Gramont took a slow, painful sip of his wine, his grotesquely swollen face still somehow managing to carry that cold, elegant smile. He seemed entirely content to let the silence stretch between them, studying Anthony the way a chess grandmaster studies the board.
He exhaled slowly, the measured breath of a man who had recalibrated his assessment of the situation. His eyes, though buried beneath bruised, purple flesh, glittered with something unexpected.
Something that looked disturbingly like genuine admiration.
"Do you know," Gramont said softly, his voice regaining a fraction of its aristocratic composure, "if you were not bound by the Tarasov bloodline, if you did not feel this absurd, sentimental obligation to protect John Wick..."
He tilted his damaged head slightly. "I would recruit you personally. The High Table needs men precisely like you."
"The High Table needs obedient dogs," Anthony said flatly, taking a slow sip of his wine without looking up. "I am not a dog."
Gramont chuckled, the sound immediately triggering a wet, painful cough.
"Everyone is a dog, Anthony," he said once the coughing subsided, his smile returning. "The only meaningful distinction is the identity of your master. Is yours... money? Power?"
He paused, allowing the silence to hang deliberately.
"Or perhaps... a woman named Winnie Pritzker?"
Anthony's eyes turned cold in an instant.
The warmth entirely evacuated his expression, replaced by something flat and genuinely dangerous.
Gramont's smile deepened significantly. He recognized the micro-expression with the practiced eye of a predator who had spent a lifetime studying human weakness.
"Ah! I see I've guessed correctly," Gramont murmured with satisfaction. "How extraordinarily touching! A Russian mob boss and the Pritzker heiress. A thoroughly modern Romeo and Juliet."
"Unfortunately, Juliet's brother has just been delivered to a federal prison cell specifically because of your 'sense of justice.' And as for Juliet herself..."
Anthony's right hand moved with the quiet, absolute certainty of a man who had performed this motion ten thousand times. His palm pressed flat onto the surface of the mahogany table with a sharp, definitive crack.
Gramont didn't flinch. He didn't move a single centimeter backward. He didn't raise his hands defensively. He simply continued looking at Anthony with those cold, predatory eyes.
"I am the Marquis de Gramont," Gramont said, his voice dropping to something soft and deeply lethal, like reciting verses from a poem. "I am the High Table's Special Envoy to the Americas. My person physically represents the collective will of all eleven sitting members of the High Table."
"If you execute me outside the sanctioned framework of our laws..." Gramont's smile didn't waver by a fraction, "...the High Table will immediately activate the Extermination Protocol."
"Every member of the Tarasov family. Every associate. Every peripheral contact. Cold corpses within seventy-two hours."
He let that land, watching Anthony's jaw muscles twitch.
"That includes the Pritzker family."
Anthony drew a slow, measured breath. His chest rose and fell with absolute, terrifying control.
He knew Gramont was telling the absolute truth.
He had seen firsthand what the High Table did to men who broke their sacred rules. John Wick—arguably the most lethally efficient killer who had ever walked the earth, a man with zero institutional ties to the organization—had ultimately been forced into humiliating compromise by the sheer weight of their bureaucratic authority and overwhelming force.
If John couldn't simply shoot his way to freedom from the High Table, Anthony certainly couldn't do it over a single night's victory.
"Now you fully comprehend the architecture of power," Gramont said quietly. "You can win a single game against me. You can execute my local assets. You can embarrass me in my own penthouse."
"But you cannot touch me. Because I am the man who deals the cards in this city."
Gramont could clearly observe the faint, rhythmic pulse of a vein in Anthony's right temple.
"You are furious," Gramont observed clinically. "Yet you are exercising perfect restraint. That is the mark of a genuinely dangerous man, Anthony."
A real laugh escaped Gramont's split lips, genuine and unguarded.
"I truly like you. I mean that sincerely. If fate had placed us on the same side of the board, I suspect we would have been remarkable friends."
"We will never be friends," Anthony replied, but matched the light tone with a short, dark laugh of his own.
"Perhaps not." Gramont graciously raised his glass toward him. "Then let us speak practically."
"Regardless of whether those operators were your men or independent contractors, they physically extracted my VIPs from the Hunting Ground. That action cost me significant political capital and personal face. That... I cannot simply absorb without response."
Gramont set his glass down.
"However. I am fully prepared to erase the entire evening from my memory. In exchange for a single, reasonable condition."
Anthony said nothing, waiting.
"Hand me John Wick," Gramont said simply. "Tell me his current location, and everything tonight dissolves. The Tarasov syndicate operates without interference in New York."
Gramont allowed a brief, deliberate pause.
"Furthermore... I will personally sponsor your nomination for an Observer Seat at the High Table. Consider carefully what that designation means for you."
"It means I become your dog."
"It means you become qualified to sit at the table," Gramont corrected sharply. "Choose your metaphors carefully, Anthony. There is an enormous distinction between the two."
Gramont leaned forward slightly, wincing as his ribs protested.
"Your father spent his entire life clawing toward relevance, and the Tarasov family remained permanently classified as a regional 'agent.' A glorified contractor. But an Observer Seat? Your children could become real players. Your grandchildren could hold a full seat."
"The Tarasov name might one day replace Russia itself as a sovereign power within the High Table. That is true, generational authority. The power that lets a family not merely survive, but genuinely rule."
Anthony was quiet for several seconds.
Then he laughed. The sound was relaxed and genuinely amused.
"You betrayed the entire Mexican Cartel structure the moment they became inconvenient to your operation," Anthony said. "Empty promises from a man with that track record deserve exactly zero weight."
Gramont exhaled slowly. "What a shame. Then I suppose we continue playing."
"Playing is perfectly fine with me," Anthony said, his voice dropping into an even, controlled register. "But I am adding one personal rule to the game."
"Oh?" Gramont raised a battered eyebrow.
"You can operate freely against me within the framework of the High Table's rules," Anthony said, his voice nearly conversational. "Send assassins. Put a bounty on my head. Mobilize every single asset available to you."
He held Gramont's gaze for a single, extended beat.
"But if you touch a single hair on Winnie Pritzker's head."
Anthony paused, allowing the silence to compress into something almost physical.
"I will forget that you carry the title of Special Envoy. I will forget the High Table exists. I will forget every single rule we just agreed upon."
"I will chase you to the edge of the earth. And I will personally slit your throat in front of every guest in the Continental Hotel's main dining room, in full view of Winston himself. In front of every seated High Table elder present. That is my absolute promise to you."
Anthony's voice never once rose above a quiet, level murmur. There was no theatrical heat, no emotional trembling. Just a completely flat, absolute certainty, like a man reading coordinates from a map.
Gramont's smug smile faded for the first time.
He stared at Anthony in genuine silence, his sharp, analytical mind processing the statement with total seriousness.
Gramont was deeply experienced in threats. He had received them from world leaders, from High Table Elders, from the most elite killers on the planet. He could identify hollow bravado from lethal intent within seconds.
This was not bravado.
Anthony Tarasov would absolutely do exactly what he just described.
Gramont felt something he had not experienced in many, many years. A cold pressure directly behind his sternum.
He held the Russian's gaze for another long second, then laughed again, deliberately releasing the tension.
"Of course. Winnie Pritzker is entirely outside the parameters of our engagement," Gramont said smoothly. "I guarantee it formally."
"I can further guarantee that until John Wick surfaces, every member of the Tarasov organization remains protected under the sanctioned rules."
He watched Anthony carefully as he delivered the guarantee.
"Remember your precise words, Gramont," Anthony said.
He took two measured steps backward from the table. He casually reached forward and tossed both the High Table Enforcement Order and the ancestral ring directly onto the table in front of Gramont.
Then he turned, straightening his jacket, and walked toward the shattered penthouse door where Nick and Carl were waiting.
Gramont didn't move. He remained seated on the blood-stained sofa, staring at the doorway long after the sound of footsteps had disappeared down the elevator corridor.
"Anthony Tarasov..." Gramont murmured softly into the silent, ruined penthouse.
He slowly reached forward and picked up his ancestral ring, sliding it back onto his swollen finger.
"The Hunting Ground operation is finished. Very well, then."
His voice settled into something cold and deeply patient, like the sound of ice forming over a river in winter.
"Let us play this game directly. Face to face. As equals."
Gramont fully understood what the next chapter of this conflict would cost both of them. For the sake of John Wick, there was now only a single path remaining between himself and that deranged, magnificent Russian.
A road paved entirely with blood.
A road that would not conclude until one of them was dead.
Queens, Tarasov Syndicate Headquarters
James pushed open the heavy conference room door with his shoulder.
Anthony was already seated at the head of the long table, jacket off, sleeves rolled to his elbows. A single glass of vodka sat untouched in front of him.
James pulled up a chair and sat down heavily across from him. He had the exhausted, hollow-eyed look of a man who had spent the last four hours running on combat adrenaline and was only now feeling the full weight of what the night had cost.
"The operation is concluded," James said, exhaling slowly. "All eighty-six surviving victims of the Hunting Ground are temporarily housed in Queens. Medical teams are handling trauma assessment now."
He paused.
"Elliott and the other two are stable; the surgeons are confident they'll both make a full recovery." James's voice tightened slightly. "Vincent... didn't survive his wounds. The tungsten round punctured his left lung. He was gone before we reached the vehicle."
Anthony stared somewhere beyond the middle distance for several seconds.
"Vincent's body goes home with full military honors," Anthony said, his voice flat and final. "Death compensation is set at two hundred thousand dollars. His family has a standing invitation to relocate to New York. Tarasov assumes full financial responsibility for any dependents, permanently."
He looked up. "That standard applies uniformly to every Tarasov special operator killed in combat. No exceptions."
James exhaled deeply, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. The figure was substantially higher than anything the contract stipulated. "Understood."
James leaned back, staring at the ceiling briefly. "Bauer's breach team forced the VIP hunters to wire approximately three hundred and seventy million dollars in ransom transfers before we evacuated the bunker. We executed half of the detained hunters and released the remainder."
Anthony considered this for a moment, then summoned Sergei with a single, quiet word.
"Take the surviving hunters directly to the New York Continental," Anthony instructed. "Winston will identify them and manage the political fallout."
Sergei glanced at James, then back at Anthony. "Boss, if we deliver them to Winston personally, there is no question he'll trace the operation directly back to us."
"I know," Anthony said. "The more visible our involvement appears, the easier it becomes for me to manage the downstream consequences."
He rolled his glass between his palms. "Brief our men. The Tarasov operators who evacuated those people simply found them in Queens. They have no further knowledge of origin or circumstances."
Sergei immediately understood the implication. He nodded. "I'll conduct a preliminary interview with the survivors first. Within twenty minutes, at least one of them will independently suggest the Continental Hotel as their preferred destination."
Anthony held up a hand before Sergei could leave. "Have my uncle authorize syndicate-wide end-of-month bonuses. Standard tier, no alterations. Ensure every team receives it."
Sergei departed.
James remained seated, his forearms resting heavily on the conference table. He stared at the surface, then finally looked directly at Anthony.
"Boss." James hesitated for just a moment. "Their armored soldiers are genuinely invulnerable to standard ballistics. If Bauer hadn't seized the bunker at precisely the right moment, none of my Vanguard would have made it out of that valley."
"I know," Anthony said quietly. He reached up and pressed two fingers hard against his temple. "I underestimated Gramont's logistical capability tonight. I won't make that error again."
He met James's eyes directly.
"Effective immediately: all Tarasov special operations personnel are on permanent high-alert status until I personally rescind the order. Full kit at all times. No solo movements. No unapproved engagements."
"Understood," James said, standing and pushing in his chair.
He was almost at the door when Anthony spoke again.
"James."
James stopped.
"You brought all your men home that you could," Anthony said quietly. "That's the only job that actually matters."
James held the door frame for a moment. He didn't turn around.
"Yeah," he said softly. "Tell that to Vincent."
He walked out, and the door swung shut behind him.
Anthony sat alone in the conference room, staring at the untouched glass of vodka on the table.
Outside the window, the Queens skyline burned orange against the pre-dawn sky.
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