Chapter 16: The High Table's Ancient Tradition
The desert near Casablanca. High Table headquarters.
"I trust everyone's operations have been hit rather hard by Kingpin's people these past few days."
The speaker was a Middle Eastern man in a traditional keffiyeh, seated at one of twelve positions around a massive round table. Ten of those seats were occupied in person. The remaining two had open video feeds — or in one case, nothing at all.
Today's agenda: the Hell's Kitchen situation.
The two empty chairs belonged to the Marquis, currently running for his life, and the D'Antonio family, who no longer had anyone left to send.
"Where the hell is the Marquis?" A Russian elder slammed his fist on the table. "I want to discuss reparations. His arrogance caused all of this. Every dollar we've lost is on his head."
"So we hit back," said a younger man — Korean, with the polished look of a pop star. "Kingpin is challenging our authority. If we let this slide, every two-bit crime lord on earth will think the High Table is soft."
"Gentlemen — peace is profitable. Peace is always profitable." The voice came from one of the screens — an Asian elder, his tone measured and calm. "We're all businessmen here. From what I understand, the Marquis violated protocol first. He went into Kingpin's territory and threatened Kingpin's godson without authorization. Perhaps we should open a dialogue before we escalate further. I hear the godson is quite interested in joining our table."
"And now every stray cat and dog wants a seat at the High Table?" An old man in traditional samurai attire sneered.
"This particular stray," said another elder — Maktoum — "happens to be a mutant with magical abilities. He currently has John Wick and Marcus — two legendary assassins — working under him, plus a pair of mercenaries with healing factors."
Maktoum raised a remote and clicked. A large screen lit up with surveillance footage from the Hell's Kitchen battle.
The elders watched Ethan stop bullets mid-air, redirect an RPG with a wave of his hand, blast a sniper with crimson energy, and drop five stories without a sound. Speed, strength, and power that didn't belong to any normal human.
When the footage ended, the reactions around the table varied — contempt, shock, studied blankness — but every last one of them had felt it. Whatever Ethan Cross was, he wasn't someone to take lightly.
"Kingpin really stepped in it with this one," one elder muttered. "A godson that powerful? Unbelievable luck."
"Ha! I'd quite like to meet this young man." The Hongmen elder's booming laugh echoed through the chamber.
Maktoum seized the momentum. "There are no permanent enemies — only permanent interests. Power goes to those with the ability to hold it."
He stood. "I propose we negotiate. Kingpin's strength is well known to everyone here — I shouldn't need to elaborate. Every day we delay costs us money. Let's vote: peace or war."
The ballots came in. Maktoum tallied them.
"Six in favor of negotiation. Two for war. Two abstentions."
"I'll handle the talks personally. Meeting adjourned."
· · ·
Fisk Tower
Wilson Fisk sat on a custom Italian leather sofa that had been built to accommodate his frame, phone pressed to his ear.
"Kingpin." Maktoum's voice was measured but firm. "It's time to call off the dogs. Your Hell's Kitchen people have made their point. You really want mutually assured destruction over a godson who isn't even hurt? And you know we have our own enforcers — the Adjudicators."
The High Table knew Fisk, of course. At the top of the criminal world, paths crossed. They'd done business before.
"Maktoum. We're old acquaintances, so I'll be direct." Fisk's voice was granite. "'Over a godson'? My godson is fine — which is the only reason I gave you a lesson instead of a funeral. Hell's Kitchen goes wherever it wants. But if anything had happened to Ethan?" He paused. "I would burn every last one of you to the ground, even if it cost me everything."
He drew on his cigar.
"As for mutually assured destruction — you flatter yourselves."
Maktoum exhaled slowly on the other end of the line. Now was not the time to let pride get in the way. The High Table was a coalition of twelve families, not a monolith. Everyone had their own interests, their own self-preservation instincts. Nobody was going to sacrifice their empire over the Marquis's mistakes.
The truth was, Fisk had no direct grudge against most of them. Some even had ongoing business arrangements with him. If it came to open war, a few of the twelve might flip to Fisk's side entirely.
"Name your terms," Maktoum said. "What will it take to end this?"
"Simple. I want a seat at the High Table. The New York Continental gets rebuilt in Hell's Kitchen — your people foot the bill, my people run it. And you'll compensate me and my godson for emotional distress, plus labor costs for my Hell's Kitchen residents." Fisk took a sip of red wine. "Five hundred million dollars."
"Absolutely not." Maktoum's composure cracked. "The twelve seats are hereditary — each one backed by an ancient family. You can't simply claim one. And do you have any idea what it costs to build a Continental from scratch? If those are your terms, then we go to war."
Fisk poured himself another glass, unhurried. "Don't hang up yet. I believe the High Table has an ancient tradition — trial by single combat."
Silence on the other end.
"The victor receives any one promise from the High Table. I'd like my godson to invoke this right. He fights the Marquis, one-on-one. When the Marquis loses, we dismantle his family's operations together. The seized assets will more than cover the cost of a new Continental and all reparations. The rest of you don't spend a dime."
Maktoum's breath caught. He was only now grasping the full scope of Fisk's ambition. A seat and the complete destruction of a rival family. The man hadn't earned his crown in Hell's Kitchen by thinking small.
"You know the rules," Maktoum said carefully. "Only a member of one of the twelve families can invoke the challenge. Your godson doesn't qualify."
"The D'Antonio family no longer exists. I've seen to that personally. The seat is vacant. Ethan will represent the Fisk family." A beat. "And the seat goes to him, not me. I'm too old for politics."
He said it the way someone might comment on the weather — as if the erasure of an entire bloodline was a minor administrative detail.
"Fine. I can authorize the seat and the challenge on my own authority. But the Marquis's family is powerful. We may not intervene on your behalf."
"Sixty-forty split on the Marquis's seized assets," Fisk said, cutting him off. "I take sixty. The remaining forty, you divide however you like."
A long pause.
"We'll intervene. Provided your godson wins."
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