Anthony slowly lowered his phone, his mind plunging into deep, analytical thought.
He clearly understood the tactical reality: if Santino D'Antonio wasn't the primary architect behind the refinery assault... then who the hell was?
The Five Families of the traditional Italian Mafia wouldn't utilize such blatant, highly visible paramilitary tactics. And the Bloods and Crips simply lacked the logistical capacity to execute the raid on their own.
Therefore, there was only one logical conclusion.
Another massive faction within the High Table possessed its own ambitions to expand its empire into New York City.
And it was abundantly clear that this unknown faction believed Santino had already lost his absolute grip on power!
Anthony quickly cross-referenced his meta-knowledge of the John Wick: Chapter 3 timeline. Aside from the Tarasovs and the Continental, the Bowery King's massive underground intelligence network (the "Soup Kitchen") was the only remaining independent superpower operating within New York.
As for the Adjudicators, they were strictly bureaucratic enforcers; it was highly unlikely they would actively sabotage their own highly lucrative supply chains so recklessly.
So, based on the current political landscape, did that mean the Bowery King was the one who dared to strike the Tarasov empire?
Wrong!
Anthony immediately rejected the hypothesis.
The Bowery King fiercely guarded his subterranean territory. He neither actively competed with the High Table nor violently vied for above-ground corporate control. He operated entirely in the shadows.
Furthermore, Anthony knew from the canon timeline that the Bowery King specifically provided John with Santino's location because the King desperately wanted to prevent the Camorra from establishing a permanent foothold in New York.
The King wanted John to chase Santino back to the Continental and assassinate him!
"I am... deeply sorry about Boris," Abram suddenly spoke up, his voice sounding incredibly weary and significantly older. "His mother died when he was very young. I spoiled the boy far too much."
Anthony waved his hand dismissively, indicating the topic of the treasonous nightclub manager was permanently closed.
"How are your legs healing?"
Abram forced a hollow laugh and lightly patted his ruined legs beneath the heavy wool blanket.
"The surgeons say it will take at least another three months of aggressive physical therapy before I can stand on my own again."
Anthony casually strolled over to the massive crystal liquor cabinet. He poured two generous glasses of premium whiskey and handed one to his uncle.
"What is the actual, verifiable financial loss at the Staten Island refinery?"
"Twenty million dollars," Abram replied, accepting the glass but making no move to drink.
"The structural damage to the primary refining equipment isn't catastrophic. The real problem is the Polaris. The tanker had just undergone a massive, multi-million-dollar structural overhaul. It possesses a deadweight tonnage of eighty thousand tons. The physical vessel itself is worth well over ten million."
"More importantly, she was fully loaded with thirty thousand barrels of unrefined crude oil, scheduled for immediate delivery to the Philadelphia processing plants."
Anthony took a slow sip of his whiskey. The amber liquid burned pleasantly down his throat.
"What about our corporate insurance policies?"
"The vessel was fully insured," Abram sneered bitterly. "However, the underwriters are actively claiming the hijacking falls under an 'Act of War' clause, completely voiding the payout."
"They must have heard rumors of the High Table's involvement."
"Then we will simply force them to pay out," Anthony stated coldly, placing his glass down on the mahogany desk.
"Have our corporate attorneys inform the insurance executives that if I do not see the full twenty million wired into our offshore accounts within one week, I will personally dispatch Sergei and a strike team to their corporate headquarters to... renegotiate the terms of the policy."
Standing in the deep shadows of the corner, Sergei grinned viciously, his fleshy face puffing up with violent anticipation.
Abram quickly raised a hand to intervene. "Anthony, please. Assassinating legitimate corporate executives will inevitably trigger a massive federal outcry. I highly suggest we utilize proper legal channels."
"Sergei," Anthony called out, not breaking eye contact with his uncle. "What exactly is the fundamental nature of our family business?"
Sergei paused for a moment, ensuring he gave the correct answer.
"We are the Russian Mafia, Boss," Anthony said, answering his own question with a freezing sneer. "We are outlaws by our very nature!"
He looked intensely at Abram. "Uncle, you are perfectly free to deploy your lawyers tomorrow morning. But if this financial discrepancy is not completely resolved within twenty-four hours..."
Anthony's lethal gaze shifted back to Sergei. "Simply locate the senior underwriter handling our specific claim, and execute him."
"Anthony..." Abram pleaded, genuine panic bleeding into his voice. "The High Table strictly prohibits the blatant assassination of high-profile civilian executives without prior authorization!"
Anthony completely ignored his uncle's panic and continued issuing orders to Sergei. "When you deliver the ultimatum to the insurance board, be absolutely certain to remind them that forty percent of this specific payout legally belongs to the High Table."
Sergei's eyes suddenly lit up with profound, malicious understanding. "Understood perfectly, Boss."
Anthony looked back at Abram. "Uncle, we are a violent criminal syndicate. Within the shadow world of the High Table, there are a great many things that do not conform to traditional legal statutes."
"In our world, the High Table is the ultimate law! If we tell the Adjudicators the insurance company is actively withholding their money, they will happily look the other way while we butcher the executives."
"I understand the politics, Anthony," Abram sighed, heavily shaking his head. "But this situation has escalated far beyond a simple loss of capital."
"News of the devastating assault on the Staten Island refinery and the blatant hijacking of the Polaris has already spread throughout the entire New York underworld."
"If the Tarasov syndicate does not respond with absolute, overwhelming force, the rival families will perceive us as weak and vulnerable. And once there is blood in the water, every single gang in this city will try to take a bite out of our territory."
"I am acutely aware of the optics," Anthony replied. He slowly walked over to the massive stone fireplace, staring deeply into the violently flickering flames. "Do not publicly address the refinery assault just yet."
"Let the media and the rival syndicates continue to assume it was merely a highly destructive, isolated gang conflict. I want the puppet master orchestrating this war to genuinely believe we are completely blind to their true involvement."
Anthony turned around, the orange firelight dancing dangerously in his dark eyes.
"The gangbangers holding the assault rifles are nothing more than a disposable knife. The man actively wielding that knife is my true target."
"So, what exactly is your operational strategy?" Abram asked.
Anthony did not answer immediately.
He walked back to the heavy leather sofa, reached underneath the mahogany coffee table, and pulled out a massive, highly detailed tactical map of New York City. He unrolled it across the table.
The map was incredibly old, its edges heavily frayed. Countless overlapping symbols were aggressively marked across the boroughs in red and blue grease pencils.
It represented over a decade of the Tarasov family's bloody territorial expansion.
Anthony firmly planted his index finger squarely on South Brooklyn.
"The Bloods' primary territory is concentrated right here: Brooklyn, Harlem, and the South Bronx. They currently control several key waterfront warehouses, low-level commercial docks, and three major narcotics trafficking arteries."
He slowly dragged his finger north, stopping aggressively over the old, industrial sectors of Queens.
"The Crips maintain their primary strongholds here. They operate several front-facing restaurants and high-end nightclubs, heavily involved in synthetic drug manufacturing, human trafficking, and high-end prostitution."
Anthony stood up straight, walked back to the floor-to-ceiling windows, and stared out at the sprawling, glittering expanse of the New York nightscape.
"Since this unknown faction wants to utilize Santino's chaotic ascension as a smokescreen to invade our territory... then I will happily play along."
"I am going to ensure this puppet master intimately understands that even the absolute highest executives of the High Table cannot simply treat the Tarasov syndicate as a disposable pawn on their New York chessboard!"
Anthony slowly turned around. The roaring firelight reflected violently in his cold eyes.
"If they push me too far... I will violently flip the entire fucking chessboard."
Outside the reinforced glass, the faint, wailing sound of NYPD sirens echoed in the distance, growing momentarily louder before gradually fading away into the concrete labyrinth of the city.
The nights in New York were never truly quiet, just as the brutal killings in the shadows of the city never truly ceased.
As Abram stared at Anthony's imposing, silhouetted figure against the window, he was violently struck by a powerful memory. Many years ago, a much younger Viggo Tarasov had stood by a similar window, aggressively plotting the violent expansion of their criminal empire.
But Viggo's eyes had always been clouded by insatiable greed and blinding ambition.
What Abram saw burning in Anthony's eyes was something infinitely colder, and vastly more deadly. It was the absolute, unyielding pragmatism of a warlord.
Outside the window, the freezing Brooklyn night wind swept aggressively through the manicured courtyard, carrying the dead, withered leaves of autumn.
The only sound in the room was the soft, rhythmic crackling of the firewood—sounding exactly like a silent, approaching death knell.
Abram knew the truth. The razor-sharp fangs of the Tarasov syndicate's newborn Wolf King were slowly emerging from the shadows, gleaming with a terrifying, bloody light.
"There is... one more critical piece of intelligence," Abram suddenly stated, his voice tight.
"Before you shot him, Boris explicitly confessed to me that he had recently been in close, highly secretive contact with several Russian nationals. They were not affiliated with our domestic syndicate. They were operatives dispatched directly from Moscow."
Moscow?
Anthony's eyes narrowed dangerously.
The Russian Bratva officially maintained one of the Twelve Seats at the High Table, but that specific seat was fiercely controlled by the St. Petersburg faction.
Historically, the Moscow syndicates had always desperately wanted to establish a highly lucrative foothold in New York, but Viggo Tarasov had brutally and successfully blockaded their expansion for over a decade.
"So. Immediately following Viggo's death, certain factions assumed the Tarasov empire was critically wounded and ripe for the taking," Anthony murmured softly.
"Even the rotting vultures operating out of Moscow want to cross the Atlantic to help dismember our corpse."
Anthony slowly walked back to the coffee table, picked up his half-finished glass of whiskey, and threw the burning liquid back in one smooth gulp.
"I highly doubt Moscow orchestrated the refinery attack, however," Anthony analyzed aloud to Abram.
"The absolute power brokers currently occupying the Twelve Seats would not stoop to utilizing such sloppy, underhanded proxy tactics with street gangs. It lacks the required elegance."
"If Boris has genuinely betrayed this family to Moscow..." Abram's voice trembled violently.
Profound pain and agonizing struggle waged a brief war within the older man's eyes.
But in the end, only a cold, absolute, resolute ruthlessness remained.
The survival of the Family supersedes all individual bloodlines!
That was the absolute, ironclad rule of the Tarasov syndicate, and the ultimate, inescapable curse of the Mafia.
Just as the silence peaked, Anthony's encrypted phone violently vibrated against the table.
"John?"
"Anthony," John's voice came through the speaker. It remained perfectly steady, but the chaotic background noise of the blues music and the clacking billiard balls had entirely vanished, replaced only by the hollow sound of the freezing wind howling through an empty alleyway.
The Bowery King refused to talk, Anthony instantly deduced.
Anthony's gaze darkened slightly. The flickering firelight danced across his sharp profile, highlighting his cold, unforgiving features in the heavy shadows.
"Not a single actionable word leaked out?"
"Rules are absolute rules, Anthony. The King refuses to involve his network in active syndicate warfare," John explained, pausing to lower his voice.
"He only officially confirmed that Santino is currently hiding in the exact location you predicted. The art museum."
"As expected," Anthony replied, his voice remaining perfectly calm. "The Soup Kitchen never actively takes sides. That is the Bowery King's ultimate survival strategy."
"Anthony," John's tone shifted, becoming unusually grave. "The political waters surrounding this attack are incredibly deep. Someone very high up within the High Table is actively attempting to orchestrate a massive conflict."
"The Bowery King was unusually tight-lipped tonight. He happily handed over Santino's exact coordinates, but he absolutely refused to reveal a single piece of intelligence regarding your situation."
"I strongly suspect someone is actively baiting a trap. I just do not know if they are specifically targeting me, or if they are targeting you."
"Well," Anthony replied, a freezing, homicidal smile spreading across his face. "I suppose I will find out exactly who it is once I violently make contact with them."
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