Chapter 136: Plausible Deniability
Anthony slowly raised his hand, pointing a single, steady finger toward the heavily armed Black Armor guards standing rigidly by the tribunal doors.
"And you honestly expect me to believe that a syndicate of ruthless, highly specialized tactical operators successfully breached a military-grade bunker, entirely bypassed your invincible, proprietary Black Armor guards, and executed high-value hostages right out from under your nose..."
Anthony paused, his eyes narrowing into slits of absolute, blatant mockery.
"...and while executing this flawless black-ops raid, they made a deliberate point to scream that they were 'from Tarasov' directly into an active security camera?"
Anthony let out a sharp, derisive laugh. "Do you genuinely believe my operators—or any low-level idiot who has managed to survive longer than a single month in the absolute cesspool of the New York underworld—would be so catastrophically stupid as to ensure every single person in the room knew exactly who signed their paychecks?"
He dropped his hand, pivoting his freezing gaze directly onto Gramont.
"Marquis de Gramont, you seem to have conveniently forgotten the origin of this conflict. Who exactly authorized the creation of this 'Hunting Ground'? Who actively treated the lives of innocent civilians like livestock in a Roman gladiatorial arena? Who explicitly condoned the Mexican Cartel indiscriminately slaughtering people across Brooklyn just to stock his little game?"
Anthony leaned forward, his voice dripping with venom. "Where were your sacred rules then?"
He sneered. "The High Table's 'absolute rules' are nothing more than a convenient rag you utilize to wipe the dirty blood off your own hands."
Gramont's cold, arrogant smile froze for a fraction of a second, but his aristocratic training quickly recovered the facade.
"Your impassioned rhetoric is completely irrelevant, Anthony," Gramont hissed, his voice wet and strained. "The video evidence does not lie."
"Videos can easily lie. People can lie. But motives do not." Anthony's expression remained perfectly, terrifyingly calm.
"Why would I authorize an attack on your Hunting Ground? For the ransom money? The Tarasov syndicate possesses virtually unlimited capital. We do not lack for funds."
"To intentionally provoke the High Table? Do you honestly believe I am simply tired of breathing?"
His logic was incredibly simple, highly direct, and utterly irrefutable.
Gramont was temporarily struck completely speechless. The bruised, purple flesh of his swollen face darkened into a deep, sickly liver color as he struggled to find a counterargument.
The Adjudicator's sharp brow furrowed, a microscopic shift that betrayed her shifting internal calculus.
"Are you formally suggesting that a third party deliberately framed your syndicate?" she asked, her voice slow and deliberate.
"Or perhaps someone is actively orchestrating a false-flag operation to thoroughly muddy the waters of this city?" Anthony countered immediately, his sharp gaze remaining locked on Gramont.
"The tactical execution of a few insignificant, aristocratic guests and the theft of their offshore accounts generated exactly enough political noise to force the High Table to focus its overwhelming attention on a specific, 'arrogant' regional agent. It provides the perfect pretext to mobilize infinite Table resources to permanently eradicate him..."
Anthony tilted his head. "Marquis de Gramont, do you believe such a conspiracy is plausible? After all, you appear to harbor the exact same invasive ambitions for New York territory that Santino D'Antonio once did."
The lethal accusation behind Anthony's words was impossible to misinterpret.
Gramont began physically trembling with absolute rage. If it were not for the excruciating, paralyzing pain radiating from his shattered ribs, he would have vaulted across the mahogany table and strangled the Russian with his bare hands.
"You are spouting absolute, paranoid nonsense, Anthony!" Gramont roared, clutching his ribs. "Do you honestly believe you can manipulate this Tribunal with such clumsy, pathetic sophistry? The operators in that bunker were flawlessly coordinated. They possessed tier-one tactical proficiency! They were undeniably not street-level thugs!"
"In the entirety of New York City, aside from your localized pack of battlefield savages, who else possesses that specific logistical capability?"
"New York is massive, Gramont," Anthony sneered. "Vastly larger than your imported aristocratic brain can comprehend. And there are far more apex predators operating in the shadows than you can physically see."
Anthony casually shifted his gaze toward Winston.
"Isn't the Continental Hotel's localized intelligence network supposed to be unparalleled? Why don't you check exactly who else has been actively establishing a foothold in New York recently? The Italian Camorra? Or perhaps the Mexican Cartels, who have been desperately attempting to expand their narcotic distribution lines into my territory?"
The Adjudicator and the Harbinger silently exchanged a highly calculated, significant glance.
Anthony's tactical argument was not entirely without merit.
It was a profound contradiction. A gang of hyper-lethal, professional PMC operators had repeatedly and explicitly announced their employer's name during a black-ops raid, as if they were utterly terrified the victims wouldn't know who was shooting them.
It fundamentally violated the most basic, entry-level principles of tactical concealment.
Aside from the masked gunman explicitly screaming the word "Tarasov" and a few generalized aesthetic associations, there was zero direct forensic evidence linking the assault to Anthony's organization.
More crucially, the Adjudicator had noticed a glaring discrepancy in the audio. The operator in the video explicitly claimed that the leader of the Tarasovs was Abram.
Every single intelligence operative intimately familiar with the New York underworld knew perfectly well that Abram was merely a figurehead; the actual, localized controller of the syndicate was Anthony.
Furthermore, the identities of the executed VIPs were highly sensitive, bleeding into multiple powerful geopolitical factions. If Anthony had genuinely ordered their execution, it would be an explicit, undeniable declaration of war against the entire High Table social ecosystem.
Given Anthony's current logistical strength and regional isolation, orchestrating that massacre would be tantamount to tactical suicide.
But conversely, if Anthony didn't order the strike... who else possessed the sheer operational capability, the suicidal courage, and the logistical motivation to successfully assault Gramont's heavily fortified bunker and precisely extract those specific VIPs?
"Perhaps..." The Adjudicator's freezing voice paused slightly. An incredibly rare flicker of genuine hesitation flashed through her dark eyes.
"Is this elaborate defense simply another manifestation of your legendary audacity? Are you actively gambling that we simply will not believe you could possibly be that stupid?"
"That is also a distinct statistical probability," the Harbinger finally spoke. His heavy, resonant voice filled the room as his deep, authoritative gaze slowly swept across Gramont's shattered face.
"Within the chaotic quagmire of the New York underworld, the Tarasov family is hardly the sole organization possessing a localized, militarized armed force. Unchecked hatred and unchecked ambition are more than sufficient fuel to drive rival syndicates to take catastrophic risks."
The Harbinger closed his leather ledger. "Or, as Mr. Tarasov suggests, someone is actively utilizing this crisis to completely muddy the waters."
Anthony instantly recognized the Harbinger's tactical wavering. He had successfully driven a wedge into their certainty.
He leaned entirely back into the plush leather sofa, allowing his body language to project absolute, unbothered relaxation. "Would a genuine arsonist aggressively sprint down a crowded street carrying a lit torch while screaming his own legal name?"
"Gentlemen, look at the board. Who genuinely benefits the most from this massacre? Who currently possesses an unstable foothold in New York, and is desperately eager to find a suitable, sanctioned weapon to permanently cut down a well-established, localized opponent?"
Anthony looked directly at Winston. "I simply refuse to believe that after the catastrophic events of the past few days, the Continental Hotel's intelligence apparatus has uncovered absolutely nothing."
"Even I am fully aware that the Mexican Cartels have heavily entrenched their hands in New York's infrastructure."
Anthony's freezing gaze swept over the Adjudicator and the Harbinger one final time. "I trust the High Table will ultimately formulate its own impartial judgment."
"Adjudicator," Gramont interrupted, his voice laced with absolute panic as he saw the narrative slipping away from him. "I believe we are fundamentally wasting the Table's time."
"Anthony clearly walked into this room with a fully fabricated, rehearsed narrative. But his desperate sophistry does not alter the objective reality: the attacker explicitly identified himself as a member of the Tarasov syndicate. They are the only localized force in New York possessing both the tactical capability and the motive to execute this raid!"
"Motive?" Anthony raised a single, mocking eyebrow. "I already explicitly stated my case. Extorting ransom money and actively provoking the High Table are absolutely not my motives."
"So, what exactly was my theoretical motivation, Marquis? Did I slaughter your men simply because you possess such a highly punchable face?"
Gramont's expression darkened into absolute, homicidal fury.
"John Wick," Gramont hissed, throwing his final card onto the table. "I am absolutely certain you know his current coordinates and his exfiltration timeline. This is your final opportunity to survive this Tribunal, Anthony."
Anthony paused for a fraction of a second. His cold gaze slowly swept over the Adjudicator's rigid posture.
Without breaking eye contact with Gramont, Anthony casually picked up his crystal glass and downed the remaining whiskey in a single, smooth gulp.
"Adjudicator. Harbinger," Anthony said, his voice dropping an octave, resonating with absolute, localized authority.
"The Tarasov syndicate manages its own localized business and adheres to its own regional rules. We handle our own internal problems—such as the unfortunate 'physical misunderstanding' I had with Marquis de Gramont last night."
"But the Tarasovs possess absolutely zero interest in, nor are we contractually obligated to take responsibility for, geopolitical matters that reside entirely outside our sanctioned scope."
He stood up, casually walking a few paces until he was standing directly behind the Adjudicator's chair. He stopped.
"As for John Wick. He is indeed my personal friend."
Anthony paused, a terrifyingly calm, genuine smile blossoming across his face.
"I simply have one logistical question. Did John Wick assassinate the Pope? Did he execute the Elder? Every single syndicate on the planet apparently wants him dead."
Anthony turned abruptly, glaring down at Gramont like a god looking at an insect.
"If you are so utterly desperate to locate him, why don't you simply leverage your vast aristocratic wealth to issue a global excommunicado bounty? The Adjudicator has already formally promised me that the Tarasovs are not contractually required to target John. So why the hell are you wasting my time interrogating me?"
Anthony leaned in slightly. "Or are you simply a pathetic, fake aristocrat who lacks the actual capital to fund a global manhunt?"
The Adjudicator slowly turned around, staring silently at Anthony for a long, heavy moment.
Suddenly, Zero spoke.
It was the very first time the Shinobi master had uttered a single syllable since entering the Tribunal.
"Rules are fundamentally important, Anthony. But the strict regulations governing respect are equally vital." Zero looked directly at Anthony. His voice was incredibly calm, flat, and entirely monotone, carrying the eerie cadence of a religious chant.
"You are actively, brazenly slandering the Marquis de Gramont. You will show respect."
Anthony slowly turned his head. His cold, dead gaze fell upon Zero's perfectly shaved head. Anthony let out a short, brutal laugh.
"Gramont possesses the formal title of Special Envoy. I currently hold the sanctioned title of Regional Agent. We are speaking as executives."
Anthony stepped toward the assassin, his voice dripping with absolute, hierarchical disgust. "So tell me... what the hell gives you the right to open your mouth in this room? You are nothing but a mere, lowly assassin."
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