"The arms dealer?" Anthony looked up slowly, the image of the overweight, missing-fingered Russian flashing through his mind.
He understood the play immediately. Gramont was utilizing proxy forces to systematically clip the Tarasov syndicate's wings, feather by feather, attempting to force Anthony into handing over John Wick. Or, failing that, to force Anthony to watch his newly consolidated empire bleed to death from a thousand tiny cuts.
Yuri was simply the first casualty.
Gramont had just delivered his ultimatum in the bloodiest, most direct language the underworld possessed.
"Anthony, this is a formal declaration of war!" Abram's face was completely ashen, his hands gripping the armrests of his wheelchair. "It is a full-scale siege on the Tarasov family. We must immediately—"
"Uncle," Anthony interrupted, his voice completely flat.
He stood up, his cold gaze sweeping across the tense, silent faces of the syndicate capos gathered in the room.
"First: all core family executives are to relocate to the heavily fortified Brooklyn headquarters within the next thirty minutes. Second: all legitimate, front-facing nightclub operations will enforce a strict ten o'clock curfew until further notice."
One of the older family lieutenants couldn't help but interject. "Boss, if we turtle up and tighten our defenses so publicly, the rest of the city will smell blood. They'll think the Tarasovs are terrified of the High Table."
"I do not give a single fuck what the rest of the city thinks," Anthony said, his eyes locking onto the older man with terrifying intensity. "What I care about is ensuring that the people in this room survive long enough to continue sitting here and counting their money."
Anthony picked up his encrypted satellite phone and dialed a secure frequency.
Nick answered almost instantly from the Long Island tactical farm. "Boss."
Anthony's gaze drifted toward the darkened window. "Mobilize your heavy element and deploy immediately."
"Target: Los Angeles. Carlos Mendoza's central compound. I want mortars, long-range suppression, and maximum payload. Deliver my personal regards to the Mexican Cartel."
"After the bombardment is concluded, extract immediately. I am going to make it abundantly clear to those greedy hyenas that debts incurred in New York are paid in blood, regardless of what coast they hide on."
Since the Cartel had actively partnered with Gramont, devastating their home base would not only cripple their logistics but force them to reconsider deploying further assets into Anthony's city.
Nick's response was sharp and deeply professional. "Understood. We'll drop a massive round of fireworks on LA, then vanish."
Anthony disconnected and immediately dialed a second number.
"James."
"Go ahead, Boss," James answered, the sound of rifles being racked audible in the background.
"The Italian Camorra successfully infiltrated two revenge-squads into the city last night. They are currently dug into the commercial shipping warehouses on the border of Brooklyn and Queens."
"Take the Vanguard from the farm and hit them at first light tomorrow. I want a minimum eighty percent casualty rate on their fighting strength. Be exceptionally fast, be ruthless, and do not hold a single thing back."
"Copy that, Boss," James said grimly.
The Camorra hit squads had infiltrated New York but hadn't struck yet, clearly waiting for Gramont's fourteen-million-dollar bounty to go live so they could act with impunity in the ensuing chaos. Anthony strongly suspected Gramont had personally cleared their entry into the city.
"Anthony," Abram said in a low, trembling voice as he wheeled himself closer. "You are deploying all of our elite armed forces outward... what happens if Gramont's Black Armor attacks this headquarters directly?"
"They won't." Anthony looked at his own blurred reflection in the night-darkened glass of the window.
"The Tarasovs did not commit a formal foul, and Gramont absolutely does not possess the political capital to act like a rabid dog directly under the Adjudicator's nose."
"But Yuri is already dead!" Abram protested, his voice thick with suppressed anger.
"In Gramont's eyes, Yuri was a peripheral contractor, not a made man," Anthony corrected coldly. "So, we will simply play by his exact 'rules.' The Cartel and the Camorra are his peripherals. We burn them to ash."
His terrifyingly reckless, deeply calculated logic sent a violent chill down Abram's spine.
This nephew of his was vastly more ruthless than his father, Viggo, had ever been. And far more elusive.
"Then... what about John?" Abram hesitated. "Are we truly just going to abandon him to the wolves? Fourteen million dollars, Anthony. The entire planet will be actively hunting him. He will bring total disaster to anyone who stands within ten feet of him."
"I know." Anthony walked over to his chair and smoothly picked up his bespoke suit jacket. "Which is exactly why he was right to leave."
He didn't bother explaining further.
How could he possibly explain to his uncle that he already knew John Wick was currently seeking passage to Casablanca? That John was preparing to wander into the deep desert to seek an audience with the Elder—the literal man above the Table—in a desperate bid to secure an impossible pardon, only to inevitably fight his way right back to New York?
What Anthony could do right now was violently carve out a perimeter. He would secure a fortress for the Tarasov syndicate, and simultaneously clear a fraction of the board for the "Baba Yaga" who was destined to walk directly into the eye of the storm.
After finalizing the tactical deployments, Anthony waved his hand, dismissing every capo in the room except his uncle.
"Uncle, keep an absolute, suffocating grip on the internal family logistics over the next seventy-two hours. If a single lieutenant wavers, or attempts to make a back-channel deal with the Table... you know exactly what to do."
His tone was conversational, but the lethal implication was absolute.
"Leave it to me," Abram nodded solemnly, sitting taller in his wheelchair. "The Tarasov syndicate is nowhere near the point of fracturing."
Abram paused, looking deeply into Anthony's eyes. "Watch your own back, Anthony. We simply cannot predict what moves Gramont has left."
"I know." Anthony walked over to the mahogany liquor cabinet, poured a generous measure of Stoli—neat—and downed it in a single, burning gulp.
The exact second the glass hit the wood, his phone rang.
"Mr. Tarasov," Charon's smooth, unbothered voice came through the speaker. "The Adjudicator formally requests your immediate presence back at the Continental."
Anthony felt a phantom chill brush against the base of his neck.
Damn it, he thought. I just left that sanctuary. Why am I being summoned back immediately? Does she suspect I'm providing logistical support for John's exfiltration?
When Anthony arrived back at the Continental Hotel, a massive, matte-black Mercedes-Maybach Pullman Guard was idling ominously near the front steps. Its sharp, brutalist lines and heavily armored chassis made it look less like a luxury vehicle and more like a mobile, geopolitical fortress.
The Adjudicator walked gracefully out of the hotel's heavy brass doors, flanked by four individuals.
To her immediate left was a slender young woman.
Anthony instantly recognized her role. She was a Keeper—one of the High Table's deeply feared ceremonial disciplinarians.
While the Adjudicator handed down the sentences, Keepers were the specialists responsible for enforcing punishments that required a distinct sense of "ritualistic suffering." Legend dictated that she carried a highly customized, velvet-lined roll of surgical instruments, fully capable of executing a flawless "seven deadly sins" flesh-incision in under three minutes.
Anthony wasn't entirely certain whose blood she was scheduled to spill today. The Bowery King? Or perhaps Yelena Tarkovskaya, the Director of the Russian Roma?
Trailing behind them was Marquis de Gramont.
He was wearing a fresh, breathtakingly expensive custom cashmere overcoat. His silver hair had clearly just been restyled, every single strand aggressively exuding an aura of untouchable, arrogant wealth.
However, the grotesque, blossoming purple-and-black bruises completely covering his face rendered the aristocratic aesthetic almost entirely comical. He was trying desperately to maintain a rigid, upright posture, but every single step he took toward the vehicle was visibly stiff and agonizing.
Zero followed exactly half a step behind the Marquis. The master assassin's face was completely devoid of emotion, looking like a slab of iron that had been soaked in ice water. Zero's two top disciples flanked him, their lean, heavily muscled bodies wrapped in tight black tactical weave, moving with the synchronized, silent lethality of unsheathed blades.
Gramont stepped forward naturally, fully intending to follow the Adjudicator into the opulent rear cabin of the armored Maybach—the physical embodiment of the High Table's beating heart.
The Keeper smoothly stepped sideways, physically blocking his path.
The movement was incredibly light. It wasn't an aggressive, tactical block; it was a deeply ceremonial, absolute adjustment of hierarchy.
Gramont stopped dead in his tracks. A look of profound, unbelievable rage rapidly swelled in his battered eyes.
He looked desperately toward the Adjudicator, but the woman had already slid gracefully into the dark cabin of the Maybach, entirely refusing to even glance back at him.
The Keeper remained perfectly silent. Her freezing gaze slowly passed over Gramont's humiliated face, ultimately landing directly on Anthony.
Her look contained absolutely zero emotion. It was simply the pure, unadulterated execution of a command.
She offered Anthony a shallow bow, gesturing for him to enter the vehicle.
Anthony briefly glanced at Gramont. The muscles in the Marquis's bruised jaw were twitching so violently they looked like they might snap.
Anthony could perfectly visualize the sheer, atomic rage currently boiling beneath Gramont's tailored exterior. He had just been publicly, formally denied entry to the Adjudicator's vehicle, and had been actively passed over in favor of Anthony—the very man who had beaten him half to death the night before.
The political slap to the face was deafening.
Anthony maintained an absolutely flawless, neutral expression. He gave the Keeper a polite, respectful nod, and smoothly slid into the luxurious back seat of the Maybach, taking the seat opposite the Adjudicator.
As the heavy, armored door was pulled shut behind him, Anthony could physically feel Gramont's homicidal glare burning into his back like a red-hot steel rod.
The Maybach's engine purred as it pulled away from the curb, leaving Gramont standing on the steps.
Anthony leaned back into the plush leather, his mind racing as he processed the staggering political implications of what had just occurred.
The fact that the Adjudicator had publicly humiliated Gramont conveyed one vital, undeniable truth: the High Table was absolutely not a unified, solid monolith.
The Adjudicator and Marquis de Gramont were not political allies. They despised one another.
They were simply two vastly different, fiercely competitive pieces moving across the High Table's grand chessboard, temporarily forced to tolerate each other's presence.
And their only shared objective was John Wick.
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