Ares let out a suppressed, shrill hiss, sounding exactly like a wounded, cornered beast.
Her body twisted violently, operating at speeds that defied human biomechanics. Moving like a ghost, she leveled her Px4 Storm at Cassian's bald lieutenant and pulled the trigger without a fraction of hesitation.
Three 9mm rounds struck the target in a flawless, tight triangular grouping.
The massive lieutenant let out a wet groan. Blood erupted from his chest and throat as his heavy body crashed lifelessly to the stone floor.
"You damn mute! I am going to kill you!" Cassian roared in absolute fury.
Ares completely ignored him.
Her entire world had narrowed down to the raging, white-hot flames of revenge.
Anthony's provocation. The slaughter of her personal guard. The unprovoked attack by Cassian's forces...
Every single violent event pointed directly back to one man: Anthony Tarasov.
Moving like a completely crazed leopard, Ares utilized the collapsed altar and the shattered remains of the Roman pillars as hard cover. She fired her Px4 with deadly, robotic precision.
One of Cassian's men attempted to aggressively rush her flank. Ares put a bullet straight through his forehead. He crumpled to the ground without making a sound.
She rapidly snapped her aim and fired two more rounds, violently suppressing another Camorra guard who tried to peek around a column.
Cassian watched his elite men fall one after another. He witnessed Ares's reckless, frenzied lethality, and his mind instantly snapped back to the horrific image of Gianna's dead body.
In his grief-scorched mind, all the chaotic clues strung themselves together to form the only logical explanation.
The High Table.
Santino must have deployed the Blood Oath to force John Wick to assassinate Gianna, and then simultaneously dispatched Ares to silence John and clean up the loose ends.
The entire assassination had to be a sanctioned High Table purge!
"Kill them! Avenge Gianna!" Cassian roared.
His command completely ignited the feral ferocity of the surviving Camorra bodyguards.
Every single weapon in the corridor—submachine guns, assault rifles, and pistols—turned simultaneously, unleashing a devastating, unified barrage of fire directly at Ares and her few remaining Shadows.
Like a furious lion commanding a pride, Cassian ordered his men to fan out and establish overlapping fields of crossfire. Simultaneously, he unleashed a furious string of suppressing fire from his FN Five-seveN, completely pinning Ares behind the altar.
Ares curled up tightly behind the half-collapsed stone block. She looked like a mother wolf who had suffered a fatal wound, only for the pain to make her infinitely more ferocious.
She violently tore open a sterile field dressing with her teeth, slapping the gauze onto her bleeding shoulder. Her cold eyes never left the dark archway where Anthony Tarasov had disappeared.
She ruthlessly returned fire against any Camorra gunman foolish enough to break cover. Blood seeped steadily from her shoulder wound, turning her black tactical uniform slick and heavy as she executed her violent maneuvers.
The two factions clashed brutally in the narrow confines of the catacombs. Men were routinely torn apart by heavy crossfire.
Desperate screams, enraged curses, the deafening roar of automatic weapons, and the relentless clatter of spent brass hitting the stone floor merged into a chaotic symphony of death.
Fresh blood quickly pooled, flowing like dark rivers through the cracks in the ancient Roman floor tiles. The suffocating stench of copper and burnt gunpowder was absolute.
Meanwhile, further down the corridor, Anthony and John had both switched back to their suppressed pistols, silently neutralizing any stragglers they encountered in the dark.
Anthony was desperately trying to maneuver back toward the firefight to harvest more attribute points, but John physically grabbed his tactical vest and forcefully dragged him away.
"Rabid dogs biting each other," Anthony muttered. He violently stripped the empty magazine from his MP7A1 and slammed his final full mag into the well. "They have enough ammunition to keep biting until dawn."
The deep underground passage stretched endlessly ahead of them, looking like the dark esophagus of a giant beast.
Moving like twin cheetahs blending seamlessly into the shadows, the two men turned and rushed deeper into the narrow, arched escape route.
They left the relentless, frenzied slaughter, the angry roars, and the inescapable stench of death far behind them.
Twenty minutes later, the two men finally emerged from a hidden drainage grate, returning to the cold, moonlit streets of Rome.
After Anthony carefully stashed his MP7A1 into a heavy canvas duffel bag, John turned to face him.
"Anthony, you need to head straight to the airport. You are flying back to New York tonight," John commanded, his tone leaving absolutely no room for debate.
Anthony slowly zipped the duffel bag closed and hoisted it over his shoulder. "Do you honestly think I can just walk away from this now?"
"I pulled the trigger. I killed Gianna," John stated grimly. "Santino will undoubtedly place a massive global bounty on my head. Ares's ambush proves he already intends to wipe us out."
Anthony reached into his pocket and tossed John a crushed cigarette. "You don't need to worry about me right now, John. Quite frankly, you are the one who can't survive the next forty-eight hours without my overwatch."
"Fuck," John swore softly, catching the cigarette. "If you stay with me, every single contract killer on the planet is going to come after you. You're a smart kid. Go back to New York and look after Marcus for me."
Anthony stared at John's blood-spattered face. "You don't want to stay and kill Cassian?"
John remained silent.
Anthony analyzed John's physical state. Unlike the canon timeline, John hadn't suffered nearly as much damage during the catacomb escape. Aside from the blunt force trauma of Cassian's 5.7mm round to his ribs, John was virtually uninjured.
However, Anthony knew that because the plot had essentially reset to the canon trajectory, Cassian would inevitably track them down and force a confrontation.
Anthony also knew his own limitations. Even though he had accumulated a massive 23 attribute points during the slaughter, he still didn't possess the baseline physical stats required to survive a solo encounter with Ares. If she caught him alone on the streets, she would butcher him.
Furthermore, Anthony knew that once John bypassed Cassian, Santino would open the global High Table ledger. Hundreds of assassins would swarm Rome to claim the Baba Yaga's bounty.
Anthony was absolutely not going to let a massive opportunity to harvest attribute points slip through his fingers.
More importantly, directly witnessing John's flawless Gun-Fu had dramatically improved the processing efficiency of his own [Compensatory Perception] and [Rapid Calculation] skills. He needed to stay in the field to adapt.
"I know you really didn't want to kill Gianna," Anthony finally exhaled, dropping the bravado. "But I absolutely was not going to let her execute you."
Anthony cautiously scanned the deserted Roman street, carefully monitoring the parked vehicles for any signs of an ambush.
"Are you worried the High Table will hunt me down for intervening?" Anthony asked calmly. "Don't worry. Even if the Adjudicator herself knocks on my door, I have the political leverage to justify my actions."
This time, Anthony and John had been forced to retaliate strictly within the boundaries of High Table law (self-defense against an unsanctioned execution).
However, Santino seeking vengeance for his sister's murder was also perfectly within the rules. And Anthony knew that was exactly what the shadowy figures at the top of the High Table wanted to see.
"That assumes we manage to stay alive," John muttered. He dropped his half-smoked cigarette onto the cobblestones and ruthlessly crushed it beneath his heel.
Anthony chuckled nonchalantly. "You know what, John? I just got to this world. I have absolutely no intention of dying, and I certainly won't go down easily."
John looked down the street toward the glowing neon sign of the Rome Continental. "I am heading to the hotel now. The Camorra will flood the streets to lock down my escape routes."
John looked back at Anthony, his eyes dead serious. "You can use this window of chaos to slip away to the airport. They won't be looking for you."
Anthony just laughed at him. "John, Santino essentially owns New York now. Are you seriously suggesting I lead his hit squads straight back to Marcus?"
Before John could argue, Anthony stepped forward and clapped the legendary assassin on the shoulder. "I'll wait for you at the hotel bar. See you in a bit."
John ignored the blatant dismissal of his orders. He was about to follow Anthony when the screeching wail of burning rubber echoed down the street. A black sedan violently violently swerved around the corner, slamming on its brakes just thirty yards away.
The driver's side door flew open, and Cassian stepped out onto the cobblestones, his gun already drawn.
John stared in mild astonishment as Anthony just kept walking casually toward the hotel. Anthony didn't even bother to turn around; he simply raised his hand and offered a lazy, backward wave.
Anthony gripped the heavy, ornate bronze handles of the Rome Continental and pushed the doors open, effectively shutting out the freezing chill of the Roman night.
He knew Cassian had finally caught up to John. The two elite assassins—rivals who clearly shared a deep, mutual respect and similar tactical lineage—needed to settle their blood feud without interference.
Inside the opulent lobby, Julius was still sitting calmly behind his mahogany desk, meticulously reviewing the hotel registry.
Anthony reached into his pocket, pulled out a pristine, blood-stained Nero-era gold coin, and slapped it down onto the polished wood.
Julius looked up, his expression a mask of practiced, professional calm as he analyzed the unfamiliar face.
He picked up the heavy gold coin. As he examined the specific Camorra minting, his fingers trembled inexplicably. When he looked back up at Anthony, a flicker of genuine surprise finally broke his stoic facade.
"Anthony Tarasov. Out of New York," Anthony introduced himself smoothly. "A personal associate of John Wick. My syndicate leadership was recently, and personally, verified by the Adjudicator."
Upon hearing those specific names, Julius immediately stood up, buttoned his suit jacket, and formally extended his hand.
"Welcome to the Continental, Mr. Tarasov."
The Adjudicator's explicit certification was a political golden ticket that transcended ordinary underworld bureaucracy.
Julius's voice remained steady, but carried a sharp, professional curiosity. "The New York Tarasov syndicate... Viggo's empire..."
"It belongs to me now," Anthony stated, a faint, freezing smile touching his lips. "I will be waiting for John in the lounge. He is currently... tied up in a rather intense debate with Cassian outside."
"I see." Julius nodded slowly, appearing entirely unconcerned with the fact that two legendary assassins were currently trying to slaughter each other on his front steps.
Julius discreetly pocketed the gold coin and slid a heavy brass room key across the desk. "Room 107. As per the sacred rules of the Continental, Mr. Tarasov, I sincerely hope you..."
"I know the rules, Julius," Anthony interrupted, picking up the key. He didn't immediately head for the elevators.
He turned toward the lavish hotel bar. "I'll take a bourbon. Neat. Keep the bottle handy."
As Anthony turned, his gaze drifted past Julius's shoulder. Deep in the shadows of the lounge, he finally located a pair of violently cold, murderous eyes.
Ares was sitting alone, slumped heavily against a high-backed velvet sofa. She looked like a bloody dagger that had been momentarily sheathed, yet still radiated absolute, lethal coldness.
The gunshot wound on her left shoulder had been hastily, brutally bandaged. Fresh blood was still actively seeping through the gauze, staining her black tactical uniform.
A single glass of untouched whiskey sat on the table in front of her.
At this exact moment, Ares was coiled as tightly as a fully drawn bowstring.
Her dead eyes were locked entirely onto Anthony. The sheer magnitude of the hatred burning within her pupils was so intense it felt as though it could physically manifest into blades and flay him alive.
When she saw him stroll into the sanctuary completely unscathed, sipping a drink and looking utterly nonchalant, the suppressed violence inside her nearly shattered her restraint. She looked like she was a millimeter away from breaking the rules and drawing her weapon.
"Well, look at that. It seems even hell didn't want to keep you tonight, mute," Anthony said, his lips curling into a wicked, highly provocative smirk.
Under the incredibly tense, watchful eyes of both Julius and the bartender, Anthony casually carried his crystal glass across the room and strolled leisurely toward Ares's table.
He slammed his glass down onto the table. The sharp clack of the crystal echoed loudly in the quiet lounge.
The bartender panicked and instinctively took a step forward to intervene, but Julius simply raised a hand and gave a subtle shake of his head, ordering the staff to stand down.
"Do you mind if I take a seat?" Anthony asked rhetorically. Without waiting for a response, he pulled out a chair and arrogantly flopped down directly across from the woman who wanted to murder him.
He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table. His gaze dropped unabashedly to her heavily bandaged, bleeding shoulder, before slowly rising back to meet her murderous stare.
"It seems Cassian's marksmanship is significantly better than his deductive reasoning. At least he didn't permanently damage any of the 'good spots'."
Anthony's dark, meaningful gaze deliberately, and highly disrespectfully, swept over the curves of her ruined tactical uniform.
"You seem to have matured quite a bit since we last spoke in New York."
Hiss—
Ares let out a venomous, serpentine hiss. Her entire body instantly tensed, looking exactly like a cornered cheetah preparing for a lethal strike.
Her right hand, which had been resting casually on the armrest, clenched into a white-knuckle fist. The veins on the back of her hand bulged violently. It looked as if her concealed tactical blade might spring from her sleeve at any given microsecond to sever Anthony's carotid artery.
The air inside the lounge instantly dropped to absolute zero.
Behind the mahogany bar, the bartender instinctively shrank back, terrified the bloodbath was about to begin.
Julius's refined face darkened considerably. He stepped out from behind the front desk, his posture rigid.
"Anthony," Julius's voice cracked like a whip, carrying the absolute, uncompromising weight of a Continental Manager's warning. "Any form of violence is strictly prohibited upon Continental grounds. You will cease this provocative behavior immediately."
"Provocation?" Anthony chuckled darkly. He leaned back lazily into his chair, crossed his legs, and took a slow, arrogant sip of his bourbon.
He looked over at Julius, and then slowly shifted his gaze back to Ares, who still looked like she was about to explode into a hurricane of violence.
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