Bullet To The Head (Part 3)

It was opening night at the New China Arts gallery on Bayard Street, where Gangland Visions reimagined Chinatown’s street violence with the solemnity of religious iconography. Well-tailored Shanghai investors filled the gallery, drifting from frame to frame, checkbooks ready, faces unreadable. To them, this wasn’t just art. It was curated menace. A tasteful slice of Chinatown’s underworld, framed and ready for the living room wall.

Nothing says worldly sophistication quite like a framed execution in a Chinatown alley to complement the Rothko above the fireplace.

The crowd itself was a contradiction. Armani suits brushed against jackets still bearing the creases of real fights. Manicured fingers curled around wine glasses while eyes, hard from experience, judged the compositions like crime scenes.

Tommy Huang, his silver hair slicked back, his charcoal suit perfectly tailored, held court near the gallery's center, his entourage forming a protective semicircle around him.

The evening had all the makings of high culture until Jimmy Tong sauntered in. The air shifted. Where Tommy Huang exuded old money and old grudges, Jimmy brought raw disruption. His crew fanned out behind him like shadows without orders.

“Quite the collection,” Jimmy said to no one in particular, eyes sweeping over a canvas where severed hands fed themselves into a meat grinder. “Is this art or to keep certain people from sleeping too easy?”

Tommy Huang approached. His entourage peeled off with wordless precision, leaving only him and Jimmy face to face beneath a painting of a midnight alley drowning in red.

“You’re late,” Tommy said, without warmth.

Jimmy looked around. “Traffic in the tunnel.”

Tommy didn’t smile. “You hiring from Jersey now too? I hear your uptown boy had himself a good time last night.”

Jimmy licked his teeth. “Eddie’s his own man. And Lillianne’s more woman than most men can handle. As you know.”

Tommy studied him. “You keep inviting ghosts to Chinatown, eventually they start thinking they’re ancestors.”

Jimmy laughed once, short, sharp. “And you keep hanging our dirty laundry on gallery walls, eventually someone’s gonna frame you in it.”

For a moment, silence. Tommy adjusted the cuff of his sleeve. “You know, back in the day, Chinese generals used to paint their battle scenes in blood. Not metaphor. Real blood. On silk. And then show them to the emperor as proof of loyalty.”

Jimmy bowed his head slightly, mock-formal. “Then I’m just here to admire the brushstrokes.”

Tommy leaned in, almost whispering. “Do that. And keep your crew from mistaking the art for open invitations.”

Tommy walked off and greeted another guest with a smile. Jimmy remained at the painting, too still to sip his drink.

The upscale chatter continued, punctuated by the occasional clink of champagne glasses and the rustle of silk dresses. Art critics mixed with enforcers, their conversations a bizarre blend of aesthetic theory and street survival tactics.

A woman in Chanel discussed brushwork techniques with one of Jimmy’s crew, whose scarred knuckles suggested he knew more about beating deadbeats to a pulp than making art.

Suddenly, a pair of street toughs near the back wall locked eyes, their postures rigid with barely contained hostility. Leather jackets stiff at the shoulders, sneakers planted wide, they circled each other like alley cats in a silent standoff.

One cracked his knuckles. The other tugged his shirt higher to flash the glint of something metallic at his belt. They weren’t thugs. They were actors. And something unscripted was about to begin. At first, no one noticed. The gallery crowd mistook it for background noise, another layer of gritty authenticity baked into the exhibit’s edge.

Performer 1 (low, biting):"You don’t come ‘round here no more. Thought we made that clear."

Performer 2 (smirks, louder):“We been here long before you, so step aside."

Performer 1 (mocking):"This ain’t your grandfather’s Chinatown, chump. You crossed Canal, you crossed the line."

Performer 2 (flashing steel):"I crossed for dim sum. But I’ll stay for your funeral."

Performer 1 (snapping fingers):"Dragons don’t kneel. We burn."

As the argument escalated, the entire gallery turned to watch. Pushing became shoving, shoving became throwing punches, and suddenly, steel flashed in the gallery lights.

Knives appeared as if conjured from the air; switchblades and butterfly knives twirling in practiced hands. The crowd recoiled, pressing bac