Fisk Tower.
Kingpin held a cigar in his hand, gazing down from his office window at the chaos unfolding in Hell's Kitchen.
"It's quite lively tonight," he mused.
"Boss, do you need me to handle it?" Bullseye, one of Kingpin's most trusted subordinates, stepped forward, eager to prove his loyalty. He knew his boss was truly angry.
"No need," Kingpin said coolly. "Pass the word down—let the gangs in Hell's Kitchen take over every property the High Table owns in New York. Whoever seizes it, keeps it. The one who contributes the most gets two months of protection fees waived. And this time, it's the Marquis's people, right? His power base is in France, correct?"
Bullseye nodded.
"Then inform all our French connections—whoever takes down the Marquis gets fifteen million dollars," Kingpin continued. "And for any Hell's Kitchen resident, as long as they bring in the head of someone from the High Table or its forces, ten thousand per head."
"Understood, boss," Kingpin's men responded before swiftly moving to spread the word.
Kingpin took a long drag of his cigar, exhaling slowly. "The High Table prides itself on its rules, yet when they step into my Hell's Kitchen, they refuse to abide by them. Since they won't follow the rules… let's teach them the cost of breaking them."
The next day, Hell's Kitchen erupted into a frenzy. The moment word got out, residents rushed home to arm themselves, piling into cars and heading out in droves.
At a supermarket owned by the High Table's New York faction, a group of tattooed men stormed in, firing machine guns into the ceiling. Others grabbed wads of cash from the registers. Before leaving, they torched the entire store.
An assassin affiliated with the High Table had just stepped out of a café when a car sped toward him at full throttle—running him down without hesitation.
Similar attacks were happening all over the world…
France. The Marquis's estate.
Gunfire echoed through the halls as the Marquis fled in a panic, flanked by his bodyguards.
"Fuck, fuck—how many waves has it been?!" he cursed, ducking behind cover as bullets whizzed past. "Are these mercenaries insane today? They just keep coming!"
One of his subordinates, face pale, replied urgently, "Marquis, you're currently worth fifteen million dollars on the black market. That's more than enough to drive every mercenary and assassin in the world into a frenzy. More are bound to come."
The Marquis's face twisted in rage. "Damn it! How dare they?! I am one of the Twelve Elders of the High Table! They will pay for this! I want all High Table assassins to retaliate—wipe them out!"
Just then, a grenade rolled to a stop at his feet.
His eyes went wide with terror.
"Move!" A bodyguard grabbed him and yanked him away just as the explosion ripped through the corridor.
For the first time, true fear gripped the Marquis. He glanced back at the burning wreckage, heart pounding.
"Fall back! Cover the Marquis! We need reinforcements!" one of his bodyguards barked into his earpiece.
And so, for the next few days, the Marquis was forced into a desperate escape, believing that if he could just survive this onslaught, he'd be safe.
Little did he know… survival would only delay the inevitable.
Holding a resume in his hands, Chen Ye glanced up at the disheveled, white-haired Asian man sitting across from him.
"Mr. Stephen Chow, is it?" Chen Ye asked. "Why are you applying to work at this restaurant?"
"Just arrived, looking to make a living," Stephen Chow replied casually. "I heard you're the most reliable guy on this street, and you offer room and board."
Chen Ye scanned the resume again, his brows raising slightly. "Says here you once held the title of 'International God of Cookery.' What happened that brought you here, looking for work at a place like this?"
Stephen Chow let out a hearty laugh. "Hahaha, those are things of the past. A hero doesn't dwell on old glories. The only question is—am I qualified for the job?"
"The most important thing for a chef is their skills," Chen Ye remarked. "What's your specialty?"
"I have quite a few," Stephen Chow said proudly. "I can make Buddha Jumps Over the Wall, even the full Manchu Han Imperial Feast. But my best dish? That would be 'Sorrowful Rice.'"
"Sorrowful Rice?" Chen Ye repeated, intrigued. "That's an interesting name."
Just as he was about to ask for a demonstration, the restaurant door swung open.
John Wick and Old Ma stepped in—alongside an unexpected guest.
Chen Ye sighed and turned back to Stephen Chow. "You're hired. We'll test your skills later. Come back tomorrow—I've got something to take care of now."
Seeing the situation, Stephen Chow could only nod and leave, albeit reluctantly.
Chen Ye, unaware, had just let one of the greatest chefs slip through his fingers.
"Chen, this is Winston, the former manager of the New York Continental Hotel," John Wick introduced. "Winston, this is Mr. Chen Ye."
Chen Ye stepped forward and shook Winston's hand. "You don't visit a temple without a reason. What can I do for you, Mr. Winston?"
Winston got straight to the point. "I came to see John, to teach him how to deal with his current troubles. But he told me you could help him, so naturally, I was curious. And—I'd like to propose a partnership."
Chen Ye wasn't in a hurry to answer. Instead, he sat down, took out a tea set, and began brewing. He gestured for them to sit.
Once the tea was ready, he poured for everyone and said, "This is Pu'er from China. Let's talk. I already have a rough idea of what you need. You want to restore the Continental Hotel, correct?"
Winston's eyes flickered with surprise—he hadn't expected Chen Ye to read his intentions so easily. Just as he was about to speak, Chen Ye continued.
"I know you want revenge. I'll take care of the Marquis and help you reopen the Continental. But…"
Winston knew that tone. "Name your price. As long as you help me get revenge and restore the hotel, I'll pay any amount."
Chen Ye smiled, shaking his head. He pointed at Winston. "I don't want money. I want you."
Winston and John's expressions shifted instantly.
Seeing their reactions, Chen Ye realized their misunderstanding and quickly clarified, "Not in that way. I mean, I want your allegiance—along with the Continental Hotel and all its resources. And I want it relocated to Hell's Kitchen. Your old hotel was blown up, after all."
Winston went silent, thinking.
Chen Ye leaned forward. "I understand your concerns. I'll deal with the High Table. I'll ensure the hotel operates without trouble. All you have to do is pledge your loyalty to me."
Winston frowned. "That's easier said than done. Unless you hold one of the Twelve Seats of the High Table, the Continental Hotel can't pledge allegiance to you. Even if you eliminate the Marquis, others will come after you."
Chen Ye took a slow sip of tea, completely unfazed.
"You don't need to worry about that," he said. "The Antonio family, one of the High Table's New York branches, is nearly wiped out. I'll replace them. And if I can't, Kingpin can."
John and Winston exchanged glances.
"As for the High Table," Chen Ye continued, "I'll issue a challenge. My demand? A Continental Hotel in Hell's Kitchen—under my ownership."
His voice was calm, but his intent was unmistakable.
Chen Ye was going to claim a seat at the High Table.
And nothing would stop him.