Chidi witnessed the entire brutal spectacle from the floor. His eyes burned with an absolute, all-consuming mixture of extreme anger and profound humiliation.
But his caved-in chest and dislocated arm prevented him from moving a single muscle to intervene. Every desperate struggle to stand only caused him to violently cough up more thick, pink foam.
Anthony slowly walked over to Gramont's trembling, crumpled form. He casually squatted down, gently nudging the Marquis's bleeding shoulder with the polished tip of his Oxford shoe.
"Hey," Anthony whispered, his tone suddenly devoid of violence, replacing it with a deeply chilling, feigned concern. "Can you still breathe? Good. Now... I will generously permit you to speak."
"Tell me exactly who the hell you are. What kind of arrogant, imported European bastard genuinely believes he can establish an operation this massive in New York without paying the Tarasovs a tax?"
Gramont desperately struggled to open his grotesquely swollen, purple eyes. His vision was entirely blurred by a thick sheen of his own blood and tears.
He stared up at the demonic Russian mobster crouched before him, feeling the twin fires of absolute humiliation and psychotic rage threatening to burn a hole straight through his mind.
He rallied every remaining ounce of his aristocratic willpower to squeeze a hoarse, ragged voice past the blood pooling in his throat.
"I am... Etienne de la Gramont..." he gasped, spitting a glob of blood onto the floor. "...a Special Envoy of the High Table... I hold the title of Marquis..."
"Hmm?" Anthony violently recoiled, raising a single eyebrow in an expression of absolute, exaggerated shock. He even casually jammed his pinky finger into his ear, twisting it as if trying to clear his hearing.
"The High Table? A Marquis?" Anthony let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh. "Don't you fucking lie to me to save your pathetic life! Winston never informed the syndicates that a High Table Envoy had arrived in New York!"
Anthony stood up and aggressively raised his heavy leather shoe, fully preparing to deliver a devastating soccer kick to Gramont's skull.
Gramont shrieked in absolute terror, frantically curling into a fetal ball and covering his bleeding face with both hands.
"I swear it! I am the Special Envoy of the High Table! Marquis de Gramont!"
"If you're a High Table Envoy, then I'm the fucking King of England!" Anthony roared, acting entirely furious.
Just as Anthony began to swing his leg forward for the kick, Gramont frantically reached into the hidden pocket of his torn bathrobe and pulled out a heavy, matte-black metal token.
"Look at the seal! This is a High Table Enforcement Order!"
Anthony paused. He snatched the heavy token from Gramont's trembling fingers.
The cold metal was flawlessly engraved with the terrifying, three-headed wolf emblem of the High Table.
Under normal circumstances, a localized syndicate boss like Anthony Tarasov would absolutely never possess the clearance necessary to recognize such an elite artifact. Only an ancient, strictly disciplined Continental Hotel Manager like Winston fully comprehended the absolute authority and military permissions granted by the Enforcement Order.
The holder of that specific coin possessed the divine right to mobilize High Table armies and physically adjudicate Continental properties.
Anthony intensely examined the token under the dim light, carefully orchestrating a deeply hesitant, suspicious look across his face.
"Did you steal this? Are you honestly attempting to impersonate a High Table Envoy?" Anthony growled, grabbing Gramont by the lapel. "I'll throw you straight out the fucking window!"
Gramont frantically thrust his left hand forward.
Resting heavily on his ring finger was an ornate, custom-forged platinum ring, deeply engraved with a complex combination of crossed swords and blooming iris flowers.
Anthony instantly recognized the artifact. It was the ancestral coat of arms belonging to the House of Gramont.
The ring was both a deeply sacred symbol of his aristocratic heritage and a highly restricted visual marker designed to identify High Table elites without speaking.
But naturally, a localized Russian mobster like Anthony was not supposed to "know" that.
Anthony slowly loosened his grip on Gramont's robe, taking a hesitant step backward. He stared down at the bleeding aristocrat, his eyes wide.
"I don't recognize any of this archaic European bullshit," Anthony muttered, deliberately slipping the heavy Enforcement Order into his own pocket and violently twisting the ancestral ring off Gramont's finger.
"I am going to personally deliver these artifacts to Winston at the New York Continental for formal authentication."
Anthony leaned down, his voice dropping to a terrifying whisper. "If I discover you are actively lying to me... if you are impersonating a High Table member to avoid paying my tax... you know exactly how slowly I will peel your skin off."
"Take them!" Gramont gasped, desperate to avoid another beating. "Take them directly to the Continental! Winston will verify my absolute authority!"
"You genuinely want me to take this to the Continental?" Anthony suddenly stood up completely straight. He slowly looked around the devastated, blood-splattered penthouse, his eyes finally resting on Gramont's broken body.
The expression of profound, horrifying "realization" that blossomed across Anthony's face was absolutely Oscar-worthy.
"Holy shit," Anthony loudly slapped his own thigh, pointing an accusatory finger down at Gramont. His tone was laced with an absurd, almost comical level of offended innocence.
"So... you really are the Special Envoy? Why the fuck didn't you just tell me that immediately?"
Gramont was so violently consumed by rage that his entire body convulsed. Another thick mouthful of blood welled up in his throat, nearly choking him.
Why didn't I tell you earlier?
Did you give me a single fucking microsecond to speak before you shattered my face? Gramont roared internally, his mind fracturing under the sheer weight of the injustice. You broke my nose before I even opened my mouth, you psychotic Russian animal!
Anthony aggressively rubbed his temples, looking exactly like a man who had just realized he had accidentally parked in his neighbor's driveway.
"What an absolutely catastrophic misunderstanding, Your Excellency!" Anthony exclaimed, shaking his head. "If you had simply led the conversation by formally announcing your High Table identity, how could I have possibly... well, sigh!"
Anthony internally smiled. During the negotiation at the Continental, I desperately wanted to beat Santino D'Antonio to death, but I was constrained by the Hotel's strict non-violence rules and the presence of Ares.
But tonight? We are operating in the wild. I possess plausible deniability. I "didn't know" who Gramont was. And I possessed the perfect counter to his elite bodyguard.
Anthony reached down, grabbed Gramont by the armpit, and roughly hauled the bleeding Marquis off the floor, unceremoniously dumping him onto a plush leather sofa. Anthony walked over to the surviving section of the wet-bar and poured a fresh glass of wine.
"I am profoundly sorry for the physical altercation, Marquis de Gramont," Anthony said, shoving the glass into Gramont's trembling hand. "Please, have a drink to calm your nerves."
Gramont stared intensely into Anthony's eyes. The Marquis's gaze was completely saturated with a look of absolute, demonic hatred. He looked like he genuinely wanted to tear Anthony's throat out with his teeth.
And yet, Gramont completely bought the performance. He genuinely believed that Anthony had absolutely no idea who he was when he breached the penthouse.
But the sheer indignity of the situation—the fact that he, an untouchable High Table aristocrat, had been brutally beaten to a pulp simply because an ignorant mobster had mistaken him for a rival gang leader—was completely unbearable.
The violent frustration almost caused Gramont to suffer an aneurysm on the spot.
He permanently etched the blood debt deep into the core of his soul.
Anthony Tarasov... I swear to God I will make you pay for this a hundredfold. I will burn your entire empire to ash.
Gramont roared the vow silently within his mind, but outwardly, he possessed no choice but to swallow his overwhelming, toxic humiliation.
He sat awkwardly on the edge of the sofa, his posture twisted. Every single breath he drew caused his fractured ribs to scream in agony, and the shattered bridge of his nose pulsed with a blinding, white-hot fire.
Anthony's deeply fake, remorseful expression was nothing short of the most vicious, targeted mockery Gramont had ever endured.
But Gramont's highly analytical mind realized that screaming or throwing a tantrum now would accomplish absolutely nothing. He was physically broken, his bodyguard was paralyzed, and he was entirely at Anthony's mercy. Throwing a fit would only make him look like a pathetic, failed clown.
I will settle this account later. With exorbitant interest.
"Wipe your face," Anthony said, his tone dripping with infuriatingly polite friendliness as he offered Gramont a white silk napkin.
"Look, from a logistical standpoint, this is entirely a misunderstanding. You lack any formal syndicate signage on the ground floor. You employ standard Blackwater-style security. How could I have possibly known you were High Table?"
Anthony dragged a heavy mahogany chair across the room and sat down directly across from Gramont, crossing his legs with absolute, commanding authority.
"Very well, Your Excellency Marquis de Gramont," Anthony heavily emphasized the aristocratic title, twisting the knife. "I formally apologize for my earlier... rudeness."
Anthony poured himself a second glass of wine. "Since we have established that we are both civilized businessmen... why don't we sit down and have a polite discussion?"
Anthony casually gestured toward the massive wall of surveillance monitors, several of which were still broadcasting static from the Adirondack Hunting Ground.
"Look at that mess. It's completely outrageous. It appears I am not the only syndicate heavily invested in locating your little operation."
Anthony had genuinely never expected Gramont to deploy an entire army of Black Armor enforcers to ambush James at the Hunting Ground.
Anthony had originally coordinated a backup plan with John Wick. He expected John to breach the One57 penthouse alongside the Delta operators to deal with Gramont's armor. Instead, he had only needed to deal with Chidi.
Gramont slowly closed his swollen eyes, taking a deep, shuddering breath to suppress the agonizing, tearing pain in his lungs.
When he finally opened his eyes again, the aristocratic facade was entirely gone. All that remained was the cold, hyper-focused, predatory stare of a true killer.
He painfully raised the glass to his split lips, took a microscopic sip, and stared dead into Anthony's eyes, enunciating every single word with terrifying precision.
"You successfully won... this specific round, Anthony," Gramont readily admitted defeat, but the absolute, freezing malice in his voice didn't diminish a fraction of a percent.
"But the grand game... is far from over."
Gramont's confidence returned. He genuinely believed that because Anthony now "knew" his true identity, the Russian would absolutely never dare to execute him.
Even outside the consecrated grounds of the Continental, murdering a High Table Envoy was a sin punishable by the absolute, systematic extermination of the offender's entire bloodline and syndicate.
"I am fully aware of the stakes," Anthony shrugged casually, taking a sip of his wine. "But this was simply a localized dispute between you and John Wick. I was merely an innocent bystander dragged into the crossfire."
Gramont let out a wet, hissing laugh. "You are entirely mistaken, Anthony."
Gramont raised a trembling finger, pointing directly at his own shattered, bloody face. "By inflicting this upon me... you have officially entered the game."
Anthony sneered, his eyes turning cold. "I was simply tracking down the mysterious mastermind who kidnapped civilians from my territory to stock his Hunting Ground. I possess absolutely zero intention of declaring war against the High Table."
Anthony leaned forward, his voice dropping into a lethal whisper.
"But... if you truly wish to escalate this conflict and destroy my syndicate... you are going to have to successfully maneuver past the Adjudicator first."
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