"Mr. Lee…"
He kept going. "What you just said sounds like something straight out of a comic-book villain monologue."
Raphael laughed right along with him.
"Perfect! That's exactly what Marvel does best—creating villains people never forget."
He dropped back into his seat.
"Anyway, let's get down to business."
He locked eyes with Stan Lee.
"Stan, you're the heart and soul of Marvel. Nobody replaces that. But the day-to-day running? I'm handing it to someone younger."
Stan Lee raised an eyebrow.
"Who?"
Raphael glanced at the door.
"Kevin, come on in."
The door opened.
A guy who was about to turn thirty stepped inside—round face, big ears, Marvel cap perched on his head. He looked nervous but was fighting to keep it together.
Kevin Feige.
The whole room went quiet. Someone muttered under their breath.
"Who the hell is this guy? Never seen him before!"
Raphael ignored the whispers.
He stood, walked straight over, and clapped Kevin on the shoulder.
"Starting today, Kevin Feige is President of Marvel Studios. Every single movie project runs through him."
Kevin's mouth opened, then closed. No words came out.
A low buzz of conversation rippled through the office.
One white-haired old-timer stood up.
"Mr. Lee, I'm not second-guessing you, but Kevin… his experience—"
Raphael cut him off clean.
"Experience? You guys were just questioning every call I made. What the hell good is 'experience'?"
The old man shut his mouth fast.
Raphael scanned every face in the room.
"I know you're not happy. Hell, if I were you, I wouldn't be either. Some twenty-year-old Hollywood kid buys a dying comic company, says he's dumping a billion dollars into movies, and installs a total unknown as president—"
He paused for effect.
"Yeah, it sounds batshit crazy."
Nobody spoke.
Raphael kept rolling.
"But have you stopped to think what all those 'sane' previous owners did to Marvel?"
He pointed at the faded posters on the wall.
"Spider-Man? Sold off. X-Men? Sold. Fantastic Four? Sold. What's left? A bullpen full of starving artists and a warehouse of comics nobody buys."
Stan Lee's face tightened.
Raphael looked right at him.
"Stan, I'm not here to chew anybody out. I'm here to fix the mess."
He walked back to the couch and sat down.
"First—every comic artist's salary doubles. Overtime paid separate, bonuses tied to performance. The old rates were insulting—barely enough to survive in New York."
A couple of the younger artists' reps lit up like kids on Christmas.
"Second—Stan and the rest of the core creators get profit participation on every adaptation starting today. Any comic you draw that turns into a movie, you get paid."
Stan Lee froze. The old guys beside him froze too.
"Third—"
Raphael paused. "Kevin Feige's appointment as president is final. But you can watch him. If he steers us wrong in the next three years, you can all sign a petition to boot him."
Kevin blinked, staring at Raphael.
Raphael didn't even glance his way.
He'd back Kevin to the hilt on the big vision, but he wasn't handing over the keys without a leash. No way was he letting Marvel drift off course.
"Any more questions?"
The office stayed dead quiet for a long beat.
Stan Lee stared at him, eyes complicated.
Finally he sighed.
"Raphael Lee, I don't know if half the stuff you said today is real… but you just proved one thing."
He stood and walked straight over.
"You're more of a boss with a conscience than any of the suits who came before you."
Raphael stuck out his hand.
"Deal?"
Stan Lee shook it firmly.
"We'll give it a shot."
Raphael stood, shot Philip a look.
"Rest is on you."
Philip nodded.
Raphael turned for the door.
Halfway out he glanced back.
Stan Lee still stood there, expression unreadable.
The old-timers huddled, whispering.
The young artists were already buzzing, some grinning ear to ear.
Kevin Feige lingered at the edge of the crowd, eyes locked on him.
"Oh—one last thing I forgot."
Raphael pointed at the floor. "I'm carving out a special budget for this place. Gotta say, it's a dump. New renovations, fresh vibe, new desks, new everything—including brand-new coffee machines. Hope you won't miss the old joint."
With that he walked out.
In the hallway Steinhardt was on his phone.
He hung up the second he saw Raphael.
"Mr. Lee, all wrapped?"
Raphael nodded.
"Done."
Steinhardt grinned.
"Mr. Paulson was right—you really are an interesting guy."
Raphael didn't answer.
They stepped into the elevator.
The doors had barely closed when Raphael spoke.
"Steinhardt."
"Yeah?"
"Why exactly is Paulson helping me?"
Steinhardt met his eyes in the reflection.
"Mr. Lee, I can't answer that. But I can tell you this."
"What?"
"Paulson rarely bets on the wrong horse."
Raphael smiled but said nothing.
The elevator reached the ground floor. Sunlight poured in.
Raphael stepped outside, took a deep breath, and stretched his arms wide.
From this second forward, the Marvel that would one day crank out box-office miracles after miracles was officially his.
The sun felt warm on his face. He closed his eyes for a moment, just soaking it in.
Footsteps behind him.
Philip stepped out and stopped beside him.
"Raphael."
"Hm?"
"You're seriously just walking out?"
Philip sounded half-amused, half-exasperated. "You just bought the place—don't you want to hang around a little?"
Raphael rolled his eyes.
"Please. No employee wants the boss breathing down their neck—even if he's the one raising their pay and remodeling the office."
Philip laughed.
"Fair. If I were them, I'd feel awkward as hell with you standing right there."
Raphael headed down the steps to the curb.
"You stay and handle the details," he told his brother. "Renovations, employee perks, and Kevin—he's brand-new, he'll need backup."
Philip stared.
"Me? Stay here?"
"Yeah."
Raphael clapped him on the shoulder. "You're my manager and my big brother. Having you here carries more weight than me hovering around."
Philip studied him a second, then sighed.
"Fine. Your call."
Raphael nodded.
"Keep an eye on that ten-million renovation budget. Nothing too flashy, but not cheap either—this is headquarters, it should look the part."
Philip grunted.
"And the coffee machines," Raphael added. "I promised new ones—don't forget."
Philip chuckled.
"You remember the damn coffee machines but not to buy yourself a building?"
Raphael thought about it.
"Next big check, maybe."
They stood at the curb waiting for Steinhardt's car.
Philip suddenly asked, "Raphael."
"Yeah?"
"All that stuff you said in there—the billion dollars, the Avengers Initiative—you actually have a plan, right?"
Raphael flashed the exact wicked grin Philip knew too well.
"Guess."
Philip groaned.
"You're impossible."
The black Mercedes rolled up. Steinhardt leaned out the window.
"Mr. Lee, car's here."
Raphael opened the door, glanced back at Philip one last time.
"Everything here is yours now."
Philip nodded.
"Got it."
The car pulled away, sliding into Manhattan traffic.
Raphael leaned back against the leather, watching the city blur past. Steinhardt sat up front, glancing at him in the rear-view mirror.
"Straight to the airport, Mr. Lee?"
"Yeah."
Steinhardt gave the driver a quiet instruction.
The car kept moving.
Raphael suddenly spoke again.
"Steinhardt."
"Sir?"
"Paulson have any message for me?"
Steinhardt smiled in the mirror.
"He said this is just the beginning. He's looking forward to what you do next."
Raphael nodded and went quiet.
Two hours later he was boarding the flight back to Los Angeles.
As the plane climbed through the clouds he settled into his seat and closed his eyes.
He knew this was only the start.
The real fights were still ahead.
---
Just when Raphael figured he'd finally catch some decent sleep, a smooth, magnetic female voice spoke right beside him.
"Mr. Lee, would you like a blanket?"
He cracked one eye open—and suddenly sat up a little straighter.
Blonde waves, fire-engine red lips, perfect oval face, high cheekbones, and a body that curved exactly the way he liked. Snow-white skin, hourglass figure—the whole package.
This was light-years away from the "Russian auntie" flight attendants on regular airlines.
And since this was Goldman's private jet arranged just for him, he instantly understood the play.
He couldn't help a silent chuckle. Paulson just earned another notch of respect.
The classic line from his past-life movies floated through his head: Which cadre could resist a test like this?
Thank God for evil capitalism.
Raphael kept the thought to himself and flashed a perfectly calibrated smile.
"Besides the blanket, got any champagne? I'd like something to sip before I crash. Oh—and what's your name? You the dedicated crew on this jet?"
The blonde flight attendant smiled brilliantly, perfect white teeth flashing.
"Mr. Lee, you can call me Sophia. I'm not permanent crew on this aircraft yet. Your champagne will be right here—just give me one moment."