On the second floor of the Eiffel Tower sits Le Jules Verne, a one-star Michelin restaurant.
It specializes in French cuisine, 125 meters off the ground. A window seat offers an unparalleled view of Paris at night. The combination of exquisite food and the breathtaking view draws in countless diners, and business is always booming.
"Sir, Madame. Your medium-rare veal." A waiter approached and placed the steak before the guest.
"Thank you," The guest said distractedly, picking up his knife and fork, ready to dig in.
But the waiter didn't leave. He was staring at the guest's face, looking shy and hesitant, like he wanted to say something but couldn't.
"What is it?" The guest asked, turning his head slightly with an impatient look.
"Are you... Mr. Tony Stark?" The waiter blurted out.
Tony put down his utensils and looked the waiter dead in the eye. "I am," He said coolly.
The waiter's face lit up. He fumbled, pulling out a marker and a collector's edition Iron Man postcard set, bowing respectfully. "Sir, I'm a huge fan! Could I please get your autograph?"
Tony was visibly annoyed, but he took the pen. "I'll sign it," He said in a low voice, "But I need you to not interrupt me for the rest of the hour."
Clutching the autograph, the waiter nodded happily. "Of course, sir! I won't let anyone disturb your date."
As the waiter walked away, Tony smirked. "Smart kid."
He turned back to the beautiful woman across from him. "See? Even the waiter knows we're on a date. Stop looking so miserable. Try to be happy."
Pepper Potts was just pushing her food around, head down. "Tony, I'm just... I'm not in the mood. The Joker Organization is running rampant back home. All the brave fighters are in the thick of it, and we're... we're here on a date."
Tony sighed, reaching for her hand. "Even fighters need a break, Pep. We've been grinding at high intensity for months. You stretch a rubber band that tight, it snaps."
She looked up, her face full of worry. "I know how hard you've been working, but..."
"No 'buts.' It's one week. Nothing's gonna burn down in one week." He motioned out the floor-to-ceiling window. "Look at that. The view is incredible. We're supposed to be forgetting our troubles, enjoying this."
Pepper turned and looked out at the city lights. For a second, she was captivated.
Fine... just one week. She convinced herself, and a small, faint smile finally touched her lips.
BOOM.
A deep, muffled explosion rumbled through the air. In the distance, a building had just erupted in a massive fireball.
Both of their expressions froze.
From 125 meters up, they had a panoramic view. The quiet, elegant restaurant immediately filled with gasps and noise.
"Oh my god!"
"That's a huge fire! What is that?"
"If I'm not mistaken... that's Notre Dame!"
"It's over... a fire that big... it's going to be burned to ashes."
"The color... that's not a normal fire. That's arson! Someone did that on purpose!"
"But who would have the balls to burn Notre Dame?"
Who else could it be?
The Joker Organization.
Pepper's smile vanished, replaced by a look of cold fury and bitter helplessness.
"Shit," Tony cursed, seeing the look on her face. He was clearly agitated.
"Tony," Pepper said, turning to him.
Tony just ignored her, attacking his steak with his knife.
"Tony! You have to do something!" Her voice was louder now, sharper.
He let out a heavy sigh. "Putting out fires is a firefighter's job, Pep."
She scowled. "But catching the Joker Organization is your job."
"No! It's not my job!" He shot back, getting agitated. "I'm a consultant for S.H.I.E.L.D., not their goddamn attack dog! You need to get that straight!"
"But you're Iron Man! You're a superhero!"
"No! That's not what this is! I told Fury exactly what the deal was when I signed on. I will give them all the tech support they need to deal with those assholes, but I will not—I will absolutely not—be their front-line cannon fodder!"
He was talking fast, his face flushed. After the outburst, he just stared out the window. "What happened six months ago," He said, his voice quiet and raw, "I know you don't want to go through that again."
That shut Pepper up.
The painful, public humiliation from six months ago had utterly broken them.
Even though a... benefactor... had helped pull them out of that shadow, and they'd joined S.H.I.E.L.D. to fight back... neither of them, not Tony, not Pepper, had the balls to face Jason head-on ever again.
Getting so thorough... no one could just shake that off.
*
Down at the Eiffel Tower's base, the long line of tourists was pointing at the distant fire.
A man in a dark, hooded work coat didn't bother waiting. He cut the line and walked straight to the private elevator for the restaurant.
"Sir, do you have a reservation?" A waiter stepped in, blocking him, giving him a snobby look from top to bottom.
The man was a mess—dirty clothes, dark, weathered skin, rough hands. He looked like a goddamn laborer.
The waiter seriously doubted this piece of shit made enough in a month to afford a single plate upstairs.
"I have a reservation," The man growled, shoving a confirmation slip at him.
"My apologies, sir, but the restaurant has a strict dress code. If you do not have a jacket..."
The waiter was still explaining the rules, but the hooded man was done listening. He frowned, and with a flick of his wrist, a dagger was in his hand.
He reversed his grip and plunged it, deep, into the waiter's throat. Blood gurgled and frothed from the wound.
"AHHH!!!"
The people in line behind him saw it and started screaming.
The jig was up. The man pulled down his hood, revealing a hard, aged face.
It was Ivan Vanko—the man whose father was framed by the Stark family, his life ruined, forced to rot in that Siberian shithole.
And he was here to do one thing: assassinate the last Stark.
Ignoring the chaos, Ivan stepped into the private elevator and went up.
The doors opened, and the maître d'hôtel at the top was visibly startled. What the fuck was security doing? How did this riff-raff get up here without a jacket?
"Sir, I'm terribly sorry, but this restaurant..."
He didn't finish. Ivan grabbed him by the lapels and yanked him into the elevator car. Years of back-breaking labor had made Ivan strong as an ox. He could break this skinny-ass waiter in half.
"You want to live?" Ivan snarled. "Answer my question."
The terrified waiter just nodded. "Anything."
"Tony Stark. What table?"
The waiter's eyes widened in surprise, but only for a second. He shakily raised a finger and pointed. "Mr. Stark... Table 20. By the window."
"Thanks," Ivan said with a brutal smirk, and his hand shot out, clamping around the waiter's throat.
CRACK.
He crushed the man's windpipe. The waiter just gurgled, clawing uselessly at his hand, his eyes bulging in agony as he collapsed to his knees.
Stark. I'm here for you, you son of a bitch.
With a cold smirk, Ivan Vanko stepped into the restaurant.
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You can read advance chapters and view R-18 images of the characters on pat reon page.
pat reon.com/GreenBlue17
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