"Give up what, exactly?" Anthony set his champagne flute down on a passing waiter's tray, a playful, highly aggravating smile pulling at his lips. "Give up my exclusive right to make Winnie laugh so happily tonight?"
Leon nearly choked on his expensive bourbon. He coughed, then burst into genuine, barking laughter, slapping Anthony hard on the shoulder. "Holy shit, man! You've got some serious nerve talking to a whale like that."
Santino's pupils contracted slightly, but his face maintained that flawless, condescending smile typical of European high society.
"Young man, you clearly fail to grasp the gravity of this situation," Santino drawled, his deep voice heavily accented with aristocratic Italian. His tone sounded exceptionally elegant, yet it carried a lethal, barely concealed threat. "Miss Winnie deserves vastly better than a temporary... playmate."
"There are certain high-stakes games in this world that nobodies like you are simply not equipped to participate in."
Anthony took a deliberate half-step forward, violating Santino's personal space. He looked the Italian boss dead in the eye, fully utilizing his slight height advantage.
"What's the matter? Have you forgotten the basic rules of fair competition as you've gotten older? Or perhaps..."
Anthony slowly swirled his fresh glass of champagne, his eyes turning lazy and predatory.
"...you're just so used to having your heavily armed lapdogs solve all your problems for you, you've completely forgotten how to actually use your brain?"
Santino's eyes instantly turned to freezing ice, but he quickly regained his composure. He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice to a dangerous hum.
"You possess an extraordinary amount of misplaced guts. But unfortunately for you... loudmouths like that usually end up in terrible, highly unidentifiable situations."
The two heavily suited bodyguards standing directly behind Santino instinctively took a synchronized step forward, their hands drifting toward their waistbands. But Santino raised a single, manicured finger to stop them.
Anthony's eyes flicked to the bodyguards. He instantly recognized the woman on the right. It was Ares, the incredibly skilled, mute assassin who served as Santino's primary enforcer.
"Really?" Anthony took a slow, mocking sip of his drink, his eyes perfectly calm. "If having guts gets you killed, then how on earth are you still breathing in your late thirties?"
Leon lost his battle for composure and genuinely spat a mist of bourbon into the air. "Holy shit! The absolute disrespect!"
Santino's knuckles turned stark white as he gripped his champagne flute in a death grip. The vein in his temple throbbed violently.
He had never, in his entire pampered, aristocratic life, been spoken to with such blatant, suicidal disrespect. Especially not by an unknown, American nobody.
"Easy now, boys," Leon chuckled, smoothly stepping between the two men to act as a physical buffer. "Your expression currently looks like you've got a whole lemon wedged sideways in your throat, pal. You're all twisted up with sourness!"
Santino shot the Wentworth heir a look of pure, unadulterated venom.
Leon, entirely unbothered, raised his heavy crystal tumbler in a mock toast, explicitly siding with Anthony.
"Let me remind you of the geography, slick," Leon said, his playful tone dropping into something much harder. "This is the Plaza Hotel in New York City. This is absolutely not your territory. You want to play hardball in here? You'll have to ask Tristan Pritzker and his private security army if they agree to let you spill blood on their marble."
"Fascinating," Santino finally replied, letting out a cold, humorless laugh. His dead eyes locked back onto Anthony. "I sincerely hope you have the opportunity to maintain this charming sense of humor of yours."
Anthony shrugged lazily. "Don't worry about me. My sense of humor is guaranteed to outlive your lifeline."
Santino's eyes darkened to pitch black, radiating absolute, murderous intent.
Anthony chuckled. He casually plucked two fresh flutes of vintage champagne from a terrified waiter's tray, handed one to Leon, and kept the other for himself.
Leon, possessing the finely tuned survival instincts of old money, keenly sensed the catastrophic shift in the atmosphere. He raised his glass to his lips, his eyes darting warily around the ballroom, noting that Santino's bodyguards were now fully tensed and prepared for sudden violence.
Santino suddenly smiled. It was a terrifying expression entirely devoid of warmth. He leaned in so close to Anthony that only the two of them could hear his whisper.
"I don't know who you are, you arrogant little nobody. But I do know this: the gutters of Manhattan wash away a dozen unidentified corpses every single night. I truly hope you have someone who cares enough to come and claim yours."
Anthony remained entirely unmoved. He took a sip of champagne and smiled politely. "Thank you so much for your heartfelt concern."
"Speaking of unidentifiable corpses... I recently heard a rumor that a fascinating new political game is currently very popular over in Italy. Apparently, high-ranking players keep suddenly disappearing in strange locations, and their bodies can never quite be found by their families. Is that right?"
A massive shockwave of genuine, undisguised panic flashed across Santino's face.
Anthony's statement was a surgical strike. It proved the kid knew his exact identity, and worse, it was a precise, terrifying hint regarding Gianna D'Antonio's current, highly classified internal purge of Camorra traitors in Rome.
"Who exactly are you?" Santino hissed, his voice literally squeezed out through his violently clenched teeth.
"I told you," Anthony smiled brightly. "I'm just the guy who showed up to steal your bride."
He leaned in close to the Italian boss. "And you... in my personal script... you are nothing more than a convenient prop I'm using to move the plot forward."
Santino's handsome face contorted in sheer, unbridled fury for a fraction of a second before his elite discipline forced it back into a mask of calm.
He slowly straightened his French cuffs. He looked at Anthony and delivered his final verdict in rapid, venomous Italian.
"Presto morirai." (You will die soon.)
Without waiting for a response, Santino turned on his heel and stalked back to his VIP booth, closely shadowed by Ares and the other bodyguard.
"Fuuuuuck," Leon let out a long, impressed whistle. "What the hell did that Euro-trash guy just say to you? Was that a death threat?"
"Just the usual complaints of a highly dangerous businessman," Anthony smiled, taking another sip of champagne.
Anthony's tactical mind was racing. The High Table's territorial spheres of influence were strictly, violently defined. Santino absolutely did not have the political authorization to interfere with the Tarasov family's internal affairs in New York.
That meant Santino had come to the city for one primary purpose: to physically track down John Wick and force him to repay the Blood Oath by assassinating his own sister, Gianna.
"Whatever the hell he actually is," Leon said in a low, serious voice, "the way he just looked at you... it was like a butcher admiring a very good cut of meat. Do you need me to investigate him? I have a few exceptional private investigators on retainer."
Anthony clinked his glass against Leon's. "Do not look into him, Leon. You absolutely cannot afford the consequences of poking that bear."
Seeing that Anthony wasn't joking in the slightest, Leon frowned. "I'm genuinely curious now. You clearly know vastly more about him than I do. So... who the hell are you really, Anthony?"
"Curiosity killed the dog," Anthony chuckled softly. "Excuse me. I need to make an urgent phone call."
Leon wisely refrained from following him, watching Anthony's broad-shouldered silhouette weave through the crowd toward the outdoor terrace, lost in deep thought.
Once outside on the deserted terrace, the cold night wind hitting his face, Anthony immediately lit a cigarette and pulled out his encrypted burner phone. He dialed John Wick's number.
John answered on the first ring.
"Santino D'Antonio," Anthony said without any preamble. "He's in New York. I'm looking at him right now."
"Anthony. Do not engage him," John's voice came through the speaker, low and tight with sudden tension. John didn't even bother to ask how Anthony knew the Italian. "You are completely out of your depth. You are no match for him."
"I'm just curious, John," Anthony asked smoothly. "Are you just sitting in your house, passively waiting for him to kick your door down and hand you the Marker? Or do you actually have a tactical plan?"
"Fuck," John snapped, his legendary composure finally cracking. "Anthony, if you know exactly who he is, what the hell are you trying to accomplish by being near him?"
Anthony glanced through the glass doors. He could see Leon "subtly" spying on him from the edge of the ballroom. He laughed softly into the phone. "I want to change the plot."
"Anthony, you are actively asking to be killed!" John growled.
Suddenly, Marcus's gravelly voice came through the line. The sniper had taken the phone from John. "What exactly do you want to do, kid?"
"Marcus, are you fucking crazy?" John's muffled shout could be heard in the background. "Do you have any idea what you're encouraging?"
Anthony entirely ignored John's background protests and spoke directly to Marcus. "Marcus. If Santino officially corners John and physically presents the Blood Oath Marker first... John is completely trapped by the rules. He'll have absolutely no way out, and the High Table will execute him later regardless of his compliance."
"But, if I am the one who officially calls in my Blood Oath first... then the three of us are legally bound together, and we are all trapped in a war against the Table. Which horrific scenario do you choose?"
Marcus let out a dark, raspy laugh. "Like you said, Anthony... John is just a stubborn blockhead. He has no mind for politics. Frankly, I'm terrified the idiot is going to die before I do."
"Excellent. Then let's officially share the burden of this war between the three of us!" Anthony laughed. "But honestly... I have a much better, temporary solution."
"I'm listening."
"Tell John to immediately leave the country. He needs to travel the world. As long as Santino cannot physically locate him to hand over the physical Marker... John is not legally obligated to perform the assassination."
"That is actually a brilliant stall tactic," Marcus agreed, the relief evident in his voice. "Since John technically hasn't been informed that Santino is in New York yet, he isn't legally 'fleeing' from a contract. Let that arrogant Italian bastard waste his time flying all over the globe trying to track a ghost."
Anthony thought for a moment, finalizing the strategy. "Tell John to head to Europe. Have him get close to the Bowery King's intelligence network over there. And if he finds the time... he should probably pay Gianna D'Antonio a visit in Rome and quietly warn her about her brother's ambitions."
"Understood," Marcus smiled. "John won't be using this specific phone for a while. Call me directly if you need tactical assistance."
John's voice returned to the line, sounding deeply cynical. "Do you honestly think Santino is powerless just because I leave the country? He's vindictive. He'll immediately start hunting down Marcus. He'll start hunting down you."
"John, please," Anthony said casually, exhaling a cloud of smoke into the New York skyline. "I'm currently on a very nice date with my beautiful girlfriend. I frankly don't have the time or the energy to play mafia games with him right now."
"Just pack your bags, get out of New York tonight, and buy me at least one week of breathing room."
"Fuck me... so that's what this is really about?" Marcus laughed loudly into the receiver. "I honestly thought you were proposing this just to save John's life. You just want a vacation!"
"A good boss knows how to perfectly balance his illicit empire and his love life without getting overly stressed," Anthony laughed.
"I need to go. Santino is undoubtedly having his people run a deep background check on me right now. They'll probably trace my face and report it to Winston by midnight."
"I know," Marcus said. He hung up the phone.
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