The remaining captains at the long table watched in paralyzed horror as the two fresh corpses were dragged out of the chamber. Their gazes, irresistibly drawn to the pooling, bright red blood staining the mahogany, eventually shifted toward the silent emissary standing in the corner.
The Harbinger's silver fountain pen continued to move with a rhythmic scratching sound, meticulously recording Anthony's atrocities in the dark leather ledger without uttering a single word of protest.
When the pen finally stopped, the Harbinger glanced at Anthony twice. Then, his eyes reverted to their terrifying, empty stare.
No one at the long table dared to speak again. Even if their eyes accidentally met Anthony's, they would instantly flinch and look away, terrified of drawing his ire.
They all realized the same horrific truth: this illegitimate child was fundamentally more brutal, more unpredictable, and vastly more dangerous than Viggo had ever been.
Moreover, Anthony had just completely disregarded the Adjudicator's implicit will. He had brazenly, violently purged the very power players she had intentionally left behind to manage him.
"Anthony..." Aurelio swallowed hard, his throat dry as dust. "Pavel was Viktor's cousin. You've deeply offended the commander of our armed forces."
Anthony ignored him, continuing to methodically wipe the blood from his knuckles with his linen handkerchief.
"And Yuri Petrenko... Alexei's father... he will absolutely cut off our main arms supply in retaliation," Aurelio added, his voice trembling as he cast a nervous glance at the Harbinger, who was standing still as a statue. "If we have no weapons and no soldiers, how... how are we supposed to pay the High Table's taxes at the end of the year?"
Anthony finally looked up. He didn't answer Aurelio. Instead, a charming smile returned to his face as he walked directly toward the Harbinger.
"Lord Harbinger. It seems the esteemed Adjudicator is actively making things difficult for me," Anthony said, his tone conversational. "Do you think she left these insubordinate traitors alive because she wanted me to purify the Tarasov syndicate myself? Or did she actually want to see me publicly hanged in my own home?"
The Harbinger remained entirely motionless.
Anthony lit a fresh cigarette, exhaling the smoke as he met those empty, inhuman eyes beneath the silver mask.
"If I were to formally beg her... I wonder... is there any chance she could lend me a battalion of your Enforcers for the weekend? Otherwise, if I get assassinated by my own militia tonight, I definitely won't be able to pay the High Table's precious taxes."
The Harbinger slowly closed his eyes, conveying a profound sense of administrative fatigue.
Anthony reached into his inner pocket and pulled out a small, heavy object, casually rolling it across his knuckles.
Aurelio and the surviving captains couldn't clearly identify the object from their seats. They simply assumed it was another High Table gold coin.
But the elite Enforcers standing guard behind the Harbinger reacted instantly. A ripple of genuine shock ran through their rigid posture. The lead Enforcer quickly leaned forward and whispered urgently into the Harbinger's ear.
The Harbinger opened his eyes. He stared directly at the heavy silver locket Anthony was casually flipping between his fingers. For the first time, a distinct flicker of unease breached the Harbinger's stoic composure.
"How exactly did you acquire a Blood Oath Marker?" the Harbinger asked, his synthesized voice betraying a hint of astonishment.
Aurelio's expression completely froze when he heard the legendary term.
A Blood Oath Marker was the ultimate symbol of absolute power and binding consequence within the High Table's ecosystem. Only elite assassins and high-ranking Lords who had made extraordinary contributions were ever qualified to possess them.
There were only two ways to obtain one:
The High Table directly rewarded a fiercely loyal asset with a blank, unregistered Marker.After saving a life or providing critical assistance at a crucial moment, an assassin could receive a bound Marker as an absolute promise for future repayment.
This lore explained why John Wick only utilized the Blood Oath twice throughout his entire legendary career. The sheer, terrifying weight of the resource meant it could never be used lightly.
The High Table possessed two absolute, unbreakable ironclad rules:
No "business" may be conducted on Continental Hotel grounds.Every Blood Oath Marker must be honored.
"The High Table may forgive extreme violence, but it will never, ever tolerate the invalidation of a contract."
This doctrine proved that honoring a Blood Oath actually held a higher priority than almost anything else. It was the ultimate, sacred link that maintained the hierarchical order of the global underworld. When the demands of a Blood Oath conflicted with other bureaucratic rules, the debtor was legally obligated to prioritize the contract.
When the Harbinger's eyes shifted down to look at the massive Malinois sitting quietly at Anthony's feet, his eyelid twitched involuntarily beneath the mask. He recognized the dog from the Continental's security footage. He knew exactly whose Marker Anthony was currently holding.
He actually bound John Wick to his service.
The Harbinger slowly reached into his trench coat and withdrew a secure satellite phone. Just as his thumb moved to press the speed-dial button, Anthony interrupted him.
"Dear Harbinger. If you are administratively hesitant to speak your mind, please... allow me to speak for you."
The Harbinger paused. He finished dialing the number, handed the phone directly to Anthony, and returned his attention to his dark ledger.
The call connected instantly. There was no greeting from the other end, only the faint hum of static.
"Your Excellency, Adjudicator," Anthony said. The mocking smile vanished from his face, replaced by an expression of cold, professional respect.
"I have just executed two high-ranking captains with powerful backgrounds within the Tarasov syndicate."
"If leaving them alive was your personal test of my capabilities, then I accept the challenge. I will personally annihilate the family's standing militia and sever the arms dealers myself," Anthony stated boldly. "However... if you were simply deceived by their apparent loyalty during your purge... then for the sake of the High Table's dignity, I strongly believe the Enforcer division owes me a formal explanation."
"Harbinger," the Adjudicator's emotionless, metallic voice crackled through the speaker. She completely ignored Anthony's rant, choosing to verify the Harbinger's presence on the line.
"The boy is conducting his business," the Harbinger replied loudly, his synthesized voice echoing slightly in the room.
After a long, tense moment of silence on the line, the Adjudicator spoke directly to Anthony. Her voice was freezing. "You are not satisfied with the empire I handed you?"
A cold smile crept back onto Anthony's face.
"My Lord Adjudicator... I have a philosophical question for you. Is the Tarasov family's loyalty to the High Table fundamentally based on absolute fear, or profound respect?"
"Viggo Tarasov ruled this syndicate with pure, unadulterated fear. And what was the ultimate result? Total collapse the second a real threat appeared. Effective today, I am fundamentally rewriting the rules of the Tarasov syndicate. I will not allow blind fear to cripple this family, nor will I be bound by their idiotic 'traditions.'"
Anthony's voice hardened into steel. "The High Table granted me this throne. But you did not grant it to me so I could sit here and act as an obedient puppet for greedy captains. You granted it to me so I could rebuild the Tarasovs into a weapon."
The Adjudicator remained utterly silent on the other end of the line.
Anthony pressed his advantage. "I am absolutely loyal to the High Table. Therefore, the men sitting in this room must be absolutely loyal to me. I do not want the High Table to mistakenly interpret a civil war as a lack of loyalty on my part. The war will be caused by ambitious traitors with ulterior motives who want to undermine my authority."
"Who?" the Adjudicator demanded, not hesitating this time.
Anthony bowed his head slightly, playing the role of the devoted servant perfectly. "The commander of the family militia, Viktor. And the primary arms supplier, Yuri Petrenko."
"We will look into them," the Adjudicator replied sharply. She didn't give Anthony another chance to speak, abruptly terminating the connection.
Anthony smiled warmly and slipped the satellite phone back into the Harbinger's coat pocket. "Thank you for the use of your minutes."
He turned back to the long table, his face instantly hardening into a mask of pure ice as he addressed the surviving core captains.
"Gentlemen. The chaotic era of Viggo is officially over. We currently face only two choices. Choice one: we continue to blindly indulge in Viggo's idiotic vendetta against the Baba Yaga until every last member of this syndicate is lying in a morgue. This is obviously the choice of a suicidal fool."
"Choice two: you fall in line, follow my exact orders, and help me rebuild this family from the ground up. I intend to make the Tarasov syndicate the most powerful, untouchable force in New York—not only in the criminal underworld, but within the legitimate legal sphere as well."
Several of the captains secretly curled their lips in skepticism, though they didn't dare voice it.
The Tarasov's current core business model consisted of four primary, highly profitable segments: industrial oil smuggling, arms trafficking, international car theft, and narcotics distribution.
The oil smuggling operated comfortably within the gray areas of formal international trade, while the car theft rings primarily targeted wealthy civilians, avoiding the territory of rival syndicates. This conservative strategy allowed Viggo to avoid directly challenging the mighty Five Families of New York while still rapidly amassing extreme wealth through violence.
By declaring his intention to make the Tarasovs the absolute "strongest force" in New York, Anthony was explicitly stating his intent to go to war with the Five Families for control of the high-end market. It was an insanely ambitious goal.
Anthony seemed entirely oblivious to their disdainful looks.
He turned away from the table, his voice returning to a normal, conversational tone as he addressed his terrified guide.
"Sergei. Take me down to the basement. I want to see my Uncle Abram."
The air in the subterranean wine cellar was freezing and deeply damp, carrying the rich, earthy fragrance of aged oak barrels mingled with the distinct, metallic scent of dried blood.
Massive, floor-to-ceiling wooden vats lined the stone walls like a legion of silent giants.
The only illumination came from a few small, grated air vents high up near the ceiling, casting thin beams of pale light that caught the swirling dust particles in the air.
Abram Tarasov lay strapped to a rusted iron cot in the center of the cellar. Both of his legs were brutally twisted at unnatural, agonizing angles, his shins heavily wrapped in blood-soaked bandages. His normally shrewd face was swollen and covered in deep purple bruises.
This man—once widely respected for his brilliant tactical mind and diplomatic tact—now looked completely broken. His skin was ashen, his lips were cracked and bleeding, and his once meticulously styled gray hair was matted to his forehead with sweat.
His eyes were cloudy with pain and fever, but they widened slightly, clearing as he focused on Anthony stepping into the light, followed by the ghostly, masked figure in the gray trench coat.
"Anthony...?" Abram's voice was a hoarse, trembling rasp, filled with sheer disbelief.
Even though he hadn't seen his estranged nephew in several years, the familial resemblance—and the aura of sheer danger the boy now possessed—was unmistakable.
"It's me, Uncle Abram," Anthony said softly, walking over and kneeling down beside the iron cot. "I had some administrative business to take care of upstairs. I'm sorry I'm late."
Abram's breathing hitched, his chest rising and falling rapidly. A profound mixture of confusion, hope, and deep-seated wariness flashed through his feverish eyes.
"Are you... are you the Patriarch now?" Abram gasped.
Anthony offered a gentle, reassuring smile. "The Adjudicator personally selected my bloodline to lead the syndicate."
Abram shook his head weakly, wincing as a spike of pain shot through his shattered legs. "No, child... the Tarasov family doesn't respect bloodlines. They only respect absolute strength. And with Viggo gone... we have none left to protect you."
"The High Table is my absolute support," Anthony replied calmly. He pointed a thumb over his shoulder at the masked emissary whose pen was quietly scratching away in the shadows.
"The Adjudicator is going to help us solve our little internal dispute."
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