"I cannot be entirely certain regarding Gramont's timeline," Anthony admitted, slowly walking over to the crystal liquor cabinet. He bypassed the expensive whiskey and poured himself a simple glass of iced water.
"I can guarantee that Carlos, the second-in-command of the Bloods, was heavily bribed to orchestrate the false-flag attack. However, his mysterious financial backer is definitively not Santino D'Antonio."
"The unseen mastermind behind this proxy war... may simply be utilizing the violently chaotic environment of the New York underworld to securely mask their invasion."
"I have officially ordered Deshawn to violently investigate his own ranks. If Carlos desperately attempts to contact his mysterious handler during the interrogation... I possess the surveillance infrastructure required to aggressively trace that specific connection."
"Deshawn?" Winston scoffed loudly, his aristocratic disdain bleeding through.
"An uneducated, rabid street dog who actively rose to power by physically hanging his predecessor's severed head from a suspension bridge? He is entirely unreliable."
John Wick thought for a moment, his brow furrowing. "Marcus is personally acquainted with a few deeply entrenched information brokers who have operated out of Brooklyn for over two decades. Their investigative instincts are significantly sharper than trained bloodhounds."
"Absolutely not," Anthony shook his head sharply, a deeply cold glint flashing in his eyes.
"Gramont's vanguard operatives are absolutely watching Deshawn, and they are certainly monitoring you from the shadows, John. If Marcus actively makes a move on the street, his presence will instantly alert the Marquis to our investigation. Alternatively, allowing a rabid, chaotic dog like Deshawn to violently crash through the front door will aggressively force the puppeteer to reveal their true position."
"The largest, most elusive predators always rapidly surface when the water is violently churned, do they not?"
Winston was completely speechless. A fresh, fine layer of cold sweat beaded across his forehead.
This young man's tactical intellect is utterly terrifying, Winston realized with a sinking heart.
Anthony did not bother continuing the political debate; some brutal truths were infinitely better left entirely unspoken.
Anthony had long realized that the High Table viewed Santino as an entirely disposable pawn—a pawn they had desperately hoped John Wick would violently assassinate inside the Continental Hotel, thereby guaranteeing John's Excommunicado status.
But by successfully orchestrating Santino's legal assassination outside the Continental, Anthony had violently disrupted the overarching rhythm of the High Table's grand chess match.
Anthony absolutely would not alter his tactical hypothesis simply because John and Winston were in denial regarding the Marquis's terrifying presence.
After all, the geopolitical timing of the refinery strike was incredibly sensitive.
Even if the mysterious, hostile faction ultimately proved not to be the Marquis de Gramont, Anthony fully intended to systematically address the violent provocation with absolute, apocalyptic vigilance and the highest possible level of lethal retaliation.
Anthony slowly walked over to the massive stone fireplace. The violently dancing flames cast sharp, heavily flickering shadows across his unreadable face.
"Absolute chaos provides the ultimate hunting ground. Do you not agree, Marquis?"
Staring deeply into the roaring furnace, Anthony softly murmured the question to himself, before letting out a perfectly silent, freezing laugh.
At that exact moment, the heavy oak door of the executive suite was smoothly pushed open.
Marcus quietly stepped into the room. He gently closed the heavy door behind him, the sharp, metallic click of the locking latch echoing clearly through the tense silence.
The legendary sniper didn't even glance at Anthony, nor did he acknowledge Winston. His deeply exhausted, infinitely sharp gaze was fixed entirely upon John Wick. It was exactly as if the two veteran assassins were the only living souls in the room.
The air within the suite was heavy, filled with the pungent aroma of spilled, premium whiskey intertwining tightly with the sharp scent of the burning pine in the fireplace.
"John," Marcus finally spoke, utilizing his chin to gesture toward the massive, floor-to-ceiling window.
The gesture pointed directly toward the street below—the exact location where Santino D'Antonio had just died. The absolute, sacred, and previously inviolable physical boundary of the Continental Hotel's ultimate rule.
"I need you to look me in the eye and honestly answer me..."
Marcus took a slow, heavy step forward.
"If... if Santino had genuinely managed to step a single foot through those bronze doors, and was physically standing on the hotel's carpet..."
Marcus paused, seemingly attempting to violently gather his emotional strength for the following question, or perhaps deliberately providing John adequate time to truly process the terrifying hypothetical.
The air in the luxurious suite seemed to entirely freeze. The rhythmic crackling of the fireplace flames suddenly felt infinitely magnified.
Winston entirely held his breath. His manicured fingers unconsciously tightened their grip on the sofa armrests, the expensive leather physically deforming under his desperate touch.
Anthony, on the other hand, stood exactly like a freezing marble sculpture. His eyes were entirely devoid of any human emotion, simply staring silently at the Baba Yaga.
Marcus took a deeply shuddering breath.
He asked the singular, apocalyptic question that was powerful enough to violently shake the very geopolitical foundations of the Continental Hotel.
"Would you have actually shot him in here? Inside this sacred sanctuary, directly defying the absolute laws of the High Table?"
Time forcefully stretched out again, entirely frozen.
The freezing morning sunlight outside the massive windows seemed to significantly dim, leaving only the violently flickering flames in the fireplace to cast incredibly deep, aggressive shadows across John's heavily bruised, angular face.
The fresh, tiny lacerations covering John's cheekbones were glaringly visible in the firelight, completely covered in a chaotic mixture of dried sweat and congealed blood.
John slowly raised his head.
He didn't look at Marcus. He didn't look at Winston. His incredibly deep, mournful eyes seemed to completely bypass the physical reality of the room.
It was exactly as if his gaze had violently pierced through the thick, reinforced walls of the hotel, desperately looking at a place located very, very far away.
A place that still possessed a beautiful home, vibrant green grass, and Helen's impossibly warm, loving smile shining brilliantly under the sun.
A life that had been ruthlessly, violently stolen from him, leaving behind nothing but cold marble tombstones and a bottomless, apocalyptic well of hatred.
Moving slowly, but with terrifying steadiness, John raised his right hand and gently pressed it against his chest.
The movement carried an incredibly solemn, profoundly heavy weight.
His bruised fingers reached deep inside his ruined, bullet-riddled tactical suit, slowly slipping into a hidden inner pocket.
He pulled out an incredibly old, heavily faded metal dog tag.
The edges of the tag were worn completely smooth by time, and the silver chain had entirely lost its metallic luster.
Engraved heavily into the metal, the name and blood type of his deceased wife were still clearly legible.
John utilized the calloused pad of his thumb to trace the cold, metal surface incredibly slowly.
The physical movement was as deeply gentle as a man desperately touching the world's most fragile treasure, yet it clearly carried the agonizing weight of the entire universe.
Every single micro-friction seemed to violently awaken the long-lost warmth that had been lying dormant deep within the cold metal.
The roaring flames in the fireplace violently surged upward for a fraction of a second, crackling aggressively and illuminating John's grief-stricken face in stark, terrifying half-light.
John finally spoke. His voice was incredibly low, yet unyieldingly deep.
Every single syllable violently struck the hearts of the men in the room, impossibly heavy and absolutely undeniable.
"I would have killed him. Anytime. Anywhere."
The corner of John's bruised lips violently twitched.
It was absolutely not a smile. It was the terrifying, unhinged look of an apex predator violently baring its fangs.
"The High Table's absolute rules could not save my Daisy. And those sacred rules absolutely cannot restore the precious memories left behind by my wife."
John's voice rose slightly in volume, sounding exactly like a massive, long-suppressed volcano finally erupting with apocalyptic force.
"If that treacherous, poisonous piece of shit, Santino, had genuinely dared to defile the carpets of the Continental Hotel..."
John violently gripped the freezing metal dog tag, squeezing it so tightly it looked exactly as if he were desperately attempting to embed the final physical keepsake of his wife directly into his own flesh and blood.
"I would have utilized a twelve-gauge shotgun."
He spoke with terrifying, agonizing precision.
"I would have systematically blasted every single bone in his aristocratic body into fine dust."
"I would have violently shoved his stupid, arrogant face directly into the sacred High Table rules that they are all so desperately proud of, and forced those high-and-mighty bastards to clearly witness the absolute consequence of touching what is mine."
At this exact moment, John Wick was absolutely no longer the eternally elegant, highly disciplined assassin that Winston and Marcus deeply respected.
He looked exactly like an apocalyptic demon that had been violently imprisoned at the absolute bottom of the abyss for a thousand years, suddenly shattering its heavy shackles and violently returning to the mortal world to enact infinite suffering.
The sheer, suffocating intensity of his killing intent was so physically palpable that it instantly swept through the entire luxury suite. The ambient temperature in the room genuinely seemed to drop several degrees.
Winston physically recoiled, feeling exactly as if he had just been struck by a massive, invisible sledgehammer. His magnified eyes were completely filled with an unprecedented, absolute terror.
Marcus slowly pursed his lips. A heavy, profoundly understanding light flashed deeply within the legendary sniper's eyes—eyes that had intimately witnessed infinite life and death.
Marcus had received his definitive answer. An answer vastly redder than blood, and infinitely colder than any bureaucratic rule.
Standing entirely still on the absolute edge where the deep shadows and the violent firelight violently intertwined, Anthony Tarasov's face remained utterly, terrifyingly expressionless.
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