Manhattan. A bustling newspaper office.
Helen was chatting with a colleague when she received the latest call from her boyfriend.
Seated beside her was a blonde, blue-eyed young woman who waited for Helen to hang up before smirking.
"Your artist boyfriend again?"
Helen let out a quiet sigh, a helpless smile touching her lips.
"Not every man with long hair is an artist, you know."
Truthfully, Helen didn't really know what John did for a living.
He claimed to work in "hotel management" and occasionally handled high-value deliveries.
He disappeared without warning, carried himself with an almost cryptic intensity, and was always astonishingly generous—as though money meant absolutely nothing to him.
Her colleague had seen John a few times whenever he came to pick Helen up.
An aloof, strikingly handsome man.
The kind who immediately made people curious.
"Got a date tonight?" the blonde asked.
"Something like that."
"God, I envy you. Finding a man who actually handles things is basically a miracle in this city."
Helen smiled.
Her colleague was stunning, and nearly half the men in the office had tried asking her out, only to be met with polite but unmistakable disdain.
Helen knew the woman was currently knee-deep in an investigation into teenage prostitution rings, determined to expose some of the city's darkest social horrors.
It was dangerous work.
The kind that involved gang heavyweights and men who didn't like reporters asking questions.
Most journalists stayed as far away from it as possible, afraid of the inevitable blowback.
But this girl—young, beautiful, and utterly fearless—never flinched.
She had even thrown herself straight into the chaos during the Detroit riots, charging directly into the fire just to get the story.
Helen genuinely admired her courage.
Later that afternoon, at the SSR Club, the Dove of Peace was hosting Abram Tarasov in the cigar lounge.
Over the past year, Abram had made a fortune alongside Luca, and his status within the Russian Bratva had risen sharply.
Although he was technically still the younger brother and second-in-command to Viggo Tarasov, Abram was beginning to show subtle signs of ambition—an emerging desire to step out from his brother's shadow.
Wherever Luca's business expanded, Abram followed with full support.
But Boston was different.
Boston was a different kind of beast.
There was already a Russian presence there—powerful, entrenched, and highly territorial.
While they maintained ties to the New York Tarasovs, they were effectively a sovereign entity.
"The man running Boston is named Slavi," Abram explained, taking a slow draw from a premium cigar.
"He reports directly to Pushkin and oversees the Russian Bratva's New England operations."
Luca knew the name.
In the original storyline, Slavi was the man whose throat had been opened by Robert McCall.
A mid-tier thug.
The kind of man who barely had time to realize he was dead before it was over.
His combat value was unimpressive, but his local influence and ego were substantial.
"Pushkin's tankers used to favor the southern Boston ports," Abram continued with a shrug. "Ever since I opened the New York channels with you, Pushkin shifted his priorities. In Slavi's eyes, I'm the guy stealing his lunch money."
"So give me the bad news," Luca said, leaning back in his chair. "Our relationship with Slavi is strained, which means the gasoline tax racket is off the table in his territory?"
Abram looked almost embarrassed.
"Strained? Let's call it homicidally tense."
He flicked the ash from his cigar.
"He controls the oil in South Boston. If you want to move product there, he'll demand a cut big enough to make a saint swear. If we don't want to pay the Slavi tax, we'll need to go around him."
He took another puff.
"Slavi really only controls South Boston and parts of Massachusetts. Doesn't the Mafia still have a footprint there? Find a local family. North Boston and the rest of New England still belong to the Italians."
Luca felt a flicker of irritation.
New England is the Patriarca family territory.
Large on paper.
Six states.
But economically stagnant compared to the gold mines of New York and Philly.
A medium-sized family with an aggressively closed-door policy.
Insular.
Xenophobic.
Deeply suspicious of outsiders—even fellow Mafia members.
The only families they tolerated were the Colombo and Genovese crews, and even then, those families still had to pay a protection fee just to operate.
The Lucchese family had virtually no economic ties with them.
On top of that, Boston had an overwhelming Irish presence.
Much like Detroit, the Irish crews were heavily concentrated in the South Side.
The city itself was a jagged mosaic of Irish and Italian territory lines.
And the strongest Irish faction was the Winter Hill Gang.
Not exactly famous for hospitality.
Luca quickly realized he was heading into a city where he didn't have a single true ally.
He had hoped Abram could smooth things over with the Russians.
Clearly, that avenue was dead.
"Abram, talk to Slavi first," Luca decided.
"Find out his number."
"Let's see exactly how greedy he is."
Abram shrugged.
"He'll ask for the moon. He's been waiting for payback ever since I took those tankers."
If negotiations collapsed, Luca already knew what came next.
He would call in the petitioners.
Between John Wick and Robert McCall, Slavi and Pushkin wouldn't merely lose business.
They'd lose their lives.
One man was a storm of lead.
The other was a ghost who could dismantle an empire without leaving a fingerprint.
Luca was especially eager to bring McCall under his wing.
The man had faked his own death to escape the agency and lived in such deep isolation that even the CIA had trouble tracing him.
The plan is simple.
Probe Slavi ... Pivot if necessary.
If the Russians said no, try the Italians.
If the Italians said no, approach the Irish.
And if the underworld shut every door?
There were always the Boston Feds ... And the FBI.
Surrounded by enemies? Hardly.
Luca would simply give them a reason they couldn't refuse.
Once he stepped into the Boston gang war, he wouldn't merely be participating.
He'd be the one holding the leash.
Night fell over the city.
Abram had barely left the club entrance when John Wick and Helen arrived.
After a year of Luca's subsidized medical care, Helen's condition had stabilized.
Money, it seemed, really could buy time.
She looked healthier than ever, though she still kept the truth about her condition from John.
"I like this life," Helen had once told Luca.
"Talking about the what-ifs only brings the shadows back."
Luca could only marvel at the two of them.
One was hiding a terminal illness.
The other was hiding a body count.
Were they the Wicks?
Or the Smiths?
Helen stood at the bar, watching John settle into a distant booth before turning toward Luca, who was casually mixing a drink.
"Luca, you've known John a long time."
She hesitated.
"Have you ever noticed… he's a man without a home?"
Luca smiled faintly.
"I thought you were his home, Helen."
"I'm his anchor," she corrected softly.
"But his inner world is so vast… and drifting. Like a dandelion in the wind."
Her voice lowered.
"I've caught him for now, but sometimes it feels like he could scatter at any moment."
"You mean he makes you feel insecure?" Luca asked, slipping easily into gossip mode.
"No," she sighed, pain flickering in her eyes.
"He's the insecure one."
"He's so numb sometimes that I've become his only connection to reality."
Her voice trembled slightly.
"That's why I'm afraid to tell him about my health. If I disappear…"
She swallowed.
"…he won't have anything left to feel."
"I honestly don't know how he survived all those years alone."
Luca handed her a glass.
Classic assassin syndrome.
Leon was exactly the same.
Withdrawn.
Disconnected.
Living only enough to buy milk and keep a plant alive.
Most people lived like cogs in a machine, driven by missions—family, work, duty.
But once men like John and Leon had everything they materially needed, they were left hollow.
Leon was better now.
Luca had given him a fairy-tale dream.
Plant Silver Queens all over the world.
Ridiculous.
But it gave the man a reason to wake up every morning.
"First," Luca said gently, "your illness is going to stay under control. We have the best people working on it."
"Second, John isn't as fragile as you think."
He smiled.
"If he needs an anchor, give him something else to hold onto."
"Build shared memories."
Then he suddenly called out:
"Lucky! Come here!"
A perfectly groomed Border Collie bounded out of the shadows and leapt into Luca's lap.
Helen's eyes lit up.
"He's beautiful."
Luca grinned.
"Why don't the two of you get a dog?"
Helen smiled as she ran her fingers through the dog's fur.
"I think I'll ask John about that."
Luca's smile turned mysterious.
The Baba Yaga getting a dog?
That was practically a cosmic event.
Hopefully, New York's animal shelters would survive the consequences if anything ever happened to it.
"Luca," Helen asked suddenly, "do you actually know what John does?"
"I told you," Luca replied smoothly.
"He's a high-level consultant for the hotel's international branches."
"A lot of travel."
"A lot of problem-solving."
Later, Luca met John alone at the bar.
"If you're keeping the mask on, stick to the story," Luca said.
"You're a business manager."
"Helen doesn't want to dig through your ledger, John."
"She just wants to feel safe with you."
John nodded slowly.
"I know."
"Thank you, Dove."
He hesitated.
"I've been thinking…"
"I want out."
"I want to leave the Continental for good."
Luca's expression darkened slightly.
"What's coming will come."
"But leaving the Hotel isn't like quitting a job."
"There's always a blood price."
In the original timeline, men like Caine had to blind himselves.
John only got out by completing an Impossible Task for the Tarasov.
Even then, no one was ever truly free.
The butcher's knife was always one marker away.
"If Viggo can't give you what you need," Luca said sincerely, "wait until I'm strong enough to shake the High Table itself."
He held John's gaze.
"I'll give you your freedom."
John looked into Luca's eyes.
Then raised his glass.
"I'll go to Boston with you."
"I'll help you take the city."
"For your goals…"
He paused.
"…and for mine."
[Bond: Close Friend]
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