"Yuri Petrenko," Anthony's voice echoed from the phone speaker, perfectly captured by a hidden microphone. "Three days ago, in the VIP room of the Queens underground casino, you explicitly stated in front of seventeen separate witnesses: 'Viggo's new bastard heir isn't even worthy to shine his dead father's shoes.'"
The recording paused. The faint, grating sound of heavy metal door hinges echoed in the background of the tape.
"High Table Code, Section Four, Article Thirteen," the voice of an Adjudicator stated coldly. "To publicly defame the verified leader of an allied syndicate is tantamount to breaking a formal contract, even if you operate as an independent supplier."
Yuri's face instantly turned a sickening shade of deathly pale. He desperately glanced over at Boris, silently pleading for the nightclub manager to back him up.
Yuri suddenly remembered that drunken night three days ago. He remembered slamming his heavy fist on the poker table and shouting those exact, treasonous words, his gold teeth gleaming foolishly under the casino's neon lights.
Yuri extended his trembling left hand, his terrified gaze locking onto the bloody stump where his ring finger used to be.
"Anthony... boss... the Adjudicator already visited me. I have already paid the flesh penalty for my disrespect!"
Anthony slowly raised his eyes. His voice was like an ice scalpel scraping violently against glass.
"So, I recently heard a rumor that you have completely halted Tarasov shipments, and you are exclusively taking bulk orders from the Camorra syndicate. What exactly is going on, Yuri?"
Yuri's Adam's apple bobbed violently. Fresh, bright scarlet blood rapidly blotted through the white gauze on his severed finger.
"Boss, I swear, this is absolutely someone trying to frame me! I have always personally guaranteed the quality and the quantity of Tarasov armaments!"
Anthony smiled softly. "So... are you trying to tell me you haven't accepted Santino D'Antonio's massive supply contract?"
Yuri desperately tried to force a placating smile, but his lips remained frozen in a mask of absolute terror.
"The global market is incredibly volatile right now... I... I always have to be looking for new clients to maintain my overhead..."
"I completely understand the realities of capitalism," Anthony replied, leaning forward slightly. "However..."
Anthony slowly reached out and picked up a heavy, solid-steel cigar cutter from the center of the mahogany coffee table.
"If I discover that you have sold a single fucking bullet to Santino D'Antonio," Anthony whispered, gently tapping the steel cutter against the table. "I will personally use this little toy to slowly clip off the remainder of your fingers, piece by piece, and I will mail them to the Adjudicator in a shoebox."
"Or perhaps... I will simply use that massive crate of armor-piercing 5.56mm rounds you just received in your warehouse to nail your fat head to the steel beams of the Brooklyn Bridge."
The gentle crackling of the fireplace suddenly sounded incredibly loud in the dead-silent room.
"No! Anthony! Please! I was wrong! I am a fucking idiot!"
Yuri violently collapsed to his knees, burying his face in his hands.
"I will immediately divert the entire Camorra shipment! All the weapons prepared for Santino will be delivered directly to the Tarasov armories. Completely free of charge!"
Desperate, Yuri crawled forward on his knees, reaching out his bloody hand to grab the hem of Anthony's tailored trousers.
Suddenly, Helen bared her razor-sharp white puppy teeth and let out a surprisingly vicious, territorial growl from Anthony's lap.
Yuri recoiled violently as if he had been struck by lightning, his heavy forehead slamming hard against the polished hardwood floor.
Anthony completely ignored the trembling mass of fat groveling at his feet. He calmly pulled a cigarette from his silver case, lit it, and took a slow drag. "I appreciate your generous donation, Yuri."
"Enough of this theater!" Anya suddenly shouted, aggressively standing up.
Wearing a sleek, black silk dress, her posture was ramrod straight. Her scarlet lips trembled violently with poorly suppressed rage.
"Viggo is dead!" Anya screamed, her manicured nails digging deeply into the backrest of the leather sofa.
"His body is barely even cold in the ground, and you are sitting here violently threatening your own people?! That rabid dog, John Wick, slaughtered your father! The only thing you should be doing right now is figuring out how to rip his fucking head off!"
Her chest heaved violently as her cold, furious eyes locked onto Anthony's face.
"Anthony, your last name is Tarasov! You are only sitting in that chair because you possess the bloodline required to make the Baba Yaga pay for what he did!"
"Fuck your bloodline," Anthony sneered, looking up at her with absolute disgust. "You were nothing but Viggo's favorite mistress and a glorified debt collector. What gives you the delusion that you have the right to dictate my strategy?"
Every single captain in the room collectively held their breath.
When Anthony finally raised his head, his dark eyes were filled with the absolute, freezing desolation of the Siberian tundra.
"Do you honestly not understand why Viggo is dead?!" Anthony roared, his voice cracking like a whip. "Are you fucking blind, Anya? Or just stupid?! Do you genuinely want me to force John Wick to come back here and slaughter the rest of the Tarasov syndicate?!"
"If you are truly pretending to be this deaf and dumb—if you are genuinely incapable of analyzing the political reality of the underworld—then you can officially surrender your position as head of collections right now."
Anya's face turned the color of ash. Her fists clenched tightly at her sides, hot breath billowing from her nostrils like an angry bull.
"Anthony," Anya hissed venomously, "you are the new king of the Tarasov empire. Vengeance is the absolute baseline of your duty."
Nearby, Boris's arrogant sneer deepened. His fingers tapped a rapid, excited rhythm against his thigh as he watched the internal conflict escalate.
"Anya," Anthony said, his voice dropping into an eerily calm, terrifyingly flat register.
"Viggo deliberately dragged this entire family onto the High Table's active purge list solely to protect the selfish desires of his idiot son. Viggo did not die defending his family. He died defending his own profound stupidity and arrogance."
"Listen to me!" Anthony's sharp gaze violently pierced every single captain in the room. He raised his voice, ensuring it echoed off the vaulted ceiling.
"If the Tarasov syndicate is going to survive the coming storm, it must learn to breathe within the established rules of the High Table! If any single one of you ever mentions the suicidal stupidity of 'avenging Viggo' again..."
Anthony smoothly drew a massive, razor-sharp tactical combat knife from his chest rig and slammed it brutally into the mahogany table.
"...I will personally nail your tongue to the family crest hanging in the foyer, and we will see if that finally teaches you how to shut the fuck up."
"I entirely agree with the boss," Mikhail, the terrifying head of the cleaning crews, stated in a deep, gravelly voice from the shadows. "We absolutely cannot afford to provoke the Baba Yaga a second time."
Standing by the door, Sergei thought to himself, If these idiots only knew the boss is actually best friends with John Wick now... Besides, even without the boss's protection, who in this room honestly believes they could kill the Baba Yaga?
Anya visibly staggered backward, falling heavily onto the sofa. Her fingers tightly gripped the hem of her silk skirt, her face a mask of bitter defeat.
Boris's arrogant sneer finally froze. A dark, sinister light flashed through his eyes.
"Well then... Anthony," Boris drawled smoothly, stepping forward. "If we are officially putting the matter of John Wick aside for the moment..."
"What exactly happened to Iosef? I heard a very interesting rumor that you personally dispatched the strike team that executed your own brother."
CRASH!
A heavy porcelain teacup violently shattered against the mahogany table directly in front of Boris, splashing boiling hot red tea across his expensive Italian suit.
"Boris! If you dare to speak to Anthony with that tone again, I will personally beat you to death myself!"
Abram Tarasov roared furiously from his wheelchair, his eyes blazing with absolute malice toward his adopted son.
Anthony just smiled.
The flickering light from the fireplace illuminated the hard, unforgiving lines of Anthony's jaw. The dancing shadows also revealed the violent, turbulent emotions surging through the eyes of the gathered captains.
"I did it," Anthony confessed. His voice was as soft and casual as if he were discussing tomorrow's weather forecast. "I dragged him into a Brooklyn safehouse, violently slammed his skull against a metal storage crate..."
Anthony slowly raised his right hand, extending his index and middle fingers, mimicking the shape of a gun.
"...Pressed the barrel directly against his temple. And bang. Point-blank headshot."
The cavernous living room fell into absolute, suffocating silence.
Even Abram looked completely horrified, staring at his nephew in profound disbelief.
Anthony leaned back comfortably into the plush leather of his armchair. He smiled warmly as he looked directly at Boris, whose face was now twisted in genuine terror.
"Do you have a problem with my operational methods, Boris? Does anyone in this room have a problem?"
Boris swallowed hard, nervously chuckling as he desperately glanced around the room for support.
"You all heard him!" Boris shouted, his voice cracking with panic. "Anthony just explicitly confessed to assassinating his own blood brother!"
"Tell me, how can a man who is too terrified to avenge his own father, yet ruthless enough to slaughter his own brother, be allowed to lead the Tarasov empire?!"
BANG!
This time, it wasn't a shattered teacup. It was a deafening gunshot.
Boris's face instantly drained of all color. He slowly, agonizingly lowered his head to look at his abdomen.
A massive blossom of fresh, dark blood was rapidly seeping through his expensive silk vest, flowing in a heavy stream down his trousers.
Boris stood completely frozen in place, staring in absolute shock at his adoptive father.
Abram's face was deathly pale, his eyes wide with utter horror.
"Dad..." Boris gasped weakly.
Abram's hand, which was gripping a smoking, suppressed pistol, trembled violently. He simply couldn't hide the absolute terror in his eyes.
"Anthony... please... he is an idiot. He doesn't understand the politics. Please forgive him," Abram begged, his voice cracking into a desperate plea.
"I will immediately exile him. I will send him back to Russia. I swear he will never show his face in New York again."
Anthony completely ignored his uncle's pleading. He slowly stubbed out his cigarette in a heavy crystal ashtray, and then looked back at the bleeding nightclub manager.
"Do you know how my mother died, Boris?" Anthony asked softly.
"Do you have any idea how many powerful syndicates Iosef offended with his reckless, arrogant stupidity?"
Boris desperately pressed his hand against his gut wound. His palm was instantly stained crimson. Cold sweat rapidly trickled down his temples, soaking his collar.
His pale lips moved, desperately trying to form words. He glanced pleadingly at his father, but ultimately, he remained completely silent.
"Let him live out the rest of his pathetic life as a carefree, exiled trust-fund kid," Anthony finally commanded, shifting his icy gaze to Abram. "He is entirely unsuited to be involved in any of the family's core business."
Abram's face was ashen. He slowly lowered his smoking pistol. "I understand, Boss."
"This is madness!" Anya shrieked, her voice echoing hysterically. "Anthony, you not only murdered Iosef, but you are actively utilizing the High Table's Adjudicators to eliminate internal dissidents!"
"Are you planning to purge every single one of Viggo's loyalists?!"
"Holy fucking shit," Anthony muttered under his breath, genuinely astounded by her stupidity.
I literally just purged two treacherous captains at the last summit. Why the fuck does this woman refuse to use her brain? Does she actively want to be executed?
Anthony completely ignored Anya's hysterical outburst. He simply tapped his fingers lightly against the mahogany table.
"First of all, the Tarasov syndicate is a recognized subsidiary of the High Table. Do you genuinely have a problem with me utilizing High Table authority to discipline treasonous subordinates?"
"Listen to me very carefully. Every single brick of the Tarasov empire is permanently soaked in blood," Anthony's voice dropped an octave, every word dripping with the heavy stench of gunpowder and absolute authority.
"I completely respect the choice of anyone in this room who no longer wishes to serve under my banner. You are free to walk away tonight."
"But if any single one of you ever dares to betray me to our rivals... I will use your blood to irrigate every single sewer grate in New York City."
Anya trembled violently, trapped in a daze of absolute terror.
Yuri's massive, bloated body remained entirely limp, groveling on the floor.
Boris stood bleeding, his face deathly pale, realizing he had just lost everything.
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