The short, wiry disciple standing beside Zero took half a step forward, his narrow face tightening with hostility.
"Everyone, pay attention," Winston said slowly, each word precise. "This is the Continental Hotel. I do not wish to issue a second warning."
Zero lifted a hand and held his disciple back before the young man could make another move. Under the lights, his shaved head reflected a cold, metallic sheen.
"I've met many men like you, Anthony Tarasov," Zero said, his voice calm and flat. "Smart. Confident."
He paused for a beat.
"But they are all dead."
"I've heard of you too, Zero," Anthony replied, meeting his eyes without hesitation. "People say you're the sharpest blade the High Table has. That there's no one you can't kill."
He smiled faintly.
"But blades rust. And sometimes, they break."
Anthony knew exactly who he was facing.
Chidi was Gramont's battlefield commander, a man built for pressure, logistics, and direct force. Zero was something else entirely. Zero represented the peak of pure killing technique. In another life, in another story, this bald assassin had crossed swords with John Wick again and again, using a katana to suppress firearms and close distance with terrifying precision.
Anthony understood one thing very clearly:
He was not ready to fight Zero head-on. Not yet.
"You are brave," Zero said.
There was no sarcasm in his voice. That made it worse.
"But there is only a thin line between bravery and stupidity."
"Thank you," Anthony said pleasantly, as though receiving a compliment at dinner. "But I believe we are here to discuss last night's attack, not test each other's courage."
He looked past Zero toward the Adjudicator.
"If there are no further questions, I have real work to do. Managing a family is far more troublesome than killing people."
For the first time, the corner of Zero's mouth moved.
It was not quite a smile, but it was close enough to be unsettling.
"We will meet again, Anthony."
"I look forward to it."
Anthony stood.
"If there's nothing else?"
The Adjudicator held his gaze for several seconds, then gave a small nod.
"You may leave for now. But remember this: during the course of our investigation, we may summon you at any time."
Anthony dipped his head slightly.
"I will always answer the Adjudicator's call."
The elevator doors opened.
Charon was waiting outside.
As Anthony stepped out, Charon studied him with that same controlled, unreadable expression.
"How did it go?"
Anthony gave a short laugh. "They still suspect me. Especially Gramont. He's absolutely convinced I did it."
"I also think it was you," Charon said coolly. "Anthony, you are playing with fire."
"The Adjudicator and the Harbinger are not fools," Charon continued. "Neither are Gramont or Zero."
"I know," Anthony said.
Then he added, almost absently, "By tonight, they'll suspect me even less."
Winston, who had followed him out, frowned. "What exactly does that mean?"
Anthony only smiled.
In truth, even he wasn't fully certain how far the board would shift.
He already knew that two Camorra leaders from Italy had entered New York with armed men. The Adjudicator knew it too. Gramont almost certainly did as well.
And the Mexican Cartel had been trying to force its way into New York for some time now.
At moments like this, the dirtier the water became, the better.
The more chaos spread across the city, the harder it became to isolate Tarasov as the sole culprit.
And the harder it became, the more the High Table would hesitate.
That hesitation was enough.
Back at Tarasov headquarters, Anthony pushed open the conference room door.
More than a dozen pairs of eyes turned toward him at once.
"What's the situation?" he asked.
He ripped off his tie and tossed it over the back of a chair.
Helen crawled out from beneath the sofa, brushing against his leg. Anthony bent down and scratched behind her ears before straightening.
Abram immediately pushed a lit tablet toward him.
"It's confirmed," Abram said, his voice unusually tight. "Gramont has issued a global bounty on John Wick through the High Table's encrypted channels."
He swallowed.
"The bounty is fourteen million dollars."
Abram checked his watch.
"There are fifty-three minutes and forty-six seconds left before it goes live at six o'clock."
A low, involuntary gasp moved through the room.
Fourteen million.
That number was enough to send half the underworld into a fever.
For ordinary killers, it was the promise of a lifetime. For professionals, it was an irresistible challenge. For opportunists, it was blood in the water.
Even for John, the survival rate against that many hunters crashing in from every direction would be terrifyingly low.
Anthony's expression did not change.
He simply stared at the screen.
He had expected Gramont to move.
He just hadn't expected him to move this fast.
And that number...
Fourteen million.
Exactly the same.
The whole game had just been reset to its old track.
"Global bounty. Fourteen million dollars." Anthony murmured the number under his breath, as if testing its weight. "Gramont, you lunatic... you really did cast your bait across the whole ocean."
Santino's old bounty had already been enough to turn every scavenger in the business rabid.
This was not the same thing.
This wasn't about simply locating John.
This was about using wave after wave of killers to smash against every Tarasov foothold in New York until John was flushed out, or until the family Anthony had only just begun to build was torn apart in the process.
Anthony tapped the table lightly.
"Anything else?"
Pavel, Viktor's son, spoke next.
"Boss, our three arms supply lines were hit almost simultaneously within the last twenty-five minutes. Whoever did it was professional."
He hesitated.
"And... several venues in Queens were hit with Molotov cocktails about half an hour ago. Damage was limited, but the attacks were coordinated. The people doing it looked like street trash, but the pattern was too clean."
Anthony raised his eyes.
"They're warming up."
The words had barely left his mouth when the personal phone lying on the conference table began to vibrate.
Anthony picked it up and checked the screen.
There were only two words in the message.
They're gone.
John.
Anthony immediately called back.
The phone was already off.
He understood at once.
John didn't want Tarasov dragged any deeper into the fire.
Anthony dialed Marcus next.
"Anthony?" Marcus answered almost immediately. His voice was tight. "I was about to call you."
"John didn't come here," Marcus said. "I don't know where he went. But you saw the bounty, right? The whole industry's exploding."
A short pause followed.
"He's carrying the most expensive head in the world right now. Do you have any way to reach him?"
"He knows how to survive this," Anthony said. "Don't worry. He'll get shot a few times, maybe stabbed once or twice, but he'll live."
Anthony knew where John would go.
The moment the fourteen-million-dollar contract went live, the whole world would turn into hunting ground territory again.
It was the same shape as before: John against the world, the city turning predatory, every corner hiding a knife.
Except this time, Santino had died early.
Gramont had simply forced the story back onto that road by brute force.
Marcus was silent for a moment.
"Anthony," he said at last, "I know you have ways of guessing where he'll head. I want to help that idiot."
Anthony's voice dropped.
"If nothing interferes, he should be heading toward the New York Public Library first. After that, the Tarkovsky Theater."
Marcus sounded baffled. "The theater? At a time like this? What the hell, is he planning to watch ballet while the world tries to kill him?"
Anthony answered with only two words.
"Go home."
Then he ended the call.
Only Anthony understood the real meaning of the Tarkovsky Theater.
It wasn't a theater, not really.
It was a front for a Russian-Belarusian organization, one of the High Table's twelve powers. Its New York branch was overseen by the Director, Yelena Tarkovskaya.
John had grown up in that world.
He had left it later and entered Tarasov's orbit, but blood and upbringing were not so easily erased.
If he was going there now, it meant he wanted passage.
A ticket to Casablanca.
Anthony couldn't help him directly.
Not now.
Tarasov headquarters was certainly already under surveillance from multiple sides. Any obvious move would only paint a target on everyone in the building.
Then the conference room door burst open.
Sergei stumbled in, his face completely drained of color.
"Boss—"
He was breathing hard.
"Yuri is dead."
The room went silent.
Anthony did not move.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Then he slowly lowered the phone in his hand and looked up.
Whatever warm-up had begun in New York was over.
Now the real hunt had started.
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