Anthony returned to the New York Continental Hotel alone. The sharp clack of his leather shoes echoed softly across the pristine marble floor of the lobby.
"Woof!"
Helen, the beagle puppy, suddenly darted out from behind the front desk. She happily pounced at his feet, wrapping her front paws around his shins.
She rubbed her wet nose affectionately against his trouser leg, letting out a pitiful, welcoming whimper.
Anthony dropped into a crouch and vigorously rubbed behind her ears. Helen immediately nuzzled deeply into his palm, her tail wagging furiously.
Charon, the ever-meticulous concierge, gently slid a thin, anonymous black bank card and a premium canvas tote bag containing dog supplies across the smooth mahogany countertop.
"Mr. Tarasov. Your deposit has been successfully processed," Charon stated.
"Miss Helen is in excellent condition and seems to have genuinely enjoyed the Continental's specialized pet menu."
Charon's voice was as calm and steady as a seasoned news anchor reporting the weather forecast, but his deep, observant eyes lingered for a fraction of a second on Anthony's exhausted, blood-spattered face.
"Thank you, Charon," Anthony said, pocketing the bank card.
Winston smoothly strolled out from the adjacent, dimly lit lounge area.
Wearing his signature dark three-piece suit, Winston subtly adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses. His probing gaze immediately swept across the empty space behind Anthony.
"Anthony. It is a genuine pleasure to see you breathing."
Winston's deep voice carried a perfectly measured, aristocratic hint of concern.
"Where is John? The two of you departed for Rome together."
Winston didn't ask if they were safe—that was entirely beneath his style. He asked for specific locations and tactical conditions.
Anthony straightened up, securely wrapping Helen's leather leash around his wrist.
"He said he had a personal blood debt to settle with Cassian. He ordered me to head back to the Continental alone," Anthony lied smoothly, offering a casual shrug. "You know how he is, Winston. As stubborn as a rock."
Winston's brow relaxed slightly.
The story perfectly aligned with the lone-wolf psychology of the Baba Yaga.
Winston was acutely aware that Cassian was Gianna D'Antonio's most fiercely loyal Shadow. He was an apex predator, a top-tier assassin whose lethal capabilities were arguably on par with John Wick's.
Winston assumed John had deliberately split up to protect the young Tarasov boss from the impending crossfire.
However, splitting up also meant John was currently facing the terrifying wrath of a massive High Table liquidation entirely alone!
Anthony bent down and scooped Helen up into his arms, the puppy's warm body pressing comfortingly against his chest.
"Santino isn't going to stop until John is dead. John simply didn't want to drag me any deeper into his mess. That's all."
"Right now, I just want to head back to my safehouse, wash off this disgusting mixture of Roman dust and blood, and sleep like a dead man."
Winston remained silent, analyzing the situation.
Anthony is currently physically incapable of assisting John against someone like Cassian,Winston reasoned.
"Honestly, Winston, you should be vastly more concerned about Santino," Anthony suddenly remarked, a cold, predatory smile curving his lips.
"When a rabid dog starts chewing through its own leash, the fence around the yard is just for decoration."
"If you don't want the entirety of New York City to descend into absolute chaos, you need to officially invite the Adjudicator to take charge of this jurisdiction. Because quite frankly, I don't believe the Continental can contain the fallout of what's coming."
Winston stared at him, his expression hardening. "I am merely the manager of a hotel, Anthony. My authority ends at my front steps."
Anthony's smile widened. "Perhaps. But Santino has already authorized aggressive actions against the Tarasov syndicate's legitimate business holdings."
He looked Winston directly in the eyes. "The sacred rules of the High Table explicitly permit self-defense and proportional retaliation, do they not?"
Winston's eyes flickered behind his glasses. "Assuming you possess the actual capacity to control the resulting escalation..."
"This is not a game, Anthony. And Santino D'Antonio is not your father, Viggo. The entire Camorra empire stands directly behind him."
Anthony sneered dismissively. "The only thing I care about is that the Adjudicator is currently standing behind me."
"Until Santino is officially coronated and actually sitting in one of the Twelve Seats, he is just a man. And I have the political latitude to deal with him as I see fit."
Anthony paused, his tone shifting into a serious, urgent warning. "Winston. You must absolutely ensure that John does not attempt to execute Santino inside this hotel."
Winston looked at him hesitantly. "Santino is no longer residing at the Continental."
"Of course I know that," Anthony laughed darkly. "But you don't need to worry. Once John backs him into a corner, he will come crawling back here on his hands and knees to beg for sanctuary."
"Furthermore, if the Camorra forces investigating the Tarasov syndicate dare to trample over the High Table's rules of engagement, Manager Winston, I will formally require you to serve as my witness."
Winston's heart tightened. "Anthony, I only govern the Continental Hotel."
"If Santino utilizes unsanctioned methods to target the Tarasov syndicate on the streets, that is a matter strictly for the Adjudicator."
Anthony offered a noncommittal, freezing smile. "It won't matter. Santino... will disappear very soon."
"Anthony, what exactly are you planning to do?" Winston demanded, genuinely losing his composure.
This arrogant kid's blatant, suicidal mockery of Santino and Ares inside the Rome Continental had already caused Winston a massive diplomatic headache.
Winston simply couldn't fathom where a newly minted, unproven syndicate heir found this kind of suicidal audacity.
He is an even bigger, more volatile troublemaker than Iosef! Winston thought angrily.
And now he was casually predicting the disappearance of a High Table successor...
"Anthony, you cannot beat the Camorra!" Winston practically roared, his voice echoing in the lobby. "Do you possess some sort of a fucking death wish for the Tarasov family?!"
"If he kills me, he kills me. If I kill him, I kill him. What does it matter?" Anthony replied callously. Holding Helen tightly, he turned his back on the Continental Manager and walked toward the front doors.
"Since the High Table established the rules of the game, no action taken within those boundaries can be considered wrong."
"Winston, war can irrevocably change a man. Just as profound loss can strip away a man's humanity and turn him back into a beast."
Watching the young Russian's retreating figure, an incredibly complex expression flashed through Winston's eyes. It ultimately melted away into a soft, weary sigh.
Anthony pushed open the heavy bronze doors. The biting chill of the New York autumn night immediately enveloped him.
Parked along the curb like three lurking, mechanical beasts were two jet-black Cadillac Escalades, flanking a heavily modified Chevrolet Suburban.
The thick, reinforced steel plating and tinted ballistic glass gleamed with a cold, hard light under the streetlamps.
The moment Anthony appeared on the hotel steps, Sergei immediately jumped out of the driver's seat of the Suburban and respectfully pulled the rear door open.
"Boss," Sergei greeted, his voice carrying a distinct hint of profound relief.
Anthony nodded sharply. He climbed into the spacious, leather-upholstered back seat, keeping Helen securely in his lap.
The doors of the two escort Escalades slammed shut almost simultaneously. The tinted windows rolled down exactly one inch, revealing the hyper-vigilant eyes of the heavily armed Tarasov bodyguards scanning the dark streets for snipers.
The armored convoy smoothly merged into the chaotic traffic of the New York night. Anthony leaned back against the plush headrest, watching the dazzling neon lights of the urban jungle rush past the reinforced glass.
His chronically tense nerves finally began to relax a fraction within the secure environment of the convoy. However, the [Rapid Calculation] algorithms running in the background of his mind never stopped, systematically reviewing every single frame of tactical data gathered during the Roman campaign.
Anthony had deliberately chosen not to interfere in the blood feud between John and Cassian.
It was a matter of professional pride between two elite operators. Anthony couldn't have intervened even if he wanted to.
Besides, he already knew from his meta-knowledge that John ultimately chose to spare Cassian's life, leaving the rival assassin severely wounded but breathing.
John, Anthony thought, closing his eyes as a confident smile played on his lips. You should be meeting with the Bowery King right about now.
Before they had split up, John had told Anthony he needed to track down the Bowery King's intelligence network to pinpoint Santino's exact location in the city.
Anthony had immediately provided the intel, explicitly telling John that Santino had spent the last two days hiding inside the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
Immediately following Gianna's assassination, Santino had arrogantly hosted a massive, private art gala at the museum, celebrating his status as a "new member of the High Table."
On the surface, it was an extravagant celebration of his ascension. In reality, it was a blatant, highly public declaration of his absolute legitimacy to the entire global underworld.
Santino didn't just want to unify the Roman Camorra; he was explicitly targeting the complete subjugation of the New York underworld.
John had been highly skeptical of Anthony's precise intelligence.
Finally, trusting Anthony's hushed advice, John had headed deep into the Bowery to verify the intel with the King himself.
"John, the High Table is never going to let you or Marcus simply walk away from this," Anthony had warned him before they parted. "You need to consolidate every single independent faction you can find. You need to build an alliance strong enough to make those arrogant old bastards at the High Table think twice before declaring war."
That was Anthony's ultimate strategic advice to the Baba Yaga.
"While you're down there building bridges, ask the Bowery King to run a trace on the Met. I guarantee you'll find my intel is flawless."
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