“Boss!
Business booming, wealth growing!” “Same to you, same to you!” New York, Manhattan, Chinatown.
A new antique shop had opened its doors, and the morning came alive with the sharp crackle of firecrackers and the rhythmic pulse of drums as lion dancers weaved through the crowd.
The festivities drew neighbors, curious passersby, and the usual well-wishers who never missed a chance to collect a lucky red envelope.
Standing at the entrance, Luca greeted each congratulatory visitor with a smile that felt increasingly frozen on his face.
As an Italian transplant to New York, establishing a legitimate foothold required more than paperwork… it demanded a credible identity, a visible presence.
Working for someone else was out of the question, the pay was miserable, and the scrutiny uncomfortable.
No, if he had to be somewhere, he’d be his own boss.
If he followed the conventional Marvel newbie playbook, he’d be setting up shop in Hell’s Kitchen right now, perhaps a modest bodega or a questionable “consulting” business.
That’s where the action happened, where the main storyline unfolded.
But after careful consideration, Luca rejected that approach entirely.
Hell’s Kitchen was a disaster zone, three shootouts a week, gangsters on every corner, property crime as a local sport.
Why would anyone voluntarily live there?
He might as well have stayed in Sokovia.
Besides, Wanda was still a sweet little girl with no means of self-defense.
If something happened to her because of his poor planning, he’d never forgive himself.
So Luca opted for the sensible route.
He bypassed both newbie-favorite districts… Hell’s Kitchen and Queens, and settled in Chinatown instead.
Safe, stable, relatively peaceful.
Geographically, it was perfectly positioned between Hell’s Kitchen and Queens, a twenty-minute drive in light traffic, minutes by subway if something interesting actually happened.
He could monitor developments without embedding himself in a monster nest.
He had no desire to worry daily about stray bullets or wake up to rocket-propelled greetings.
Some people thrived on chaos.
Luca preferred to observe it from a comfortable distance.
As for the antique shop itself?
He didn’t actually need it to turn a profit.
The business existed primarily to establish legal residency and provide cover.
Eventually, he’d need to explain the origin of certain items acquired from…
elsewhere.
An antique dealership offered convenient justification.
Wanda clapped her small hands enthusiastically beside him, utterly charmed by the dancing lions.
It was her first time seeing such a performance.
Pietro had vanished into the crowd somewhere, the boy was old enough to explore on his own, and he’d reappear when food entered the equation.
Luca spent the next hour greeting neighbors, shaking hands, exchanging pleasantries.
Gradually, the crowd dispersed.
Antique shops weren’t restaurants, business came in trickles.
Everyone knew the drill.
Not that it mattered.
Every item in the store came from the wholesale market, price tags still attached to some pieces.
Anyone fooled by this inventory deserved their fate.
Luca handed the lion dance troupe leader his red envelope, checked his watch, nearly noon, and considered closing up for hot pot.
Wanda deserved a proper lunch, and Pietro would materialize the moment food was mentioned.
He was reaching for the door when a customer walked in.
The young man was examining a replica Chenghua-period cockscomb cup—specifically, the same counterfeit Luca had purchased from a market vendor just yesterday.
He held it with the practiced delicacy of someone evaluating a genuine Ming Dynasty artifact.
“Can I help you find something?” Luca tilted his head back slightly to study his visitor.
At 1.8 meters, he was reasonably tall by most standards, but this man stood half a head taller, a reminder of the universe’s casual cruelty.
Worse, he was annoyingly handsome.
Luca conceded, with the objectivity of a secure individual, that the stranger fell perhaps one or two points short of his own remarkable appearance.
“If I were buying anything, it would be that painting.” The young man replaced the counterfeit cup and gestured toward the Picasso hanging on the side wall.
Luca had originally planned to auction the piece, but its provenance presented certain…
explanatory challenges.
With sufficient funds on hand, he’d deferred the matter indefinitely.
Besides, aside from serious collectors, who truly appreciated Picasso?
He’d hung it openly that morning, and dozens of people had passed without a second glance.
Yet this man had identified the single valuable item in the shop at a glance.
Impressive observation skills.
More importantly, why did he look so familiar?
While Luca studied his visitor, Grant Ward studied him right back.
Level Five S.H.I.E.L.D agent.
Stealth operations specialist.
Combat rating within the organization’s global top thirty, a designation that translated to world-class soldier by any reasonable metric.
Ward had completed missions others deemed impossible, including, most recently, the assassination of an Eastern European consul.
He and Luca should never have crossed paths so quickly.
But Ward had been crossing the Mediterranean on a motorized raft when the ferry detonated before his eyes.
Disintegrated.
One moment, a vessel, the next, debris scattered across the water and human beings reduced to components.
Ward only survived because he’d lingered, a delay his instincts had nagged about, that indefinable sixth sense that had saved his life more times than he could count.
But this time, even that warning system hadn’t activated until it was almost too late.
Whoever had planted those explosives possessed skill approaching artistry.
Masters of that caliber were rare.
Even within S.H.I.E.L.D, Ward could count them on one hand.
He’d reported immediately to his direct superior, John Garrett, and begun tracing the explosive signature backward.
The trail led here, to a newly opened antique shop in Chinatown, to an Italian immigrant with impeccable false documents, and to a Picasso hanging casually on a wall.