Tristan Pritzker simply could not comprehend how this supposedly penniless, uneducated street thug named Anthony had managed to instantly align himself with Leon Wentworth, one of the most volatile and powerful young billionaires on the East Coast.
He scrutinized Anthony's perfectly composed face and asked, his tone dripping with profound suspicion. "Who exactly are you, young man?"
"I've already told you, old man," Anthony's mocking smile remained entirely unchanged.
"I am Winnie's former high school classmate. But during my combat tours in Afghanistan, I learned a very valuable tactical lesson: absolutely never underestimate your opponent, no matter how... 'ordinary' they may appear on the surface."
"Actually, Tristan, since everyone in this ballroom is perfectly aware of the brutal truth, there's really no need for you to keep hiding behind polite, corporate excuses. It only took Winnie two short years to aggressively elevate the Pritzker Hotel Group to a level of market dominance that you entirely failed to reach in decades of management."
"So, the three of you are profoundly jealous. Not only are you openly sowing discord on your own board of directors, but you're actively ganging up to bully her in public. Don't stand there and preach to me about 'family values,' old man. Do you genuinely treat her like your own blood daughter? Have you already actively plotted to systematically ruin her corporate reputation and make her disappear from the executive suite without a trace? Or were you just planning to... have her killed?"
Enrico, his eyes narrowing with a sudden, primal fear that Anthony had figured out their endgame, roared defensively. "What the absolute hell are you talking about, you lunatic?!"
Anthony completely ignored the frantic brother and smiled warmly at Tristan. "Even if you do manage to successfully force Winnie out of the company, what on earth are you going to do with these two colossal idiots?"
His cold, gray-blue eyes roamed freely over Enrico and Christine's panicked faces.
"A cowardly, good-for-nothing son desperately hiding a massive dark side, and an incredibly dim-witted daughter who only cares about finding her next wealthy lover to fund her lifestyle?"
"Fuck yes!" Leon actually stomped his bespoke leather shoe on the marble floor in pure, unadulterated glee. "So having actual intelligence really does come in handy! You can casually orchestrate insults that structurally devastate people."
"Anthony, please keep going. I am fully prepared to pay you for taking lessons."
Looking at the three Pritzkers, whose faces were now completely ashen with shock and rage, Anthony continued slowly, twisting the knife. "Tristan, when a man gets old, he simply has to accept his obsolescence."
"If you are no longer capable of competing in the modern market, just step down gracefully. Wouldn't it be vastly better for your legacy to just quietly retire behind the scenes? Why do you feel the psychotic need to maliciously target Winnie's success? Do you honestly think her grandfather is entirely gone and powerless to stop you?"
Winnie looked up at Anthony, her amber eyes flashing with an incredibly complex, emotional light.
She had never, in her entire life, seen anyone so effortlessly and brutally break down her father's psychological offensive.
This quiet, scarred boy from her high school memories was now acting like a perfectly drawn katana: incredibly sharp, lethal, yet possessing an undeniable, terrifying elegance.
Tristan's entire body trembled violently with sheer, blinding rage at Anthony's public psychoanalysis. "You have profoundly disappointed me tonight, Winnie. You would genuinely rather actively ruin this family's generational reputation just to protect an arrogant outsider?"
Winnie opened her mouth to retort, but Anthony laughed softly and pulled her closer. "Your man is here, Winnie. Just sit back and watch my performance."
"Fuck," Leon muttered excitedly, leaning against a pillar. "Anthony... I actually have a younger sister. She's incredibly pretty. You should meet her."
Enrico, desperate to change the narrative and reclaim some high ground, suddenly shouted, "Wait... Wentworth said your surname is Tarasov! Are you somehow connected to thatRussian family? Winnie! How absolutely dare you smuggle someone from the mafia into a corporate gala? Even Grandpa absolutely won't tolerate this level of scandal!"
Upon hearing the infamous surname, the collective eyes of the eavesdropping elite instantly zeroed in on Anthony's face.
If Winnie Pritzker had genuinely brought a high-ranking member of the bloodthirsty Tarasov syndicate to a legitimate corporate event, it would trigger a massive, catastrophic SEC investigation.
Standing a short distance away in his VIP booth, Santino D'Antonio squinted through the dim lighting, his mind suddenly flooded with immense tactical curiosity.
Santino knew perfectly well that Viggo Tarasov's vast empire had just been brutally dismantled by John Wick.
If the Baba Yaga is officially back in action and taking out Russian bosses, Santino thought, then I can finally utilize him to take care of my own familial business.
You picked up your guns again, John. You wanted to back out, but the rules don't allow that. Not when you owe a debt.
Santino looked across the ballroom at Anthony, a deeply sinister, calculated smile forming on his lips.
A flicker of genuine panic crossed Tristan Pritzker's eyes, but his ingrained corporate arrogance quickly replaced it with anger.
"Winnie... is this boy truly a Tarasov? Is he... is he that Viggo's bastard son?"
At this exact moment, Winnie was also completely at a loss for how to defuse the situation.
Even though Anthony had previously claimed to have severed all ties with his criminal father, he was still undeniably a member of the Tarasov bloodline. This core fact absolutely could not be hidden; a simple, five-minute background check by any private investigator would immediately reveal the truth.
Anthony didn't miss a beat. He smoothly raised a hand and pointed directly at Santino D'Antonio, who was still lurking in the corner booth.
"As far as my intelligence tells me, that gentleman over there is heavily invested in European imports from southern Italy. Does that automatically mean he's a high-ranking Capo in the Italian Camorra?"
Anthony turned and stared directly into Tristan's eyes, dropping a tactical nuke on the patriarch. "Who exactly invited the mob to your daughter's gala, Tristan?"
Everyone in high society knew that New York City was the historical home of the Five Families—the deeply entrenched Italian-American mafia. They were a group of ruthless, upper-class killers who also wore bespoke suits and silk ties.
While many legitimate corporations often had quiet, unavoidable overlap or backdoor cooperation with the Five Families regarding construction and unions, these were strictly "legitimate" businesses that the mafia had heavily laundered.
Even if a CEO knew for an absolute fact that their business partner was a mobster, they would absolutely never dare to publicly reveal that fact in a crowded ballroom. It was corporate suicide.
Therefore, when Anthony loudly questioned Santino's true identity, regardless of whether the Italian actually had verifiable connections to the Mafia, it instantly painted a massive, radioactive target on Santino's back.
In the shadows of the booth, Santino's eyes turned incredibly dangerous.
Ares, his mute, heavily armed bodyguard, quickly made a series of sharp tactical gestures with her hands, asking for permission to execute Anthony.
Santino didn't physically respond to her gestures. He just smiled grimly. "Stand down, Ares. We have vastly more important administrative things to do tonight. Later... I promise you, I will make it incredibly hard for that boy to die."
Santino shot one last, venomous glance at Anthony. He stood up and adjusted his jacket. "It is time to get down to actual business."
Having completely lost interest in watching the Pritzker family's pathetic corporate farce, Santino immediately ordered his driver to take him straight to the Continental Hotel.
Two elite Camorra bodyguards followed closely behind him, sticking to his sides like shadows as he strode through the revolving front doors.
He took off his designer sunglasses, elegantly scanned the opulent lobby, and finally locked his gaze on the hotel manager, who was standing near the front desk.
Winston raised his eyes from his ledger. His gaze behind his gold-rimmed glasses was perfectly calm, yet deeply, instinctively wary.
"Santino," Winston said, offering a polite, practiced smile that didn't reach his eyes. "The New York Continental welcomes you."
Santino bypassed the lobby formalities and was immediately led up to a private, hyper-secure VIP suite. He sat comfortably on the plush velvet sofa.
Ares silently poured him a heavy crystal glass of imported grappa brandy.
A cold, arrogant smile played on Santino's lips. "Winston. I require John Wick's current room number."
Winston remained entirely expressionless, his posture radiating rigid neutrality. "John Wick is no longer residing at this establishment."
"He's not here?" Santino looked at the manager, his smile turning faintly mocking. "Where on earth could the legendary Baba Yaga have possibly gone after causing such a massive, chaotic commotion with the Russians?"
"The Continental Hotel explicitly respects the absolute privacy of every single guest," Winston said calmly. "Especially... those who have successfully chosen to retire."
Santino nodded slowly, taking a sip of the burning grappa. "Winston, let's skip the theatrical bureaucracy. You know perfectly well that I currently possess his Blood Oath Marker."
"I am aware of your leverage," Winston's expression tightened by a fraction of a millimeter. "The sacred rules of the High Table absolutely allow you to exercise this right. But the fundamental prerequisite of the Oath is that you must first physically locate him in person and hand the Marker directly to him."
"However, I feel administratively obligated to remind you that he has already formally withdrawn from our world."
Santino chuckled softly. "Winston, please. Absolutely no one can just violently retire a Russian syndicate boss and then easily step back into the shadows."
Winston hesitated for a brief moment, mentally weighing the politics. He finally pulled out a secure hotel tablet and printed a slip of paper containing John's encrypted burner phone contact information.
Santino took the slip of paper, pulled out his own phone, and immediately dialed the number.
He listened to the line for a full minute, only hearing the monotonous, automated tone of a disconnected line.
He dialed it three more times. Over and over again. The exact same result. The phone was completely dead.
"Winston... do you actually believe this?" Santino calmly slipped his phone back into his tailored jacket, his eyes narrowing. "John is actively avoiding me."
Winston clasped his hands behind his back. "I was only informed of your sudden arrival in New York a few moments ago, Santino. I genuinely do not believe John had any prior knowledge of your whereabouts when he checked out."
Santino took a deep, frustrated breath. "It seems I will have to go out into the wild and track the boogeyman down myself."
Winston offered a slight, impeccable bow.
"Santino, the rules of the High Table unequivocally grant you the absolute right to pursue your Blood Oath," Winston warned softly. "But you are entirely, personally responsible for exactly how you choose to carry out that pursuit. The ultimate premise of your hunt must be that you do not disrupt the delicate 'peace' of New York City."
"Of course I know the rules, Winston. I am not an amateur. I won't cause unnecessary trouble on your sacred turf," Santino replied dismissively. His dark gaze lingered on Winston's stoic face for a moment.
"Tell me, Winston... who exactly is currently in charge of the fractured Tarasov Family?"
"Anthony Tarasov. Viggo's illegitimate son," Winston answered. He had no reason to hide public syndicate knowledge.
"As I expected," Santino muttered. He was taken aback for a brief moment as he connected the dots to the arrogant boy at the Plaza, and then he suddenly threw his head back and burst into genuine, menacing laughter. "Winston... I am going to have that boy killed."
"The High Table allows targeted killings within reasonable limits to settle personal grudges, Santino," Winston stated calmly, perfectly reciting the bylaws. "But if you intend to assassinate a sitting Patriarch, you are legally required to formally inform the Adjudicator first."
Santino looked at the manager with profound suspicion. "What do you mean? Are you trying to tell me that this boy, Anthony Tarasov... was personally appointed to the seat by the Adjudicator herself?"
"Winston, how is that administratively possible? Why on earth would the Adjudicator personally endorse a complete nobody to run the largest syndicate in North America?"
"I admit, I also find her decision quite unorthodox," Winston said diplomatically. "After John executed Viggo, the Adjudicator immediately arrived in New York to forcefully prevent John from purging the remaining Tarasov captains too thoroughly."
Winston deliberately raised his wrist to check his expensive Patek Philippe watch.
"If you had arrived at the Continental perhaps... two hours and thirty-seven minutes earlier... you could have formally addressed your grievances directly to the Adjudicator and the Harbinger."
Santino froze, his arrogant demeanor faltering as he realized the sheer political weight of what Winston had just told him. He threw his head back and gulped down the rest of the burning grappa in one swallow.
"It seems I should prioritize visiting John in person first," Santino murmured, recalculating his strategy. "I sincerely hope I won't disturb his peaceful retirement."
Winston offered a thin smile and stepped aside, silently allowing the Camorra boss to leave.
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