"Viktor's deputy commander, Pavel Semyonov," Sergei introduced the loudmouth, his voice tight with anxiety. "He is also Viktor's cousin."
Anthony frowned in genuine annoyance. "Is there a sudden housing crisis in Siberia? Why does this syndicate insist on cramming all sorts of random, inbred strays into the family home?"
Sergei shot a nervous, pleading glance at the surrounding captains, then hesitated, not daring to agree out loud.
"Are you fucking talking about me?" Pavel roared, violently slamming his heavy fist onto the mahogany table. "You're just a nameless bastard child! You have the sheer nerve to walk in here and call us strays?"
Anthony didn't even bother to look at him. He calmly reached into his pocket and pulled out his burner phone.
"Do you have a clear line of sight?" Anthony asked casually as he dialed a number.
Standing right behind Anthony's chair, Sergei glanced down and saw the contact name displayed on the screen: Old Ma.
A gruff, gravelly grunt of affirmation echoed through the phone's speaker.
"It seems there are still quite a few rebellious traitors lingering in the family structure," Anthony said loudly, his voice dripping with utter disdain. "The Adjudicator really is profoundly incompetent. What an absolute joke of a 'purge' she conducted. It seems from now on, I'm going to have to do all the heavy lifting myself."
Aurelio and Sergei visibly trembled as they watched the young Patriarch begin to seemingly ramble incoherently.
Are you actually insane? Sergei thought, panic gripping his chest. You dare to publicly insult the Adjudicator's competence in a room full of hostile captains? Do you want the High Table to authorize a full-scale slaughter of the Tarasovs?
"You arrogant little bastard," Pavel sneered, his face turning pale with rage. "If you want to commit suicide by insulting the Table, don't drag the rest of us down with you!"
A flash of genuine delight sparked in Alexei's eyes. He had subtly engaged the audio recorder on his phone the moment Anthony entered the room. If he successfully delivered Anthony's blasphemous, insulting words directly to the Continental Hotel, the kid's reign would be legally terminated before sunset.
Suddenly, the heavy oak doors at the far end of the chamber were thrust open. Several imposing figures strode into the room.
The leader was dressed in a pristine charcoal-gray trench coat featuring a high, rigid stand-up collar, worn over a meticulously tailored black three-piece suit. The aesthetic was a terrifying, modern variation of a medieval inquisitor.
His face was completely obscured by a blank, polished silver mask. It revealed only a hard, uncompromising jawline and a pair of dead, unblinking eyes that barely seemed human.
In his gloved hands, he carried a thick, heavy ledger bound in some kind of dark, weathered animal hide.
The Harbinger.
Directly behind him marched a phalanx of four fully armed, heavily armored High Table Enforcers.
Their sudden, silent arrival instantly plunged the chaotic conference room into a state of absolute, suffocating silence. Time itself seemed to freeze. Even the sound of the captains' breathing became terrifyingly shallow.
Anthony looked up from his phone, seemingly entirely unbothered by the fact that the grim reaper of the High Table had just entered the room. He smiled warmly at Pavel.
"Now do you understand why the Adjudicator chose me to sit in this chair instead of you?"
Pavel glanced nervously at the Harbinger, who had already opened his dark ledger and readied his silver fountain pen. Pavel gritted his teeth, desperate to prove his loyalty to the rules.
"The Adjudicator holds the right to choose her preferred candidate," Pavel declared loudly. "But the Tarasov Bratva possesses its own sacred traditions. You are nothing more than a figurehead until the captains formally vote on your approval!"
Anthony nodded sympathetically, then spoke directly into his phone. "Since you have a clear sightline, why are you still waiting?"
Anthony stood up slowly. "Did you all really want to sit here and listen to this stray actively question the authority of our respected Adjudicator? To question my authority? Do you people genuinely only feel satisfied if I take the object out and show it to you?"
Anthony slowly reached his right hand into the inner pocket of his coat.
CRACK!
A deafening, echoing gunshot shattered the silence.
It didn't come from Anthony.
A massive, high-caliber sniper round violently punched through the reinforced, bulletproof glass of the conference room's bay window.
The heavy round instantly drilled a neat, perfect hole directly through the center of Pavel's forehead.
A tiny, dark red dot materialized between his eyebrows for a fraction of a second before a horrific, expanding mist of scarlet blood and gray matter erupted from the back of his skull, violently splattering against the mahogany panelling behind him.
Pavel's furious expression froze instantly, rapidly replaced by a look of sheer, incredulous astonishment.
His heavy body crashed backward, hitting the thick Persian rug with a dull, wet thud.
The sudden, catastrophic turn of events caught every single captain completely off guard. Their faces contorted in a chaotic mixture of profound shock, immediate anger, and primal fear.
By ordering a sniper to execute Viktor's cousin and deputy, Anthony had just initiated a total, irreversible war with the syndicate's standing army.
Without the absolute loyalty of Viktor's armed forces, the Tarasov family would appear incredibly weak and defenseless to the rival Five Families. Worse, Viktor's loyalists could stage a violent coup at any given moment.
"Lord Harbinger!" Alexei shouted, jumping to his feet and pointing an accusatory finger at Anthony. "He... he just orchestrated the murder of Pavel Semyonov!"
The Harbinger seemed to possess no facial expressions beneath his mask. He remained entirely stoic, as if he neither heard, saw, nor cared about the violence.
His dead gaze pierced through the frozen atmosphere of the room, finally locking onto Anthony. He stared at the young Patriarch for precisely one second.
Then, the Harbinger lowered his head. The silver fountain pen descended onto the parchment, beginning to write with a barely audible, yet profoundly unsettling, scratching sound.
Clink. Clink. Clink.
Anthony withdrew his hand from his coat. Instead of a weapon, he tossed the heavy, solid gold Tarasov Family Crest onto the table. It spun like a top before settling flat, gleaming dazzlingly under the chandelier.
"You are free to privately question the decisions of the High Table, Pavel," Anthony said to the bleeding corpse, his voice carrying across the silent room. "But you should neverquestion the Crest that grants this family its absolute authority."
The Harbinger's pen paused for a brief fraction of a second at that sentence, before seamlessly continuing its scratching across the ledger.
Anthony slowly leaned back into his heavy oak chair, staring directly at the masked emissary.
"The Adjudicator was not thorough enough in her duties last night. She left me with an insubordinate mess to clean up," Anthony declared boldly.
"Please return to the Continental and inform her that, for the absolute preservation of the High Table's taxation interests and the necessary revival of the Tarasov syndicate, I am forced to initiate a secondary purge."
The Harbinger's pen paused again. He did not utter a single word in response.
Anthony stood up. Sergei, practically vibrating with terror, quickly pulled the chair back to give him room.
Anthony picked up the solid gold Family Crest, slipping it over his knuckles like a makeshift brass duster. He began a slow, deliberate walk around the perimeter of the long table, heading straight for Alexei.
"Did you honestly think you were invincible just because you maintain contact with our largest arms supplier?" Anthony asked softly, his footsteps echoing in the quiet room. "Did you or your ambitious father truly believe that because Viggo died, you could simply carve up the Tarasov empire for yourselves?"
"Did you look at my scars and assume I was just some weak, illegitimate child with no mandate to rule this chaos? Did you think you could shatter my uncle's legs, lock a senior family member in a basement, and face absolutely no consequences?"
Alexei's survival instincts finally kicked in. He tried to scramble out of his chair and draw his gold revolver.
Anthony's left hand shot out with terrifying speed, clamping down on Alexei's shoulder and violently slamming the man back down into his seat.
"Please, Alexei, there's no need to stand on ceremony," Anthony said, his voice dropping to a conversational, yet suffocatingly oppressive whisper. "Just sit down and let's have a chat."
"Speak your mind freely. Don't hold anything back. I am an incredibly reasonable Patriarch. And don't worry about our masked guest... the Harbinger is strictly an observer. He won't interfere in internal family matters."
Anthony's demeanor was calm, but the killing intent rolling off his body was palpable.
Remembering the explosive sniper round that had just vaporized Pavel's skull, Alexei's face turned deathly pale, and his bottom lip began to tremble violently.
"The... the Adjudicator can appoint you," Alexei stammered, his bravado entirely shattered. "But as captains, we possess the traditional right... to object. You just executed Pavel. That is a fundamental betrayal of Bratva blood."
Anthony blew a thick puff of cigarette smoke directly into Alexei's face, a feral grin stretching across his scarred features. "But didn't you just announce to this entire room that I'm a nameless bastard who isn't qualified to claim this bloodline?"
Alexei glanced frantically at the smoking bullet hole in the bay window opposite him, his teeth grinding together in sheer panic. "I... I was simply registering a formal objection to your leadership!"
"Viggo Tarasov was brutally murdered by John Wick!" Alexei blurted out, trying to deflect the aggression. "If you can personally hunt down the Baba Yaga and avenge your father, the captains will unanimously agree to let you take over the syndicate without further bloodshed!"
"Revenge?" Anthony's grin widened into a manic, chilling expression. "Aurelio... wouldn't ordering me to hunt down John Wick be the exact same thing as ordering my execution?"
Aurelio swallowed hard and nodded slowly.
Anthony tightened his grip on the solid gold Crest resting between his knuckles.
"What the Tarasov syndicate desperately requires right now is a highly decisive, ruthlessly practical Patriarch. Not a suicidal puppet who lets greedy captains lead him by the nose to pick fights with boogeymen," Anthony whispered, leaning in close.
"Viggo's idiotic obsession with revenge has already cost this family far too much blood and gold. I suspect that you, and your mysterious 'supplier,' actually want me to attack John Wick so that the Tarasov syndicate is completely annihilated, leaving the territory wide open for you to claim."
Alexei looked desperately toward the silent, masked emissary. "Lord Harbinger! I swear, I didn't mean—"
"I already told you," Anthony laughed, a dark, terrible sound. "The Harbinger doesn't have a mouth to speak with. You only need to talk to me."
Behind his silver mask, the Harbinger's eyes narrowed slightly. He felt a profound sense of administrative offense.
I possess the mechanical capability to speak, the Harbinger thought. I simply choose to observe.
"Your very existence has fundamentally defiled the sacred coat of arms of the Tarasov family," Anthony declared, his voice rising in righteous, manufactured fury. "And your insubordination has deeply disturbed the great Witness of the High Table."
Without another word of warning, Anthony pulled his right arm back and drove his fist forward in a brutal, crushing hook, slamming the heavy gold Crest directly into Alexei's temple.
Alexei threw his hands up in a desperate attempt to block the strike, but against Anthony's enhanced Combat Mastery, the captain's reflexes were pitifully slow.
The sharp, jagged edges of the solid gold eagle emblem violently sliced open the flesh on Alexei's cheekbone, exposing the white bone beneath the blood.
Alexei screamed in agony and tried to scramble out of his chair.
Anthony stepped in, grabbed the back of Alexei's neck with his left hand, and brutally slammed the man's face down against the polished mahogany table.
Anthony raised his right fist and brought it down again, using the heavy gold Crest like a bludgeon, repeatedly hammering it into the side of the captain's head.
"I admit it! I yield!" Alexei shrieked, waving his bloody hands wildly in surrender, his voice thick with tears. "Lord Harbinger! I submit to the High Table's orders! I will obey everything the Adjudicator commands!"
"The problem is... you won't obey me!" Anthony roared, swinging his fist down with even greater, bone-crushing force. "I had a perfectly pleasant afternoon planned! I was supposed to go to the airport and pick up my girlfriend! And you arrogant, entitled pricks ruined my schedule!"
After two more devastating, skull-fracturing strikes, Alexei's hands went entirely limp, splaying out across the bloody mahogany. His body began to involuntarily convulse as severe neurological trauma set in.
Anthony slowly released his grip, allowing the captain's ruined head to rest on the table. He stood up straight, casually inspecting his blood-soaked fist and the dented gold Crest.
He pulled a linen handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his knuckles, turning his cold gaze to Sergei.
"He doesn't deserve to bleed out on the family's carpet," Anthony said calmly.
"Drag him out into the courtyard. I want to see his head separated from his shoulders."
"Quick! Quick! Drag him out right now!" Sergei screamed at the terrified bodyguards, his face ashen, absolutely horrified by the sheer, unhinged brutality of the new Patriarch.
"Cut off Alexei's head!"
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