Chapter 11

New York, Hell's Kitchen, Good Luck Restaurant

Ted hung up the phone and slowly closed his eyes. His mind was racing. Those damn "mice" that Kingpin had mentioned were probably S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, the same ones that had been monitoring him before. This only deepened Ted's dislike for S.H.I.E.L.D., and he made a mental note that if they crossed him again, he wouldn't hesitate to cause them trouble.

Ted glanced at the clock in the restaurant. It was nearly dinner time, and the evening rush would soon begin.

"Pietro, it's time to prepare the ingredients. I'm about to start work," Ted called out.

"Not coming back to eat tonight, Ted," Deadpool chimed in from across the room. "I'm off to the bar next door to pick up girls!"

Ted sighed in frustration. "It's time to find a chef for the restaurant. Doing it all myself is too tiring. I need to hire a waiter too, or I'll be too busy."

As night fell, the once-empty Good Luck restaurant began to fill with regulars.

"Hey, Ted! The usual—General Tso's chicken, a side of fried dumplings, and one Yangzhou fried rice," Butler, a snakehead from Hell's Kitchen, called out as he walked in, accompanied by two shy, young Asian girls.

Ted quickly prepared the order and wiped his hands, turning his attention to the two girls. "Why'd you bring them here tonight, Butler?"

"They just smuggled in. Said they came here to make money. I brought them to pay respects. Everyone in Hell's Kitchen knows you're the only one who can give them peace of mind for business," Butler replied, digging into his food.

Ted waved off the money the girls handed him. "Keep it. I don't need this."

But Butler interjected, "You take it. If you don't, they'll feel insecure. Besides, the other streets accept payments like this, and you not taking it will cause problems."

Reluctantly, Ted took the money, pocketing it. "Fine. I'll hold onto it for you. When you've saved enough to leave Hell's Kitchen, come find me. Now, eat."

As Ted was wrapping up his conversation with the two girls, he noticed Marcus, his tenant, walking into the restaurant, looking haggard.

"Hey, Marcus. What brings you here today? It's not time for rent, is it?" Ted called out, sensing something off about Marcus, who smelled faintly of alcohol and blood.

Marcus sat down and leaned forward, his expression serious. "Ted, I need your help."

Ted raised an eyebrow. "The Continental Hotel can't solve your problem? What's going on?"

Marcus explained in a hushed voice. "An old friend of mine is in trouble. He's being hunted by killers and came to me for help. He's resting now, but I thought I'd tell you right away."

Ted's eyes widened. "Don't tell me the Hand and the High Table have been looking for your friend. Is he in my apartment?"

Marcus nodded slowly, confirming Ted's worst fears.

Ted groaned in frustration. "How did you bring this mess here? I'm raising the rent, Marcus. I swear."

Marcus quickly added, "My friend is John Wick. He's been shot, and he's hiding out. I haven't gotten the full story yet."

Ted blinked in recognition of the name. "John Wick… middle-parted hair? Loves dogs?"

Marcus nodded.

"And his nickname is the Night Devil?" Ted asked, now fully realizing the gravity of the situation.

Pietro chimed in. "Isn't that the guy who wiped out an entire Russian mob for a dog? So cool!"

Ted sighed, rubbing his temples. "Marcus, you've really brought me a mess this time. But I'll help. After all, you're my tenant, and this is Hell's Kitchen. Let's go see your friend."

Marcus looked relieved but hesitant. "The High Table is involved, Ted. This could be dangerous."

Ted rolled his eyes. "You brought him to my place, didn't you? What choice do I have? The High Table, the Hand—it doesn't matter. This is Hell's Kitchen, and in my territory, I take care of my own. Now let's go upstairs."

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