Ignoring the lethal tension in the room, Anthony casually surveyed the lavish suite before his gaze finally locked back onto Santino.
"Wow, this suite is actually quite nice. A massive upgrade from my newly ventilated apartment," Anthony remarked dryly. "But I'm willing to bet you won't be getting a single wink of sleep tonight after seeing my face."
Santino's eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. "What exactly do you mean by that?"
Without warning, Anthony drew a Glock 17 from the small of his back. The draw was blindingly fast—so fast that even Ares didn't have time to fully clear her blade from its sheath.
Anthony crossed the distance in a fraction of a second, pressing the cold steel muzzle firmly against Santino's right temple.
"Step back," Anthony ordered without looking away from Santino. "I don't make a habit of insulting women, but you're a damn mute, Ares, not a ghost."
Anthony's voice was completely flat, devoid of any adrenaline or fear.
"I know exactly how good you are," Anthony continued, addressing the bodyguard from the corner of his eye. "I know you're a certified Shadow of the High Table. But right now, in this exact moment... do you really want to test if your knife is faster than my trigger finger?"
Anthony leaned in, pressing the barrel harder against Santino's skull. "If you even flinch, I will blow this son of a bitch's brains all over the wallpaper, and then you can have the satisfaction of killing me."
Ares froze instantly. Her dark eyes burned with absolute fury, but she didn't dare make a single rash movement.
In truth, Anthony was intensely wary of the mute enforcer.
He knew from his meta-knowledge of the canon universe that Ares was one of the most lethal assassins in the entire franchise. As Santino's most trusted blade, her combat prowess in the Hall of Mirrors duel was legendary. She was one of the very few adversaries who possessed the tactical awareness to use the environment to push John Wick to the absolute brink of death.
Under the pressure of the gun barrel, Santino's pupils contracted slightly, yet he forced a sneer onto his pale face.
"You dare draw a weapon inside the Continental?" Santino scoffed.
Despite his bravado, a cold sweat broke out across Santino's forehead. His skin was deathly pale.
Upon arriving at the New York Continental, Santino had pulled every file the Camorra had on Anthony Tarasov. The intelligence reports terrified him. This was the same Russian lunatic who had slaughtered his own captains right in front of the High Table Adjudicator.
Santino knew Anthony was completely unhinged.
"Of course not. I respect the rules," Anthony replied smoothly. He immediately lowered the Glock and tucked it back into his waistband. "I would never fire a gun inside the hotel. That would be incredibly... rude."
Santino stared at him, his chest heaving. "Anthony, you are a dead man. It doesn't matter where you hide."
"Can't you take a joke?" Anthony laughed, casually slapping the back of Santino's head. "You send a five-man hit squad to murder me in my sleep, and I can't even play a little prank on you?"
Anthony's smile faded into a cold sneer. "Of course, the only reason I'm humiliating you like this is specifically because you don't have the spine to do anything about it in here."
Santino gritted his teeth so hard his jaw audibly popped. His fury was practically overflowing.
Ares suddenly began signing, her hand gestures sharp, aggressive, and incredibly fast.
"Ares says she is going to make you suffer for what you've done tonight," Santino translated, his voice trembling with rage. "You clearly don't understand our world, boy. Under the laws of the High Table, insulting a sworn Shadow is considered a graver offense than executing a senior member."
"Is that a fact?" Anthony asked, instantly drawing the Glock and pointing it right back at Santino's face.
"Then ask her why she didn't dare move a muscle when I put a gun to your head?"
Ares's eyes instantly turned murderous. She took a half-step forward, the tactical blade fully drawn and gleaming in her grip. Her entire body coiled like a spring.
But before the tension could snap, a polite, rhythmic knock echoed from the suite door.
"It is Winston," a calm, deeply authoritative voice called from the hallway.
Anthony glanced at Santino's ashen face and offered a theatrical shrug.
"It appears our delightful little chat is about to be rudely interrupted," Anthony sighed.
He casually twirled the Glock around his index finger. "It's a shame. I really wish we could talk like this all night. I was hoping you might actually feel a shred of regret for wasting my time."
Anthony turned and strolled toward the exit, deliberately slowing his pace as he passed the seething bodyguard.
"By the way, mute," Anthony whispered, glancing at the drawn blade. "I hear you're a virtuoso with a knife. It's just a pity that inside the Continental, that piece of steel is nothing more than a child's toy."
He let his eyes drop, offering a deliberately crude, highly insulting smirk to shatter her professional composure. "Shame to see such a sharp tool go unused."
Ares's knuckles turned bone-white around the hilt. Her killing intent was so thick it was almost tangible.
Yet, she didn't move.
Striking a guest inside the Continental was a guaranteed death sentence. It would result in immediate excommunicado for both her and Santino, destroying the Camorra's entire political strategy.
Unless Santino gave the absolute, suicidal order, her hands were tied.
Anthony smiled warmly and pulled the door open.
Winston stood in the hallway, impeccably dressed as always. Behind his wire-rimmed glasses, a rare flicker of genuine panic danced in his eyes.
"Anthony," Winston began, his tone a masterclass in controlled authority. "I do not wish to see you causing a disturbance on my grounds."
Anthony lazily raised his free hand in a mock salute. "I wouldn't dream of it, Winston. I just thought the moonlight was perfect for a spirited debate."
"Besides, Santino and I were just having a very pleasant, productive conversation," Anthony lied smoothly. "You can ask him yourself if you doubt me."
Winston's sharp gaze drifted past Anthony, landing on Santino's heavy, panicked breathing, and then settling on Ares, who was still gripping her blade and glaring daggers at Anthony.
"It certainly looks like you were enjoying yourselves," Winston noted dryly.
Anthony reached into his pocket and pulled out four more blood-stained Nero-era gold coins, letting them clatter loudly onto the hallway console table. "I assume Charon has received the police scanner update by now, Winston."
Winston slowly exhaled, offering a grim, silent nod.
Anthony raised his voice, ensuring it carried back into the suite. "Santino, the five men you sent to kill me should be arriving at the NYPD morgue right about now."
Anthony shook his head with feigned sympathy. "You really should go down there and identify the bodies. It's the absolute bare minimum a boss can do to show respect to his dead."
Winston frowned deeply. "Anthony, is this theatricality truly necessary?"
Anthony looked at the manager, his mocking smile vanishing instantly. "Winston, I am not John."
Anthony's voice dropped to a lethal register. "If these two cowards weren't hiding behind the absolute sanctuary of your hotel, they would be bleeding out in an alley right now."
Anthony turned his head back toward the suite. "Santino! Don't you ever make the fatal mistake of thinking that just because John walked away from the life, I can't put you in the ground!"
Winston's expression darkened considerably. He let out a heavy, tired sigh.
Winston completely understood the political reality. Santino had launched an unprovoked assassination attempt against Anthony, and Anthony had marched into the hotel specifically to wage psychological warfare.
The polite facade of the underworld had been violently torn away. Winston knew the blood feud between the Tarasovs and the D'Antonios was now entirely irreconcilable. It was no longer a question of if a war would start, but merely when and where.
And Winston had no idea how deep John Wick would be dragged into the impending hellfire.
Winston turned to address the suite, offering a stiff, highly formal bow.
"Santino, you have my sincerest apologies. Guests of the Continental should feel absolutely secure, not threatened."
Winston immediately turned back to Anthony, his voice hardening into iron. "Hand over your weapon, Anthony. Right now."
Anthony shrugged, casually flipping the Glock backward and handing it over grip-first.
"Winston, I swear on my life I didn't fire a single shot," Anthony said innocently. "I only pointed this instrument of kindness at his head to make a philosophical point."
Winston's cheek twitched. It looked as though he was actively suppressing an aneurysm.
Anthony slapped his own forehead in exaggerated frustration. "Damn it, I completely forgot to record a video. I could have posted his terrified face on the High Table's dark web intranet."
Santino finally stormed toward the door, his face purple with rage. "Winston! This lunatic broke into my private suite and pointed a loaded firearm at my head! That is a severe, unforgivable violation of hotel rules!"
Winston paused for a long moment, carefully weighing the politics. He turned to Anthony. "He is technically correct, Anthony."
"Drawing a weapon and threatening another guest—even a sworn enemy—within the Continental is a direct violation of the sanctuary. By the strict letter of the law, you should be permanently excommunicated and banned from entering any Continental property globally."
Anthony didn't look the least bit intimidated. In fact, he smiled.
"Winston, I wasn't threatening him," Anthony countered smoothly. "He just doesn't know how to play the game."
Before Winston could react, Anthony stepped right up to Santino and yanked a concealed Glock from the Italian's own waistband.
Anthony violently shoved Santino's own gun back into the Camorra boss's trembling hands. Anthony then grabbed Santino's wrist and physically forced the barrel of the gun to point directly at his own forehead, then his eyes, his throat, and finally his chest.
"Winston, I never claimed he was threatening me, did I?" Anthony asked loudly. "Because in this hotel, who actually has the nerve to threaten anyone? Well, except for that idiot Ms. Perkins, of course."
Winston and Santino were both completely baffled by Anthony's deranged logic.
Technically, Anthony was right. It wasn't a traditional threat. Anthony's actions were purely designed to mentally break Santino and expose his cowardice.
"Santino launched a fully armed hit squad to murder me in my sleep," Anthony stated coldly. "All I did was walk over here and deliver a few harsh truths. And you want to penalize me for making a threat? That hardly seems fair, Winston."
Winston stared at him, briefly at a loss for words.
"This has absolutely nothing to do with fairness, Anthony," Winston replied sternly. "It is about the rules. It is about order. Without order, we are nothing but beasts."
"So you would rather sit back and watch a sitting syndicate boss—one personally appointed by the Adjudicator herself—be assassinated in his sleep?" Anthony's voice suddenly spiked in volume, ringing down the quiet hallway.
"Let me make something perfectly clear, Winston. I didn't come to the Continental to start a fight. I came here seeking the sanctuary I am owed. Or does the Adjudicator's mandate lose its power the second she leaves the city?"
Anthony held out his empty hand. "I need the Adjudicator's direct contact information. Right now."
"If the High Table cannot enforce the peace they mandated, I want her to tell me that to my face. Or..."
Anthony slowly turned his head to lock eyes with Santino. "I want to see exactly who has the suicidal courage to publicly question the Adjudicator's authority."
Anthony leaned in close to Santino, his voice dropping to a vicious, venomous whisper.
"Don't think I don't know exactly why you're in New York, Santino. You came here to force John Wick to murder your own sister. You want her seat at the High Table."
Anthony spat on the carpet at Santino's feet. "You are a fucking beast. You're worse than a rabid dog."
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