Susie's efficiency paid off. The owner of the car wash next door sold the place to the hotel the moment Susie arrived—no negotiation, no hesitation. After a night of gunfire and the hotel's sudden renovations and rebranding, the poor man had been convinced the place was cursed. He'd originally planned to finish refurbishing, then earn a living washing and maintaining cars for hotel guests. Instead, the work had been ruined again the next day, and the fighting had dragged on for two more days. He was done.
Alex couldn't help silently wishing the man luck and, with a small grin, slotted the Vehicle Workshop LV3 badge into the newly acquired car wash. A handful of assassins were assigned to run it. Susie was told to buy new cars and use the garage to upgrade the hotel's fleet into Level-3 bulletproof vehicles. These trifling details no longer required Alex's direct attention.
Meanwhile in Rome, at the Camorra headquarters, a funeral coach rolled up to the Antonio estate and stopped at the gate. Four Camorra guards stepped forward with weapons ready as the coffin was unloaded. The driver—obviously used to this grim trade—alighted with hands on his head and motioned toward the back of the hearse.
"New York—someplace called the Lighthouse Hotel—paid me to deliver a body here," he said.
The guards stiffened. Recent orders had been clear: do not entangle the family with anyone from the Lighthouse. One guard opened the coffin lid. The sight inside stopped him cold—Ares's lifeless face stared back.
He dropped the lid and sprinted to the villa, bursting into Gianna's study. Breathless, he reported, "Miss Gianna! The Lighthouse Hotel sent a corpse—Santino's bodyguard, Ares."
Gianna's cup fell from her hand and shattered on the floor. In two seconds she was on her feet, flanked by Cassian as they raced to the gate.
Out beyond Prague, high in the snow-swept peaks above Hallstatt, the elder of the X-tribe sat by the stove warming his hands and listening to a call from New York.
"Boss—Mr. Cross wants a day to think it over. He says he'll consider the offer," Lena reported.
The old man rubbed his hands and considered for a long moment. "He's not an easy man to deal with. This trip—don't expect the deal to close."
"Then what should we do?" Lena asked.
The elder shrugged and tipped back into his chair. "No need to prepare. Don't provoke him. He's young, but he remembers every slight and he's ruthless. The deal was never the point. I want to make him angry—make him leave New York and come to Prague."
"Why?" Lena asked, puzzlement and dawning understanding mingling in her voice.
"If he comes to Prague, I can capture him. Then I'll get what I want from him—and we'll kill him." The elder's tone was calm, cruelly confident.
Lena paused, then answered, "Understood. I'll cooperate."
Around two in the afternoon, Duggan woke from a much-needed nap, washed up, and headed downstairs for breakfast—only to run into John Wick in the corridor. John was in a better mood these days; the honeymoon glitter around him made him more talkative than usual. Seeing Duggan, he smiled and called out.
"Jackal! Remember Marcus? The sniper I mentioned when we went after the Night Demon?"
Duggan nodded—he remembered well. "Of course."
"He's been abroad for a while but just returned. Reached out to me today. I mentioned you."
"So you want me to meet him?" Duggan asked.
"Yeah!" John replied. "A friend's back—time to celebrate." Duggan didn't decline. He only asked, "Where are we going?"
John grinned and asked back, "You—core member of the Lighthouse—don't you know? The Lighthouse Club opens tonight."
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If you're interested, you can read advanced chapters:
pat reon .com / Samorash