The armored Suburban cruised smoothly down the rain-slicked avenues of New York.
Anthony pulled out his encrypted cell phone. The pale, cold light from the screen harshly illuminated the dimly lit cabin.
"Santino will undoubtedly attempt to seek official sanctuary within the New York Continental in the coming days. What I am telling you is that we absolutely cannot allow him to set foot inside that hotel."
Marcus's voice came through the receiver, calm and clinical. "You want him executed on the steps?"
Anthony laughed darkly. "I'll formally cash in your Blood Oath to do it. That way, the High Table has absolutely no political grounds to complain."
"Are you seriously intending to shoulder the entirety of this political fallout yourself?" Marcus asked, genuine surprise breaking his usual stoicism.
Anthony exhaled a long breath. "It's the only viable option. Unless you genuinely want John to snap and murder Santino inside the Continental sanctuary."
Marcus was silent for a long moment, heavily weighing the catastrophic implications of John breaking the core rule of the Continental.
"I understand," Marcus finally replied. "Don't worry. I will ensure Santino never reaches those front doors."
Anthony hung up.
He knew the political reality of the High Table. Although Santino had successfully orchestrated Gianna's assassination to claim her seat, his actual rule over the Camorra was fundamentally unstable.
As the ultimate governing authority of the global underworld, the High Table maintained absolute, draconian requirements regarding the legitimacy of its members.
It wasn't merely about bloodline inheritance. To secure a seat, a new member had to undergo strict coronation rituals and secure explicit political endorsements from the other eleven sitting members.
Santino's impatience and blatant violence had exposed his profound political shortsightedness. He had alienated the veteran members of the Table.
Anthony knew from his meta-knowledge that in the canon timeline, Santino never actually received a formal coronation ceremony before John killed him.
The High Table's icy, bureaucratic silence surrounding Santino's violent ascension clearly indicated that his status was not yet fully recognized. He was vulnerable.
Anthony tapped his screen again, found a specific name in his contacts, and dialed.
The phone rang three times before it was picked up. The background noise was incredibly quiet, featuring only the faint, sophisticated hum of classical music.
"Anthony," Winnie's voice came through the speaker. It was as calm and steady as ever, revealing very little emotional fluctuation. "The new driver you found for me is quite competent."
"Nick is one of my old squadmates from the Marines," Anthony's tone softened significantly, losing its mob-boss edge. "I genuinely didn't want you to have to suffer any more indignities from your family's lackeys."
Winnie let out a soft, amused scoff. "Are you always going to lie to me, Anthony?"
"You promised me you would be my personal driver. Instead, you deploy a highly trained mercenary to chauffeur me around. You aren't worried about blowing through your military pension?"
Anthony paused for a moment, genuinely enjoying the sound of her teasing, slightly affectionate tone.
"Winnie, you know perfectly well who I am now. And you know the reality of our current situation. We cannot simply be seen hanging out together in public every day."
"If the paparazzi catch us, people will talk. And your treacherous younger siblings will absolutely weaponize that gossip against you in the boardroom."
Winnie scoffed again. "Who exactly do you think you are fooling?"
"Even if you publicly sever all formal ties with your uncle's syndicate, you will still permanently bear the Tarasov surname."
Anthony's voice dropped, becoming deeply serious. "Actually... I'd much rather be bearing yours."
"Tsk," Winnie snapped after a brief, flustered silence. "You still love spouting absolute nonsense."
"You are completely hopeless, Anthony."
Despite her sharp words, Anthony could clearly hear the underlying warmth in her voice. She was in a much better mood.
"Are you free tomorrow night?" Anthony asked softly. "I... well, Helen really misses you."
There was a two-second silence on the other end of the line.
There was no deflecting, no hesitation, and no corporate maneuvering.
Just a very soft, quiet, "Okay."
Anthony gently tapped his fingertips against his knee. "Is your family's board of directors putting pressure on you again?"
"That is not something you need to concern yourself with," Winnie's voice immediately returned to its baseline corporate calmness.
However, her tone still betrayed a microscopic hint of deep annoyance and profound exhaustion.
Anthony's eyes narrowed slightly.
Beneath her stoic facade lay the crushing, relentless pressure of navigating the vicious power struggles within her aristocratic family.
"Do you require my assistance?"
Anthony's voice lowered into a dangerous, lethal register. His knuckles unconsciously tapped against the edge of the armored window, creating a rhythmic, threatening thud-thud-thud.
If she asked him to, he would not hesitate for a microsecond to utilize some highly aggressive "Tarasov-style" corporate restructuring to clear her path.
"No," Winnie refused, her answer swift and utterly decisive.
"I can handle it myself. It is just... incredibly tedious bureaucratic maneuvering." She paused, her voice softening once more.
"I will text you the address of the restaurant later. I will see you tomorrow, Anthony."
"See you tomorrow."
Anthony hung up the phone and tossed it casually onto the empty leather seat beside him.
He stared blankly out the reinforced window at the fleeting city lights, his fingers completely still.
Winnie's corporate predicament cast a dark, lingering shadow over his mind, but he deeply respected her fierce independence and pride. He couldn't aggressively intervene unless she explicitly authorized it.
Anthony felt he didn't need to rush a violent takeover of her family's board just yet.
After all, Winnie's grandfather—the formidable patriarch of her family—was currently watching the siblings' infighting with cold, calculated detachment.
But, if the old man ever decided to actively target Winnie... Anthony would absolutely unleash the full, terrifying might of the Russian underworld to utterly crush him.
The armored convoy finally drove out of the bustling, neon-drenched streets of Manhattan and merged into the quieter, more affluent neighborhoods of Brooklyn. The Suburban eventually rolled to a stop in front of a massive, ultra-modern detached villa.
Sergei had briefed him earlier that this was a highly secure safehouse recently purchased by Abram specifically for Anthony's use.
The sprawling villa was brilliantly illuminated by high-grade security floodlights.
The lead Escalade flashed its headlights in a coded sequence, signaling the armed guards inside the compound to open the reinforced steel gates. After the perimeter was verified as completely secure, Sergei stepped out and opened Anthony's door.
Anthony stepped out into the night air, keeping Helen tucked under his arm. The second his leather shoes touched the front steps, the massive, solid oak front doors swung inward.
Standing just inside the foyer were the specialized security contractors Abram had recently hired to guard the estate.
It was Mike and Tom—Anthony's former Marine comrades!
(Radar, their tech specialist, was currently operating out of the Tarasov syndicate's central server hub.)
As Anthony stepped into the cavernous, ultra-modern living room, he was immediately struck by the sheer gravity of the assembly.
Almost every single core lieutenant and captain of the Tarasov syndicate was present.
They were all standing in a tense silence, several pairs of hardened, calculating eyes instantly locking onto him as he entered.
Abram Tarasov sat near the center of the room in an expensive wheelchair, a heavy wool blanket draped over his ruined legs.
Seeing Anthony walk in completely unscathed, Abram let out a massive, shuddering sigh of profound relief.
"Anthony. Welcome home."
Anthony offered a curt, respectful nod to his uncle. His sharp gaze immediately swept across the room, aggressively analyzing the hierarchy.
Aurelio, the stoic owner of the syndicate's premier chop-shop, nodded respectfully, his expression complex and heavily guarded.
Mikhail, the terrifyingly efficient head of the "cleaning" and body-disposal department, sat entirely motionless in the darkest corner of the room, looking like a silent, lethal shadow.
Viktor, the interim commander of the syndicate's strike teams, stood rigidly by the bar, looking visibly uneasy under Anthony's gaze.
Standing arrogantly near the center of the room was Boris, Viggo's nephew, who managed the luxurious Red Circle nightclub in Midtown Manhattan.
Following Viggo and Iosef's deaths, Abram had officially adopted Boris as his own son to stabilize the family lineage.
The Red Circle served as the absolute crown jewel of the Tarasov empire, functioning as a massive dual-hub for both high-level money laundering and elite intelligence gathering.
Every single bartender, waitress, and bouncer inside the club was a trained family informant, aggressively gathering blackmail material on rival syndicates and politicians by secretly recording VIP conversations.
At this exact moment, Boris was staring directly at Anthony, a blatant, undisguised sneer plastered across his face.
Anthony knew Boris's canon fate. In the original timeline, Boris had been the one to tip off John Wick regarding Iosef's location, and Viggo had subsequently beaten Boris to death with a golf club for his treachery.
However, because Anthony had altered the timeline, Boris was still very much alive and clearly resentful of Anthony's rapid ascension.
Standing near Boris was Anya, Viggo's former mistress and the ruthless manager of the syndicate's loan-sharking and debt-collection operations.
The beautiful woman, sporting her signature scarlet nail polish, stared blankly at Anthony, her eyes somewhat unfocused and haunted.
To be completely honest, Anthony possessed a deep, genuine respect for Anya.
During the events of the first film, John had brutally pinned her hand to a table with a pencil, yet she had completely refused to betray Viggo by giving up Iosef's location.
Her absolute, unwavering loyalty to the Tarasov family was unquestionable.
Finally, Anthony's piercing gaze locked onto a highly conspicuous, trembling figure standing awkwardly near the massive stone fireplace.
The man was massive and heavily muscled, his immense bulk seemingly ready to burst through the seams of his violently expensive, tasteless suit. His shirt collar was unbuttoned, revealing a thick mat of chest hair and a massive, ostentatious gold chain.
He stood rigidly, stealing terrified, awestruck glances at Anthony.
His left hand was heavily wrapped in thick medical bandages, specifically around the ring finger.
Fresh, damp blood was still actively seeping through the white gauze.
It was Yuri. The elusive, treacherous arms dealer who had betrayed the family!
"Yuri?" Anthony's lips curled into a terrifying, freezing smile as he slowly walked toward the head of the massive mahogany dining table.
"If the Adjudicator hadn't dispatched a team to formally 'invite' you to this meeting, I imagine I would have never had the pleasure of seeing your face again."
Upon hearing the Adjudicator explicitly mentioned, Yuri's face turned the color of ash. Beads of cold sweat rapidly formed across his forehead.
He instinctively reached up with his right hand, nervously cradling the bloody stump of his severed left finger. "Anthony... boss... I swear, I just—"
"Shut your fucking mouth," Anthony commanded, his voice barely above a whisper, yet carrying the absolute authority of a king.
Anthony casually raised his hand and sank deeply into the luxurious leather armchair at the head of the table.
Acting in flawless synchronization, Sergei, Mike, Tom, and the rest of the elite security detail silently melted back into the shadows of the room. Their hands rested aggressively on the grips of their holstered weapons.
Anthony pulled out his phone and tapped the screen once.
The next second, a deep, husky, terrifyingly familiar voice echoed through the dead-silent living room via the phone's speaker.
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