Santino was momentarily taken aback by Anthony's sudden outburst.
However, when he noticed the three massive Continental Enforcers had actively surrounded the young Russian, a sinister, highly confident sneer returned to the Camorra boss's face.
"The Marker is not merely a bureaucratic shackle designed to bind low-level assassins to their masters," Anthony continued, slowly standing up. He casually adjusted his perfectly tailored suit cuffs, completely ignoring the armed Enforcers breathing down his neck.
"The Blood Oath is specifically designed to function as the sharpest, most ruthless fang when the apex predators of the High Table inevitably decide to tear each other apart."
Anthony locked eyes with the arrogant Italian prince. His voice dropped into a terrifyingly calm, mocking register.
"Rules are rules, Santino. If you actively decide to weaponize a Blood Oath to forcefully orchestrate a coup... you should have logically expected that exact same weapon to violently turn against you!"
Anthony's lethal gaze smoothly bypassed Winston's rigidly tense shoulder, landing squarely on his prey standing triumphantly in the morning light just beyond the bronze doors.
A fierce, hateful glint flashed through Santino's dark eyes.
"You listen to me, Tarasov. The exact second my sanctuary paperwork is officially processed, I am going to utilize every single resource at my disposal to violently eradicate your entire bloodline from New York City."
Anthony paid absolutely no attention to the frantic threat.
"You are never going to sit in that chair, Santino," Anthony declared, his voice suddenly rising in absolute authority. "The High Table is a consortium of ruthless pragmatists. They will absolutely never officially acknowledge a violently unstable madman who attempted to secure his throne by explicitly murdering his own flesh and blood."
"When Gianna's blood flooded across your expensive Italian loafers in those Roman catacombs, you should have instantly realized the truth. You are nothing but a disposable, temporary consumable. The High Table simply permitted your little coup so they could legally utilize you to permanently consume John Wick."
Anthony's razor-sharp words acted like a red-hot dagger, violently piercing directly into the heart of Santino's deepest, most profound insecurities.
Santino's pupils contracted sharply. Heavy, throbbing veins bulged aggressively against his sweaty forehead.
"You are spouting absolute, desperate nonsense!" Santino shouted, losing his composure. "The High Table desperately needs me! They need the massive financial infrastructure of the D'Antonio family!"
"Perhaps," Anthony replied with a freezing, pitying smile. "But even if they do... you are never going to get the opportunity to provide it."
Anthony slowly tilted his head, purposefully turning so Winston could clearly read the shape of his lips.
Watch.
Moving incredibly slowly to ensure the three hyper-vigilant Enforcers didn't interpret his action as drawing a weapon, Anthony smoothly slipped his right hand into the inner breast pocket of his jacket.
When his hand slowly re-emerged, resting casually in his palm was a heavy, ornate object that closely resembled an antique pocket watch.
It was a heavy, solid bronze disc, roughly five centimeters in diameter.
The front casing was intricately decorated with a deeply embossed pattern: a set of perfectly balanced scales tightly intertwined with a lethal dagger. The horizontal beam of the scales was violently severed by the blade piercing directly through the center of the disc.
It was the absolute, core symbol of the High Table's philosophy. It represented a fundamental law: "True balance can only be achieved through violent sacrifice, and the sanctity of the Contract officially supersedes both life and death."
The heavy metal totem featured deeply carved lines and an incredibly fine Latin inscription etched permanently along the outer edge.
Facere aut mori.
It translated to: Comply, or Die.
This small, heavy metal disc carried the absolute, most apocalyptic rule within the entire global underworld.
Once a Blood Oath was officially formed, the bond was utterly inescapable. It lasted until death.
Either the target of the Marker died, or the holder of the Marker died.
There was absolutely no third option.
A Marker?!
The victorious, arrogant smile plastered across Santino's face instantly froze.
Winston's eyes widened in absolute shock. He suddenly remembered the chaotic aftermath of Viggo's death. Anthony possesses Marcus's Marker!
Just as the arrogant, deeply smug smile on Santino's face reached its absolute, most brilliant peak... it vanished entirely.
CRACK!
A sudden, deafening, unsuppressed gunshot violently ruptured from the rooftop of a commercial building located a full block down the avenue.
The terrifying sound traveled from an incredible distance, carrying a deeply chilling, heavy supersonic crack that echoed violently against the concrete canyons of the city.
Time seemed to entirely freeze at that exact millisecond.
In a microscopic fraction of a second, all the profound smugness, desperate arrogance, and absolute self-assurance on Santino's bruised face were completely erased, instantly replaced by a look of pure, unadulterated astonishment and absolute bewilderment.
His wildly disheveled hair suddenly whipped violently backward, looking exactly as if he had just been backhanded by an invisible giant.
Dead center on that handsome, deeply sinister face—located precisely one inch above the bridge of his nose—a tiny, yet incredibly glaring, dark red flower of blood suddenly burst open without a fraction of warning.
A microsecond later, at the exact corresponding position on the back of his skull, an infinitely larger, grotesquely violent exit wound suddenly exploded outward.
A horrifying, crimson mixture of shattered bone fragments, grey brain matter, and thick, arterial blood violently erupted from the back of his head. It looked exactly like a massive, overripe tomato that had just been violently crushed in a vice.
The gore sprayed aggressively outward in a massive, jet-like cone, violently painting the immaculate marble steps of the hotel in a grotesque display of terrifying, aesthetic violence!
Winston's pupils instantly dilated to their absolute maximum size. Every single drop of color violently drained from his aristocratic face in a flash.
All that remained was a mask of deathly pale white and absolute, profound horror.
Winston's entire body shuddered violently, exactly as if the fatal, supersonic bullet had physically struck his own soul.
When Winston finally processed the tactical reality of what had just occurred, a deeply profound, freezing chill settled permanently into his eyes.
Just a few days ago, this terrifying kid had personally assassinated two rival captains directly on the front steps of the Continental.
And now, he had officially orchestrated the high-profile assassination of a newly minted High Table successor, utilizing Marcus as his proxy trigger-man, on those exact same steps.
Santino D'Antonio—a man who was mere inches away from crossing the threshold of the ultimate, untouchable sanctuary—had just been violently executed.
Santino's ruined body instantly lost all neurological support. He folded exactly like a piece of violently felled, rotting timber.
Maintaining the vaguely ridiculous posture of having one foot raised, desperately attempting to step forward onto the sanctuary stairs, his corpse fell heavily backward.
With a sickening, muffled thud, his ruined body crashed violently against the cold, unforgiving marble pavement.
Thick, dark arterial blood rapidly pooled beneath his shattered skull. It looked exactly like a winding, crimson river, rapidly forming into a viscous, expanding lake of gore on the Continental's pristine entryway.
Santino's dark eyes—which mere seconds ago had been violently burning with absolute ambition, desperate calculation, and profound arrogance—now stared entirely blankly at the bronze doors of the hotel that had been so agonizingly close.
He was utterly, permanently silent.
[System Alert: High-Value Target Eliminated. 3 Attribute Points Awarded!]
Anthony was genuinely surprised. He absolutely never expected that successfully orchestrating Santino's assassination via proxy would instantly net him three massive attribute points!
So, the System operates on a strict hierarchy, Anthony deduced instantly. The higher the target's political position and global power, the greater the statistical reward.
"AGH—!"
Following a brief, deeply suffocating second of absolute silence, the terrified screams of Santino's surviving bodyguards finally ruptured the morning air, instantly followed by chaotic, wildly inaccurate retaliatory gunfire.
Looking exactly like a swarm of desperately angry hornets whose nest had just been violently crushed, the Camorra mercenaries frantically raised their assault rifles and began firing blindly in all directions. They desperately saturated the vague, blurry direction of the distant high-rise buildings with covering fire.
However, they absolutely could not locate a single trace of the legendary sniper.
Profound fear and absolute, paralyzing confusion instantly replaced their previous, highly disciplined ferocity.
Capitalizing entirely on the absolute chaos, John Wick smoothly advanced from his cover and violently, systematically executed the remaining, panicked bodyguards with terrifying, robotic efficiency.
Inside the luxurious lobby of the Continental Hotel, time seemed entirely frozen.
The early-morning guests and the impeccably dressed waitstaff stood entirely paralyzed in place, their faces perfectly mirroring Winston's absolute horror.
Charon's face remained as perfectly calm and completely expressionless as ever, though a faint, highly dangerous hint of profound understanding flickered deep within his observant eyes.
Winston slowly, rigidly turned his head.
His deeply magnified eyes held a profound, absolutely unfathomable chill as they permanently locked onto Anthony's perfectly calm face.
Winston wasn't angry that Anthony had successfully utilized an ancient Blood Oath to legally assassinate a massive political threat like Santino.
He was absolutely furious that this arrogant, terrifying kid kept purposefully orchestrating massive, violently bloody executions directly on his pristine front steps!
John Wick finally rushed up to the perimeter of the hotel, his chest heaving as he desperately panted for air.
His heavily customized, tactical bulletproof suit was completely ruined, heavily scored with countless white burn marks and grazing bullet impacts.
John slowly looked down at Santino's completely shattered skull. He then slowly looked up, his deeply complicated gaze locking directly onto Anthony, who was standing perfectly calmly at the top of the stairs.
John absolutely did not feel manipulated or betrayed by Anthony's tactical ambush. In fact, John had distinctly suspected that Santino would desperately attempt to flee to the ultimate safety of the Continental sanctuary.
Anthony simply waited for the rabbit to desperately sprint directly into the snare, John realized, exhausted. While I was forced to violently fight my way through a goddamn army.
"Winston," Anthony spoke up clearly, his voice echoing through the silent lobby as he slowly held up the heavy bronze Marker.
"According to the ancient, absolute, and deeply sacred rules of the High Table... the bureaucratic debt of a formal Blood Oath supersedes all personal blood feuds and petty grievances."
"The verified holder of an active Marker possesses the absolute, unquestionable right to legally pursue the life of the debtor, provided they operate strictly within the established framework of the rules."
Anthony slowly stepped forward, casually bypassing the frozen Enforcers, and gently handed the heavy, blood-sealed Marker directly to the Manager.
"Now," Anthony commanded softly, looking directly into Winston's incredibly complex, profoundly shocked face.
"Please officially update your registry, Winston. Mark this specific Blood Oath—legally held by myself, and physically executed by my authorized agent, Marcus Esteban—as officially fulfilled."
Winston's Adam's apple bobbed laboriously once more.
The Manager slowly looked down at the heavy, ancient Marker resting in his trembling hand. He then looked back out through the open bronze doors at the rapidly cooling corpse violently bleeding out on his front steps.
A tremendous, suffocating sense of absolute powerlessness and profound chill instantly swept entirely over the veteran Manager.
The sacred rules. The absolute, unbending laws that the High Table actively utilized to ruthlessly oppress and look down upon all living beings in the underworld...
This terrifyingly young, brilliant mob boss had just successfully weaponized those exact same laws with absolute, flawless perfection.
Winston remained entirely silent. It felt as though an agonizing eternity had passed.
Finally, moving with extreme, deeply reluctant slowness, Winston reached into the breast pocket of his impeccably tailored suit and pulled out a heavy, solid-gold fountain pen—the ultimate, bureaucratic symbol of his absolute authority as the Manager of the New York Continental.
His hand visibly trembled, though he desperately attempted to hide it.
He slowly opened the incredibly thick, black leather registry resting on the mahogany counter—the sacred ledger that explicitly recorded all official hotel transactions, bounties, and High Table rulings—and turned to a specific, heavily formatted page.
The gold nib of the expensive pen hovered heavily over the blank parchment. A single drop of dark blue ink slowly gathered at the tip and fell, rapidly spreading into a small, deep stain on the page—perfectly mirroring Winston's profoundly dark, unspeakable state of mind at that exact moment.
Winston violently gritted his teeth. His wrist moved with stiff, mechanical precision as he forcefully carved the cold, unyielding words into the official registry.
[Official Blood Oath Settlement]
Debtor: Santino D'Antonio.
Method of Repayment: Termination of Life.
Authorized Agent (Executioner): Marcus Esteban.
Verified Oath Holder: Anthony Tarasov.
Location of Settlement: Public Street, immediately adjacent to the New York Continental Hotel (Legally verified as Outside Sanctuary Boundaries).
Each individual word he aggressively carved into the paper seemed to violently drain him of all his remaining strength.
When the final, absolute keystroke was officially written, Winston slowly looked back up. He stared into those terrifyingly calm, grey-blue eyes that were completely filled with absolute, overwhelming wisdom and flawless tactical control.
With only a deeply profound, incredibly complex weariness and a violently emerging sense of absolute dread remaining in his heart, Winston silently stared at the terrifyingly young apex predator standing before him...
Anthony Tarasov.
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