At precisely seven o'clock in the morning, the atmosphere in the grand lobby of the Manhattan Continental Hotel was as sterile and freezing as a hospital morgue.
Winston stood behind the polished mahogany front desk, meticulously wiping an old-fashioned brass rotary telephone with a piece of yellow chamois leather. His movements were slow and deliberate, possessing the quiet reverence of a priest performing a religious ritual.
He was wearing his finest dark gray three-piece suit today, the Windsor knot of his silk tie utterly flawless.
It was the mandatory, standardized attire for formally receiving an Envoy of the High Table.
Winston was genuinely surprised that Gramont had the audacity to show his face in public this morning.
Charon, standing perfectly upright, pulled open the heavy brass and glass front doors of the hotel.
The Adjudicator walked through the entrance first, with the Harbinger following precisely one step behind.
Both High Table officials were dressed in perfectly tailored, matte-black suits. Their faces were carved from absolute stone, entirely devoid of human emotion. Their footfalls were flawlessly synchronized, their polished leather shoes making absolutely zero sound against the thick Persian carpets.
Winston stepped out from behind the desk to formally greet them, dipping his chin in a shallow, respectful nod.
Then he saw the absolute physical ruin of the man walking behind them.
Winston genuinely had no idea where the "pig's head" had come from until he recognized the matte-black tactical armor of the four personal guards flanking the man.
"Etienne de la Gramont," the Adjudicator said, her freezing voice carrying an incredibly rare, microscopic trace of genuine emotion.
"The Special Envoy of the High Table."
She looked directly at Winston, clearly observing the microscopic widening of the Hotel Manager's eyes. "Is it not astonishing?"
"I received preliminary reports last night," Winston murmured carefully. "They suggested this was the handiwork of Anthony Tarasov."
"Marquis de Gramont? Good God..." Winston stared at the aristocratic Frenchman as if he were actively looking at a ghost. "The Continental Hotel welcomes you."
The Marquis—who only yesterday had been arrogantly strategizing from the safety of his impenetrable One57 penthouse—now looked utterly, comprehensively demolished.
His body was wrapped in a flawlessly tailored, pristine white bespoke suit, but his posture was visibly rigid. Every single step he took was stiff and agonizing, clearly betraying the shattered ribs beneath the expensive wool.
But it was his face that was truly shocking.
A delicate, flesh-colored medical splint was tightly taped across the high, shattered bridge of his aristocratic nose. The horrific, deep purple bruising and severe swelling across both of his cheekbones were impossible to conceal with makeup. A surgical butterfly bandage held together a jagged split near the corner of his left eye.
Although Gramont was utilizing every remaining ounce of his willpower to maintain a perfectly upright, aristocratic posture and project an aura of cold indifference, the sheer, violently suppressed humiliation and psychotic rage radiating from his eyes was almost physically suffocating.
Gramont entirely ignored Winston's formal greeting, arrogantly limping past the Hotel Manager without a single word.
Three final individuals entered the lobby behind the Marquis.
The leader was a slender Asian man, appearing to be in his late fifties. His head was perfectly shaved, and his face possessed a terrifyingly calm, absolute neutrality.
Following closely behind him were two younger disciples—a man and a woman. Both were dressed in identical, minimalist black tactical suits. Their faces were as expressionless as their master's, but their eyes continuously scanned the lobby, sharp and predatory as hunting knives.
Zero.
The High Table's ultimate, specialized Shinobi assassin.
This specific "old friend" of John Wick's was dressed in a remarkably well-tailored black suit and wore his signature, deeply respectful, almost polite smile.
"It has been a significantly long time, Winston," Zero said, his English carrying a soft, precise accent.
"Zero," Winston nodded slowly, his eyes calculating the sheer lethality now standing in his lobby. "I trust your accommodations have been satisfactory."
Zero even offered a shallow, polite bow toward Charon, who merely stared back with unblinking professionalism.
"Where is Anthony Tarasov, Winston?" the Adjudicator demanded, her dark eyes cutting toward the entrance. "I sincerely hope you did not permit him to leave the premises."
Winston glanced at Gramont's limping figure as the Marquis approached the private, secure elevator reserved for High Table business.
"Mr. Tarasov informed me he has been working continuously through the night, processing the massive influx of traumatized civilians his syndicate allegedly recovered from a woodland area," Winston replied smoothly.
Winston casually checked the gold Patek Philippe on his wrist. "He is scheduled to arrive in exactly ten minutes."
The Adjudicator asked no further questions. Her expression remained entirely locked.
Only a microscopic, almost imperceptible tremor in her eyelashes betrayed her internal thoughts.
This was officially the first time in her extensive, blood-soaked memory that three absolute titans of the High Table were actively waiting on the arrival of a localized, regional syndicate boss.
She and the Harbinger turned and walked toward the private elevator. Gramont and Zero followed them inside.
Winston watched the heavy brass doors slide completely shut before finally allowing himself to slowly exhale a breath he didn't realize he was holding.
He silently made the sign of the cross over his chest.
May God have absolute mercy on that psychotic Russian bastard, Winston thought grimly.
Exactly eight minutes later, Anthony casually strolled up the marble steps of the Continental.
"Did you physically assault Marquis de Gramont?" Winston asked the exact second Anthony walked through the doors. The Hotel Manager's eyes were unusually tense, entirely dropping his usual eloquent pleasantries.
Anthony widened his eyes, orchestrating a look of absolute, pristine innocence. "I assumed he was simply the localized syndicate boss managing the Hunting Ground! I genuinely had absolutely no idea he was Marquis de Gramont until he produced his Enforcement Order."
Winston clearly did not believe a single syllable of the lie.
Gramont had entered New York City under absolute, classified secrecy. The Continental Hotel's intelligence network hadn't received a single whisper of his arrival, yet Anthony had somehow not only tracked him down, but breached his sanctuary.
Winston internally hypothesized that, given Anthony's borderline-sociopathic personality, if Anthony hadn't known he was Gramont, he simply would have shot the man in the head rather than beating him.
Winston didn't press the issue. It was safer not to know the mechanics of the lie.
"Follow me immediately," Winston ordered. "They are waiting."
The Executive Tribunal, Top Floor
The Adjudicator stood perfectly still by the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, her hands clasped loosely behind her back, staring out at the Manhattan skyline.
The Harbinger sat perfectly upright in a heavy leather armchair. A thick, leather-bound ledger rested open on his lap. He remained entirely silent, his eyes quietly tracking Anthony and Winston as they entered the secure room.
Gramont deliberately chose a chair positioned on the far side of the massive conference table, placing him diagonally across from where Anthony was expected to sit.
"Anthony Tarasov," the Adjudicator began immediately, completely omitting any formal pleasantries or offers of hospitality. "At approximately zero-two-hundred hours last night, a highly classified, privately funded Hunting Ground located in the Adirondack Mountains was catastrophically assaulted."
"Thirteen high-value VIP hunters and verified High Table associates were executed during the breach. The heavily armed tactical element responsible explicitly identified themselves as direct employees of the Tarasov syndicate."
Anthony calmly pulled out a chair and sat down. He poured himself a cup of black coffee from the silver carafe on the table, took a slow sip, and looked up.
A perfectly timed, flawlessly executed expression of deep confusion washed over his face.
"Your Honor, I am afraid I entirely misunderstand your accusation. I am certainly aware that an illegal Hunting Ground existed somewhere in the state, but I possessed absolutely zero intelligence confirming it was located in the Adirondacks."
Anthony's cold gaze slowly swept across the table, deliberately locking onto Gramont. He allowed his eyes to linger on the Marquis's grotesquely swollen, splinted face for exactly half a second longer than was polite.
"Furthermore... if this tribunal has been convened regarding the minor, localized physical altercation between Marquis de Gramont and myself last night... I was under the distinct impression we had already reached a mutually beneficial understanding. Isn't that correct, Marquis?"
Anthony smiled at Gramont. His tone was laced with a sickening, innocent politeness.
Gramont's breathing instantly spiked, becoming audibly heavy and ragged. He violently clenched his jaw, physically fighting to suppress the furious roar actively rising in his throat.
"A misunderstanding?" The Adjudicator finally turned away from the window, her dark eyes locking onto Anthony. "Anthony, the entire duration of the subterranean breach was recorded on closed-circuit surveillance."
Anthony frowned deeply, somehow looking even more bewildered.
"Your Honor, with all due respect, this narrative sounds like the plot of a terrible, low-budget mafia film. Someone was killed and robbed in the woods? That is undeniably tragic."
"But... what does this isolated incident have to do with me, or the Tarasov family? Yes, late last night, my organization received over eighty severely traumatized, kidnapped civilians who were unceremoniously dumped in Queens. We assume they were the surviving 'prey' from the Hunting Ground. But those civilians refused to speak with my men regarding the identity of their rescuers."
Gramont finally snapped. He jerked his head, snapping a sharp nod toward Zero.
Zero's male apprentice immediately stepped forward. He produced a sleek, encrypted tablet from an aluminum briefcase, placed it flat on the mahogany table, and slid it directly across the polished wood until it rested in front of Anthony.
The screen flared to life, automatically initiating a high-definition surveillance playback.
The footage was entirely black-and-white, captured from a highly elevated, concealed angle deep inside the subterranean bunker Bauer had breached.
On the screen, a massive, heavily armored PMC operator wearing a black balaclava violently grabbed the silk collar of a terrified, morbidly obese man dressed head-to-toe in a bespoke tuxedo.
"...Fuck, you honestly think I care that you shot Tarasov operators? You! You! You! And the fat one in the tuxedo!" the masked operator roared, his voice distorted by the camera's microphone.
Deafening, point-blank gunshots instantly blew out the audio levels of the recording.
The morbidly obese man and three other violently screaming, luxuriously dressed billionaires instantly collapsed to the concrete floor like discarded meat.
A massive pool of thick, black blood rapidly expanded across the floor of the bunker, so vast it almost covered the lens's field of view.
The camera aggressively panned across several of the violently distorted, lifeless faces. One of the executed men prominently wore a heavy gold lapel pin engraved with an iris badge—the undeniable crest of an ancient, highly protected European High Table family.
"Damn it! If you refuse to transfer the offshore funds, fine! But do not fucking scream at me that you are an honored guest of the High Table!"
Bauer's voice bled through the speakers, thick with absolute, sociopathic mockery.
On the screen, Bauer physically stepped over the corpses and spat directly into the face of a terrified, elderly aristocrat who was slumped against the wall, his expensive trousers visibly soaked in his own urine.
"I am a sanctioned, sovereign member of the High Table! I am a personal, distinguished guest of Marquis de Gramont! How dare you—"
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Several more crisp, deafening gunshots echoed through the bunker. The elderly aristocrat's head violently snapped back.
The digital recording abruptly terminated, cutting to black.
"The tactical operators explicitly, repeatedly claimed allegiance to the Tarasov syndicate on the audio track," Gramont finally spoke.
His voice was a horrifying, wet hiss, completely distorted by the surgical splint and the agonizing pain radiating through his shattered face.
"Anthony," Gramont practically spat the words across the table. "Do you honestly believe that simply because your attack dogs wore black balaclavas, we cannot smell the absolute stench of your Russian beasts on this operation?"
"Oh?"
Anthony casually leaned entirely back in his leather chair. He looked incredibly relaxed. He even casually crossed his right leg over his left knee, resting his hands lightly on his stomach.
"Marquis de Gramont," Anthony said smoothly, a dark, mocking smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Are you formally suggesting that an elite, localized group of highly audacious individuals successfully executed a complex tactical raid against your heavily fortified, privately funded Hunting Ground... and entirely annihilated your Mexican Cartel allies?"
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