The massive Cadillac's tires rolled smoothly over Brooklyn's wet, rain-slicked asphalt. The brilliant glow of the passing streetlights cast long, violently strobing streaks of light across Anthony's dark pupils.
In the rearview mirror, Sergei's heavily taut, deeply stressed jawline was faintly visible in the cabin's shadows.
Anthony leaned comfortably back into the plush leather seat. Inside his mind, his [Compensatory Perception] operated like a massive, invisible spider web, systematically dissecting and reconstructing every single tactical detail of the last few days.
Sergei carefully observed his young boss through the mirror. The kid's face, though far too young for the immense power he wielded, was entirely devoid of human emotion.
Only a terrifying, freezing calculation flickered deep within his eyes—a look so profoundly ruthless it sent a genuine chill down the spine of the veteran Russian enforcer.
"Sergei," Anthony's smooth voice suddenly broke the heavy silence. "The paramilitary strike team that raided the Staten Island refinery last night was absolutely not affiliated with the Bloods. And they did not belong to the Camorra."
Sergei's massive fingers tightened violently around the steering wheel, causing the expensive leather to audibly creak under the immense pressure.
"Boss, the surviving captains already know they weren't actually Bloods. It's blatantly obvious that an unknown third party is utilizing street gangs to divert our operational focus."
Anthony's gaze seemed to wander off, staring blankly into the dark city.
"Santino D'Antonio certainly possesses the political intellect required to orchestrate a false-flag operation of this magnitude, but he absolutely does not possess the required time or bandwidth right now."
"Boss... could the Crips have somehow pooled their resources and hired tier-one mercenaries to cripple us?" Sergei asked, though he immediately shook his head, instantly denying his own hypothesis.
The Crips simply didn't possess the suicidal audacity required to openly assault a recognized Tarasov logistical hub.
"The only logical scenario is that the unknown faction orchestrating this proxy war possesses an absolutely massive, virtually limitless global infrastructure," Anthony stated, seemingly reading Sergei's mind.
"Maintain absolute, twenty-four-hour surveillance on the Bloods, focusing entirely on Carlos and his immediate lieutenants," Anthony commanded, his gaze drifting to the fleeting shadows outside the reinforced window.
"If this unseen puppet master possesses the financial capital required to effortlessly bribe the second-in-command of the Bloods, then every single rat currently scurrying through the New York sewers—the Crips, the Latin Kings, the Hells Angels—could potentially be stuffed with a bag of gold coins and transformed into a loaded gun pointed directly at my head."
"Furthermore," Anthony continued, his voice dropping into a lethal register, "I want to know exactly who Boris has been drinking with at the Red Circle lately. And I want a comprehensive forensic audit of Anya's personal offshore accounts. Look for any highly unusual, untraceable deposits."
Sergei tightened his grip on the wheel even further.
"Understood, Boss. I will personally command my absolute best intelligence gatherers to cast a massive net over their operations. Any suspicious activity will be reported directly to you."
He paused, his deep voice heavily tinged with genuine disbelief and profound hesitation.
"But Boss... are you genuinely suspecting Boris and Madam Anya of treason? They are high-ranking, blood-adjacent family members..."
"Madam Anya... her absolute loyalty to Viggo was legendary. And while Boris is an arrogant fool, he is just..."
"Just incredibly stupid," Anthony interrupted, his tone completely flat and unforgiving.
"He is so profoundly stupid that he genuinely believes he can ascend to the throne of this empire by acting as a highly paid informant. He is so incredibly stupid that he has completely forgotten who personally executed Viggo."
Anthony let out a cold, deeply mocking laugh.
"What exactly are arbitrary blood ties and past marital bonds worth when compared to a massive influx of untraceable gold and a desperate chance to survive a gang war? Sergei, you know better than anyone in this organization exactly why Viggo was killed."
"That pathetic idiot, Boris, has absolutely nothing inside his hollow skull besides a profound addiction to cheap alcohol, expensive women, and a desperate, pathetic lust for absolute power. Whenever he looks at me, I can see him visualizing exactly how he wants to devour me alive. As for Anya..."
The striking image of the beautiful, deeply hardened woman with her signature scarlet fingernails and gloomy, hate-filled eyes flashed clearly through Anthony's mind.
"Her fierce loyalty to Viggo was entirely genuine. And because that loyalty was genuine, her profound hatred for me is equally real. She fundamentally believes Viggo died solely because of the political treaty I brokered with John Wick. She will forever hold me personally accountable for Viggo's assassination."
"She is simply holding her tongue for the moment, biding her time until the perfect opportunity arises to completely crush me. Or perhaps she is simply waiting for Santino's massive bounty hunters to execute her revenge for her."
"Keep an absolute, suffocating watch on both of them. I need to know the identity of every single suspicious individual they have communicated with over the last seventy-two hours."
Sergei took a deep, shuddering breath, desperately attempting to suppress the profound shock echoing in his heart.
Actively monitoring core, high-ranking family members was almost always the bloody prelude to a massive, internal syndicate purge.
But Sergei was deeply, intimately aware of the new, young boss's absolutely terrifying CQC capabilities, and the unfathomable, apocalyptic backing he possessed from the High Table Adjudicator.
"Yes, Boss."
Sergei's Adam's apple bobbed violently. Cold sweat slowly trickled down his temples.
Violent suspicion within a mafia family operated exactly like a rapidly spreading, highly poisonous vine. He simply never imagined the rot would so quickly entangle the faces he had known and fought alongside for years.
"I need the absolute truth, Sergei," Anthony's voice trailed off softly.
"Whether the conspiracy is hidden at the bottom of Boris's whiskey glass, or buried deep beneath Anya's vanity mirror. Utilize only the operatives you trust with your life, and investigate those two captains exactly as if they were rival syndicate bosses."
"Yes, Boss," Sergei replied. His voice was entirely dry as he locked his eyes on the dark road ahead.
At 6:00 AM, the massive metropolis of New York City was not yet fully awake.
The heavy, pristine bronze doors of the Continental Hotel slid open silently as Anthony approached, looking exactly like the slowly opening jaws of a magnificent, dormant beast.
It was incredibly early. Only a few heavily guarded, insomniac assassins and the hotel's ever-meticulous, sharply dressed waitstaff occupied the cavernous, luxurious lobby.
Charon stood perfectly still behind the iconic mahogany front desk, looking exactly like a flawless, impeccably dressed statue.
Upon seeing Anthony enter the lobby alone, Charon offered a slight, deeply respectful bow. His deep, observant gaze lingered for a fraction of a second on the empty space directly behind Anthony.
"Mr. Tarasov. Welcome back. Would you care for the kitchen to prepare an early breakfast for you?"
Charon's voice remained as deeply calming and impeccably steady as always.
"Just a coffee. Black. Thank you, Charon."
Anthony walked purposefully toward a specific cluster of plush leather sofas situated near the front of the lobby and sat down.
He had specifically chosen a highly tactical, incredibly tricky position.
The angle allowed him a perfect, unobstructed view of the main entrance doors, while a massive, decorative Roman pillar situated directly to his left provided excellent, immediate ballistic cover.
A few moments later, Winston smoothly emerged from the deep shadows of the adjacent VIP lounge.
The Manager was wearing a perfectly tailored, dark grey three-piece suit. His gaze, heavily magnified behind his signature gold-rimmed glasses, was as sharp as a hunting hawk's, locking instantly onto Anthony.
Winston's expression carried an undisguised, highly analytical scrutiny, heavily laced with a barely perceptible undercurrent of genuine tension.
"Anthony," Winston greeted in a low, even voice. He walked over with a deliberately slow, highly measured pace and sat in the armchair opposite the young Russian.
"You are up rather early. It seems your highly eventful journey to Rome did not afford you the opportunity for adequate rest."
Winston did not bother asking about John's whereabouts. He cut directly to the tactical heart of the matter.
"Who exactly are you waiting for, Anthony? Or more accurately... what exactly are you planning to do inside my lobby?"
Anthony calmly picked up the steaming cup of black coffee the waiter had just silently placed on the table and took a slow sip.
He didn't shy away from Winston's intense gaze. A faint, highly dangerous smile slowly curled the corner of his mouth.
"I am waiting for a very specific guest, Winston."
"Someone we are both deeply acquainted with. And quite frankly, the absolute last person on earth either of us wants to see standing in this lobby today."
Winston's pupils contracted almost imperceptibly.
He knew exactly who Anthony was referring to.
The entirety of the global underworld was currently vibrating with violent excitement over the massive, seven-million-dollar open contract Santino had placed on John Wick. And Winston knew that when the Baba Yaga inevitably cornered him, the Continental Hotel would serve as Santino's absolute, final refuge under the laws of the High Table.
Winston leaned forward slightly. His voice dropped into a significantly lower register, carrying a profound, undeniable warning.
"Anthony. This is the Continental Hotel. It is a sacred place of absolute rules. It is a designated sanctuary of complete neutrality."
"Whatever blood feuds you possess can be violently settled the moment you step back onto the public pavement. You can slaughter each other in the streets and I will not care in the slightest. But absolutely no blood will be spilled in here. I will absolutely not allow you to instigate a firefight inside my lobby. Do you clearly understand me?"
Winston heavily emphasized the words absolutely not with terrifyingly stern authority.
Anthony slowly lowered his coffee cup. The fine porcelain clinked softly against the marble tabletop.
He looked up, his grey-blue eyes perfectly calm as they met Winston's deeply apprehensive gaze.
"Do not worry, Winston," Anthony smiled warmly. "I intimately understand the sacred rules of the Continental."
"I will absolutely not do anything to jeopardize my standing with the Adjudicator."
Winston did not believe him for a single second.
I do not believe a word coming out of this boy's mouth, Winston thought grimly. At least, not under these specific circumstances.
This arrogant kid had operated with absolutely zero political scruples while the Adjudicator was physically present in the city. Not only had he orchestrated an incredibly excessive, bloody purge of his own syndicate, but he had blatantly, violently threatened a High Table successor directly inside the Roman Continental!
Winston slowly removed his gold-rimmed glasses and pressed his perfectly manicured fingers against the bridge of his nose, staving off a massive headache.
"Santino D'Antonio has officially submitted a formal, highly expedited application to the High Table," Winston revealed quietly. "He has formally requested that the New York Continental provide him with absolute, twenty-four-hour diplomatic sanctuary."
Anthony's warm smile instantly vanished, replaced by a mask of freezing ice.
"I am well aware, Winston. Which is exactly why I am sitting here waiting for him."
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