that?"
Ethan let it wash over him, calmly scanning the room. The only two faces that remained composed were Tom Ralph of the Irish gang and Tommy Shelby of the Peaky Blinders.
"Am I wrong?" Ethan said when the noise died down. "Look at yourselves. Show me one man at this table who could pass for a respectable citizen."
Tom Ralph cut in, voice tight: "Get to the point. We didn't come here to be lectured."
"Fine." Ethan dropped the preamble. "I'm building a community academy here in Hell's Kitchen. It's nearly complete."
"Schools cost money. Today's meeting is partly about getting financial contributions from each of you. And partly about handling enrollment."
He paused, letting his eyes travel around the room. Every face had that look — the one that said I know what's coming and I don't like it.
"Most importantly — I want every minor in Hell's Kitchen, every child under the age of eighteen, enrolled in that academy. Including the kids of everyone in this room. And every junior member of every gang represented at this table."
The room erupted in laughter.
"School. School. I'm dying."
"Sending gang members to school? You might as well try to teach a pig to fly."
"I haven't seen the inside of a classroom in my life and I turned out fine."
Several bosses began standing up to leave. Ethan was clearly delusional.
Only Tommy Shelby remained seated, head tilted slightly, considering. "I might be willing to accept your terms," he said evenly. "Provided you tell me what you're offering in return."
Every head in the room turned back to Ethan.
Ethan didn't flinch. "Before I answer that — I want to ask all of you a question. Are you happy with the lives you have right now?"
"Every day, you're licking blood off the edge of a knife. Every night, you go to bed wondering if you'll wake up. Today, sure — luxury cars, mansions, the works. Tomorrow? Some old enemy puts a bullet in your head and your body gets dumped in two different rivers."
"Every man in this room has at least a few dozen lives on his conscience. Some of you have hundreds."
"That's because we live in hell. The strong eat the weak. To stay alive, you take out the other guy first — even if 'the other guy' is your own family."
The room went quiet.
Ethan pointed at one of the bosses. "Joyce Boude. Your father was a gang leader before you. Have you ever once stopped to think about what you'd be doing if you weren't running a crew?"
Joyce considered this for a long moment. "No. Honestly, no. From the time I could walk, I was following my old man into the life. I don't know how to do anything else."
"Exactly." Ethan's voice softened. "None of you ever had a choice. Your parents never sat you down and explained right from wrong. Nobody ever told you that besides being a gangster, you could've been an athlete. A teacher. A mechanic. Anything else."
"Some of you were born with both parents already dead — killed in a turf war before you could remember their faces."
"In Hell's Kitchen, all you've ever had time to think about is how to survive — by any means necessary. There was never a moment to stop and consider whether you wanted any of this. You just had to live."
"If you'd had a choice — would you still have chosen this life?"
Ethan could see it landing. A few of the bosses had gone very quiet.
"Even now — gang leaders, men with money and power — the second you walk out of Hell's Kitchen, the rest of the world looks at you like dirt. Because we wear the brand. We were born with the Hell's Kitchen label."
"To anyone outside this neighborhood, we're vermin. The dregs. The garbage of society."
"They look at us through colored lenses. They don't know what we've been through, because nobody has ever spoken for us."
"Being born in hell isn't our fault. But refusing to change anything — that is."
"That's why I'm building this school. Because a school gives kids a choice. It gives them a safe place to think about what kind of life they actually want."
"Don't make the next generation walk the same road we did. There are already enough monsters in hell. Let it be us."
Ethan's voice carried real heat now.
Beside him, Fisk watched his godson with quiet pride. If a school like this had existed when I was a boy, Fisk thought, would the underworld have ever known a man called Kingpin?
"Are you trying to pity us?" One of the bosses sneered, unmoved.
Ethan turned a cold look on him.
"You don't deserve my pity. And you don't need it."
"Every one of you chose this. We're bastards born in hell — that's just a fact. You think a little sympathy from me is going to make you stop pushing dope or running prostitution rings? Bastards still need to eat."
"All I'm asking is that you take some pity on the kids. Give them a chance. A chance at heaven."
"Whether they choose heaven or stay in hell when they grow up — that's on them. Not us."
"I'm not a saint. I have no interest in becoming one. I'm exactly what you are — a bastard living in hell."
"The only difference is that I might still have a sliver of conscience left."
Ethan let his eyes travel around the room, watching the reactions.
Some faces showed shame. Some showed thoughtful silence. But more of them — most of them — showed impatience.
These were men who had clawed their way to the top of one of the most violent neighborhoods in America. Their hearts had calcified into stone a long time ago. A few well-aimed words from a younger man weren't going to crack them open.
They cared about what they'd always cared about: their cut.
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