Anthony's phone buzzed in his pocket.
Unknown number. He answered anyway, pressing it to his ear.
"Who's this?"
The caller was breathing hard. Street noise bled through the line -- engines, crowd murmur, the scrape of hurried footsteps. Whoever it was, they were moving fast.
Then the voice resolved itself.
Deshawn. The Bloods' top man in New York.
"Anthony, you called it, man." His voice came in bursts, like he was checking over his shoulder between words. "That son of a bitch Carlos -- the people he was dealing with weren't Italians."
A beat.
"They were French."
Deshawn's voice cracked somewhere between fury and fear.
"They've got a warehouse in Red Hook. Inside..." A sharp exhale. "M4s. Shotguns. A goddamn rocket launcher."
A dull thud came through the line. Then fast footsteps. When Deshawn spoke again, his voice had dropped to a harsh whisper.
"They made my guys. I gotta move. Anthony Tarasov, I dragged these hyenas out of the woods for you -- you better--"
"Deshawn." Anthony's voice was flat. "Get this straight. Carlos betrayed you. Not me."
The line went dead.
Anthony pocketed the phone. Something cold settled in his chest.
Gramont wasn't Santino. Santino had been a petulant heir playing at power -- all spectacle, no patience. Gramont was something else entirely. Methodical. Invisible. The fact that he'd stayed out of sight this long meant he was building toward something. Something loud.
Without the Continental putting pressure on that leash, there was nothing to keep the noise from going citywide.
"Frenchmen," Winston murmured from across the room.
The composure he wore like a second skin had slipped. He stared at nothing, processing.
"The Marquis de Gramont. His roots run deepest in France, and he..." He trailed off. "He actually came."
His gaze moved fast -- the look of a man counting costs he didn't want to count.
John hadn't moved. He stared at the floor, expression unreadable.
"He likes spectacle, Winston. Paris wasn't enough for him." A pause. "New York is just his next hunting ground."
Marcus set down his drink and straightened.
"John's right. If Gramont is here in force, the Continental can't touch him."
"If the High Table sanctioned his move," Marcus said, "it means certain rules no longer apply to him."
Anthony laughed. "Good. Let him make a scene."
Winston looked at him sharply.
"You want him to break the rules."
"I want the High Table to let him." Anthony nodded. "The more rope they give him, the better."
Marcus shook his head.
"You don't understand what you're walking into, Anthony. The High Table might tolerate Gramont. Gramont won't tolerate you."
Anthony glanced between Marcus and John. A small smile crossed his face.
"As long as you two are standing, I'm not in any real danger."
He let the pause stretch.
"Besides -- I'm still holding both your Markers."
"Goddamn it!" Winston shot to his feet, wheeling on John. "You gave him a-- what the hell were you--"
"Three men make a tiger." Marcus shrugged, citing the old saying with the calm of a man who'd made his peace with worse decisions. The more powerful the names behind a threat, the harder anyone finds it to call the bluff.
"If anything happens to me," Anthony continued, "the Markers activate automatically. You both know what that means."
"I understand," John said, not looking up.
"Do you have any idea what you're saying?" Winston's voice cut the room. "You're holding the High Table at knifepoint. You're threatening the foundation of the Twelve Seats."
He wasn't wrong, and Anthony knew it. This wasn't a private conversation -- it was a declaration. Winston understood that clearly enough. If the Marquis de Gramont moved against the Tarasovs, he'd be walking into two legends already committed.
Anthony lit a cigarette.
"There are only eleven seats left," he said, smoke curling from his lips. "And nobody's filling that vacancy for at least six months."
Silence.
All three of them turned to look at him.
Marcus recovered first. His expression shifted -- something between disbelief and dawning horror. "Damn it, you mean--"
"Anthony!" Winston's voice went full throttle. "Do you understand what you are actually thinking?!"
John said nothing. He just looked at Anthony with that particular exhausted patience he reserved for situations that had already gotten out of hand.
"If we want John out of the position he's in," Anthony said, "then that seat..."
He left the sentence open.
I want to try for it.
Winston's jaw tightened. He swallowed whatever came first and chose something more measured -- barely.
To sit among the Twelve Seats, a family had to clear three walls that weren't designed to be cleared.
First: Blood and lineage.
Seat holders came from founding families. Authority traced back centuries -- to the 12th century, in some cases earlier. Power wasn't declared. It was inherited through generations of iron and ceremony.
Second: Global reach.
The Tarasovs ran New York gray markets. Their wealth was real, but local. The families holding Twelve Seats ran transnational empires spanning logistics, finance, and arms networks across every continent. Measured against that standard, the Tarasovs were a neighborhood outfit facing a multinational corporation. The gap wasn't political -- it was structural.
Third: Absolute submission to the rules.
The Twelve weren't just powerful -- they were the living embodiment of the High Table's code. Every member was expected to bleed for it if necessary. What Iosef did -- killing John's dog, burning his house, dragging the entire underworld into chaos over a personal grudge -- that reckless, self-serving impunity was exactly the kind of rot the Twelve Seats feared most in a candidate.
Marcus's hand trembled slightly as he lit a cigarette.
"I support you," he said. Flat. Final. "To hell with the rest of it."
He exhaled a slow stream of smoke.
"And John."
John didn't agree. He stared at the floor.
"I don't want you to die."
A pause. Then, like it cost him something to add:
"But you can't be one of the Twelve."
Anthony smiled and said nothing.
That smile disturbed Winston more than anything else in the room. He'd already run the math the moment Anthony said it. There was exactly one way a man like Anthony could punch through all three of those walls.
Become the next John Wick.
Not join the table -- burn it down.
But that wasn't a bid for a seat. That was the opening move of a revolution. And even then, the probability was roughly equivalent to a street boss winning a permanent seat on the UN Security Council.
Winston looked at all three of them and exhaled -- barely audible.
Even with two legends at his back, Anthony couldn't carry the full weight of the High Table alone.
"So what do you need from us?" Marcus asked. He was already leaning forward, already committed.
Anthony shook his head. He walked to the bar and poured two fingers of whiskey.
"Nothing. Not yet." He lifted the glass. "Neither of you gets involved."
Marcus turned sharply.
"You're joking. Gramont didn't earn his seat by being lucky, Anthony. He is not Santino."
"Exactly," Anthony said, and took a slow sip. The amber caught the light. "Which is why I'm not sending two legendary assassins to shadow a handful of Frenchmen. The moment Gramont sees that kind of weight moving, he'll know we're watching."
Winston rose slowly from his chair. His gaze swept all three of them with the expression of a man deciding whether he could survive what he was about to hear.
"You are saying all of this..." His voice dropped to a dangerous quiet. "In my hotel. In front of me. I am a senior executive of the High Table."
The three of them carried on as if he hadn't spoken.
Winston understood then. They weren't ignoring him out of carelessness. They were doing this in front of him deliberately -- either to bring him in or to put him on record. Probably both.
He didn't like it either way.
"So what's the play?" John asked, frowning.
Anthony set his glass down.
"I flush him out. Force him to show his face."
He looked up.
"Whether he likes it or not."
Marcus pressed. "Anthony, Gramont isn't here on holiday. Whatever he's building, it connects to the High Table at the root."
"I know."
"Then moving on him without the full picture--"
"Tips him off. Yes." Anthony held his gaze. "You asked if Gramont enjoys cat and mouse. Fine. If he wants to treat the Tarasovs like the mouse in this city..."
He smiled.
"...I'd love to show him a mouse that swallows the elephant whole."
He turned to Winston and grinned at him -- direct, deliberate, just a shade past polite.
"And if he keeps pressing after that? You really think I'll just sit there and take it?"
"Stop looking at me like that when you talk!" Winston snarled.
He grabbed his glass and drained it in one motion.
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