Anthony turned back toward the window, his brow furrowed in deep concentration. "What did your intelligence network find?"
Abram wheeled closer to the mahogany table. "Our street-level sources reported that several unidentified French nationals have been in incredibly close contact with high-ranking lieutenants of both the Crips and the Bloods over the last few days."
"Specifically, a man named Carlos, the recognized second-in-command of the Brooklyn Bloods faction. He held multiple clandestine meetings with these Frenchmen and evidently received a massive, untraceable influx of capital."
Anthony was genuinely taken aback. "Frenchmen? Why would the Italian Camorra utilize French operatives as their middlemen? Have you managed to uncover their specific operational objective?"
Abram shook his head grimly.
"The exact objective remains unverified. All I know for an absolute fact is that last Tuesday, this Carlos character suddenly purchased a brand-new, fully armored Cadillac Escalade entirely in cash. He also signed the lease on a massive, abandoned industrial warehouse in the Red Hook district."
"Does Deshawn, the leader of the Bloods, know about this sudden influx of cash?" Anthony asked sharply.
Abram shrugged. "Carlos commands his own distinct sub-faction and controls his own territory. Deshawn traditionally doesn't micromanage how his lieutenants spend their illicit revenue streams."
"Which logically implies that Deshawn was likely entirely unaware of Carlos's clandestine meetings with the Frenchmen," Anthony analyzed, his voice dropping into a clinical, detached register.
He slowly paced back to the heavy leather sofa. Instead of sitting down, he leaned heavily over the backrest, resting his forehead against his knuckles.
Inside his mind, his [Rapid Calculation] System violently engaged. It aggressively connected all the seemingly disparate, chaotic threads of intelligence Abram had just provided, systematically peeling back the layers of the conspiracy like an onion.
A moment later, Anthony let out a dark, knowing sneer.
"Well, well. It seems this is a scheme wrapped inside of a scheme!"
Abram quickly leaned forward in his wheelchair. "Anthony, what exactly is on your mind?"
"I don't think Santino D'Antonio is the primary architect behind this assault," Anthony stated, a profoundly strange, predatory smile playing across his lips.
Abram looked entirely perplexed.
"Anthony, that makes no sense. The only High Table entity we currently possess an active blood feud with is Santino. And the Italian Camorra is realistically the only global syndicate possessing the sheer financial capital required to bribe massive New York street gangs like the Bloods."
"Santino simply doesn't possess the operational bandwidth to execute an attack of this complexity right now," Anthony refuted logically.
"Uncle, whoever orchestrated this assault didn't actually want to destroy the Staten Island refinery. They were merely executing a high-stakes stress test to gauge the Tarasov syndicate's military reaction."
Anthony chuckled darkly.
"If my tactical predictions are accurate, then Santino... must have already been officially abandoned by the High Table!"
Abram's voice spiked with genuine anxiety. "Anthony, if we are actually being targeted by a massive, unknown global syndicate... this will escalate into an apocalyptic gang war. We just lost Viggo, Iosef, and dozens of our best men... the family's infrastructure is still incredibly unstable."
"Which is exactly why I violently purged the treasonous captains who refused to fall in line," Anthony interrupted, his freezing gaze sweeping deliberately over the dark bloodstains Boris had left on the pristine marble floor.
"Uncle Abram, the Tarasov empire is standing at an absolute crossroads. We will either evolve into an unstoppable, apex military force... or we will be completely wiped off the map."
"There is absolutely no middle ground!"
Abram swallowed hard and nodded. "I understand, Boss."
Anthony signaled to Sergei. "Bring the remaining captains back into the room. We are transitioning to an active war footing. It's time to assign operational tasks."
Within moments, Aurelio, Mikhail, and the surviving lieutenants filed back into the cavernous living room, their expressions grave.
"Aurelio," Anthony barked, pointing directly at the chop-shop boss. "Your illicit drivers and mechanics are deeply embedded all over New York. I want you to immediately mobilize your entire informant network. Put eyes on every single commercial port, focusing specifically on privately owned and abandoned docks."
A cold, lethal glint flashed through Aurelio's eyes, momentarily outshining his heavy facial scars.
"Consider it done, Boss. Our dockyard rats are significantly more reliable than the fucking CIA. Give me a case of premium whiskey to pass around, and those dockworkers will tell me exactly which shipping container the French rats crawled out of."
"Yuri," Anthony's voice dropped an octave, sending a violent, visible shiver straight down the massive arms dealer's spine.
"Earlier, you eagerly promised to deliver the Camorra's weapon shipments directly to the Tarasov armories completely free of charge. Well, I have changed my mind."
Yuri's eyes widened in absolute terror, fear practically radiating off his trembling body.
"I want you to proceed with the Camorra deliveries exactly as scheduled," Anthony commanded, slowly walking over and looking down at the groveling, sweating mass of fat.
"However. For every single shipment moving forward, you will provide me with the fully decrypted manifest, the exact delivery timetable, and the precise GPS coordinates of the drop site. If you fail to account for a single fucking bullet... I will personally carve a pound of flesh from your chest."
Yuri nodded frantically, his violent movements causing the fresh bloodstains on his bandaged hand to expand further.
"I swear it! I swear on my life! I will personally oversee the logistical transfer of every single crate! I will securely transmit the manifests directly to your encrypted servers, and I will notify you of the drop coordinates twenty-four hours in advance!"
"Good boy," Anthony smiled, casually patting Yuri on his massive shoulder. The light tap nearly caused Yuri's legs to buckle.
"Now, get the hell out of my sight and go to a private hospital to get that stump properly cauterized. I'd hate for you to die of a mundane bacterial infection before I have the chance to utilize you."
Yuri looked as though he had just received a miraculous presidential pardon. He practically scrambled out of the living room with his tail tucked firmly between his legs.
Once the primary lieutenants had departed to execute their orders, Anthony sank back into his luxurious leather armchair and focused his attention on Mike and Tom.
His two former Marine comrades stood silently in the deep shadows, looking like a pair of lethal stone statues.
"Mike," Anthony began, his tone shifting from mob boss to tactical commander. "How many Tier-1 operators from our time in the Corps are you and Tom still actively in contact with?"
Mike stepped out of the shadows.
"At least two dozen of the boys are currently operating out of New York, Lieutenant. And they are all elite. If we utilize their extended networks to recruit vetted operators from other units, we could easily mobilize a private army of over seventy men."
"Contact them immediately," Anthony ordered. "But I want you to make the parameters of the contract abundantly clear. This is not a low-level street brawl against gang-bangers. We are transitioning into a high-intensity, paramilitary corporate war."
"I require a minimum of fifty elite operators. I want one dedicated marksman for every ten assaulters. Veterans with explicit Special Forces backgrounds are highly preferred. Inform them they will sign formal PMC contracts under a Tarasov shell corporation. The baseline salary is five thousand dollars a week, supplemented by massive hazard pay and comprehensive death benefits."
"However, the absolute condition of employment is that they must remain on high-alert standby 24/7. I will bring in highly specialized instructors to cross-train them in underworld CQC tactics, and Yuri will ensure they are supplied with top-tier, military-grade hardware."
Mike looked slightly confused.
They were all elite, blooded Force Recon Marines. They were hardened combat veterans who had survived multiple, grueling tours in the hellish mountains of Afghanistan.
Who the hell could possibly possess the tactical pedigree required to teach these men anything new about killing?
Tom completely ignored the logistical implications. He was practically buzzing with a mixture of nervous adrenaline and violent excitement.
"Anthony, are we seriously launching a full-scale corporate war? Have you considered which specific federal agencies we might accidentally antagonize by mobilizing a private army on American soil?"
Anthony smiled calmly. "Do not worry about the alphabet boys. I have ensured the federal government will look the other way regarding our primary operations. However... if you do happen to encounter federal agents in the field... absolutely do not fire the first shot."
"The real tactical issue is that all the major global syndicates actively employ highly trained, veteran mercenaries. Do not make the fatal mistake of underestimating them as mere street thugs."
Tom eagerly rubbed his hands together and laughed darkly. "Loud and clear, Lieutenant."
Anthony slowly tapped his cigarette ash into the crystal tray. "But before we officially unleash the dogs of war, I must definitively identify the puppet master pulling the strings."
He turned back to Abram. "Uncle, I urgently require two massive, entirely secluded properties where my new PMC forces can conduct live-fire tactical training without drawing police attention."
Without a moment of hesitation, Abram replied, "The syndicate owns a massive, legitimate agricultural farm out on Long Island. Your operators can utilize the back acreage."
"We also maintain controlling interests in several massive eco-farms across the border in New Jersey. However, those properties are deeply integrated with high-end, civilian-facing restaurants."
"We absolutely cannot utilize established Tarasov holdings," Anthony shook his head firmly. "Uncle, we must purchase entirely new properties through heavily insulated shell companies. The training grounds cannot be traced back to the Tarasov name."
"That is easily arranged," Abram nodded in understanding. "I will deploy our real estate brokers to secure the properties tomorrow morning."
Anthony hummed in agreement.
"Have Radar run sweeping counter-surveillance on the new properties before our men move in. Since Radar hasn't actively participated in any of the kinetic field operations, his cover is completely intact. Also, review the syndicate's internal files. See if we can cherry-pick a few of Viggo's absolute best, high-tier assassins to fold into the new training program."
Abram understood Anthony's strategy perfectly. He knew Anthony had cultivated an incredibly close relationship with both John Wick and Marcus. Those two legends were more than qualified to serve as the elite CQC and sniper instructors for Anthony's new private army.
Since violently seizing control of the Tarasov empire, Anthony had notably refrained from aggressively absorbing Viggo's lucrative, high-end contract assassination division.
Following John Wick's initial retirement five years ago, Viggo had always intended to groom Iosef to inherit the assassination network, while explicitly grooming Anthony to manage the highly complex, logistical arms-trafficking empire.
However, fate had violently rewritten those plans.
Staring at the brilliant, utterly ruthless young man sitting in the command chair, Abram genuinely felt as though he were looking at the terrifying, prime-era shadow of Viggo Tarasov.
Yet, there was a distinct difference. Anthony possessed a level of cold-blooded, highly calculated strategic patience that Viggo had never achieved.
"Anthony... if the High Table Adjudicators conclude that we have preemptively initiated this massive war without their explicit bureaucratic consent..." Abram warned.
"The High Table only respects absolute power and definitive results," Anthony interrupted, his voice cutting through the tension.
"If the Tarasov empire is allowed to fall, the High Table's logistical influence over the entire American East Coast will be severely crippled. An unknown faction is actively attempting to exploit the loopholes in the Table's rules. I am simply going to weaponize those exact same rules to slaughter them."
Anthony pulled his encrypted phone from his pocket. He scrolled through his highly restricted contacts, hesitated for a microscopic second, and then firmly tapped the call button.
The line rang six times before it finally connected.
The background audio was incredibly chaotic. The sharp, distinct clack of billiard balls breaking, the roar of vulgar, drunken laughter, the violent shouting of curses, and the heavy bass of a gritty blues track blasting from an old, blown-out jukebox.
"John," Anthony said.
"Anthony," John's unnervingly calm, gravelly voice echoed through the speaker.
"I need your operational assistance," Anthony stated bluntly, wasting no time on pleasantries.
"An unknown paramilitary force recently assaulted a critical Tarasov oil refinery and successfully hijacked a massive crude tanker. Could you possibly leverage your meeting with the Bowery King to see if his intelligence network knows anything regarding the tactical details?"
There were several seconds of heavy silence on the other end of the line.
The chaotic background noise suddenly, noticeably subsided. John had clearly walked into a private, soundproofed room.
"The Bowery King operates under a strict policy of absolute neutrality regarding internal syndicate warfare," John finally replied. "It is the core rule of his empire."
"I am not asking for his military intervention. I am merely requesting actionable intelligence," Anthony replied smoothly, attempting to inject a lighter, purely transactional tone into his voice. "I am more than willing to purchase the information at a premium."
"I will ask the question," John conceded, "but I absolutely cannot guarantee he will provide an answer."
"That is all I need," Anthony exhaled, a profound wave of relief washing over him. "Thank you, John."
"Anthony," John's voice suddenly shifted, dropping into a terrifyingly serious, lethal warning. "If Santino D'Antonio is genuinely the architect behind this assault... you absolutely must not attempt to move against him right now. Do you understand me?"
"I know the politics, John," Anthony replied smoothly, staring out the window into the pitch-black New York night. He paused for a fraction of a second.
"That is exactly why I desperately need the King's intelligence regarding this mysterious third party. I simply need to accurately identify the enemy so I know exactly where to direct my artillery."
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