Deshawn was panting heavily, his chest heaving under his velvet jacket. "You have the fucking audacity to provoke me in my own club?"
The sawed-off Remington 870 remained pointed directly at Anthony's chest. Deshawn's finger rested dangerously against the trigger, the heavy weapon trembling slightly in his grip.
However, despite his bravado, Deshawn's terrified gaze constantly flicked away from Anthony, sweeping nervously over the dark muzzles of the dozen suppressed MAC-10 submachine guns aimed squarely at his men.
The massive bodyguard standing directly behind Deshawn leaned down and whispered urgently in his ear. "Boss... stand down. He's just a crazy white boy, it ain't worth a bloodbath. Besides, he brought the fucking pigs with him; they're sitting right outside."
Deshawn stared intensely at Anthony for a long, grueling moment. Finally, he violently slammed the heavy shotgun down onto the VIP table.
Seeing their boss stand down, the surrounding Bloods enforcers slowly lowered their own weapons, secretly breathing profound sighs of relief.
The veteran gangsters simply couldn't comprehend when the Tarasov syndicate had managed to produce such a terrifyingly calm, ruthless heir.
They knew Iosef had been a chaotic, arrogant psychopath, but Iosef was dead.
They knew Boris was a cowardly manager who certainly didn't possess this kind of suicidal nerve.
Yet this young man was treating Sergei—the brutal, legendary enforcer who functioned as Aurelio's right hand—like an attack dog on a leash.
"Who exactly are you supposed to be?" Deshawn asked through gritted teeth. He grabbed a bottle of liquor from the table and downed a massive gulp straight from the neck.
"I am Anthony Tarasov," Anthony replied calmly. "And I just crawled out from beneath a massive pile of dead bodies."
"A pile of dead bodies?" Deshawn sneered, his eyes gleaming with a sinister, mocking light. "Is that supposed to be a threat? You think your crazy-ass daddy, Viggo, died too lonely, and you want me to send you down to keep him company?"
Anthony completely ignored the gang leader's aggressive posturing. He let out a freezing, condescending sneer.
"I don't need to waste my valuable time exchanging childish threats with you, Deshawn. If I genuinely wanted you dead, I have an infinite number of ways to execute you."
Under the intensely hostile, menacing gaze of the surrounding gangsters, Anthony casually slipped his right hand inside his tailored overcoat.
He pulled out the charred, blood-stained fragment of the scarlet bandana—the center perfectly embroidered with the Bloods' signature dripping-hand motif—and tossed it casually onto the table.
"Do you recognize this piece of fabric?"
When the surrounding thugs finally recognized the familiar, burnt-smelling gang insignia, their pupils contracted sharply in shock.
Deshawn's small, hateful eyes narrowed into dangerous slits.
"I don't quite understand what the fuck you're trying to say, Tarasov."
"Someone," Anthony began, his voice dropping to mimic the freezing, desolate winds of Siberia, "wearing your colors... bearing your specific gang tattoos... systematically executed thirty-seven of my men, completely destroyed my Staten Island refinery, and hijacked a massive oil tanker."
Anthony paused, his dead, emotionless eyes locking perfectly onto Deshawn's sinister gaze.
"Tell me, Deshawn. Which specific idiot operating within your hierarchy suddenly suffered the profound delusion that the Bloods possessed the capacity to swallow a Tarasov logistical hub?"
"Or perhaps... there is a massive, highly funded maggot currently hiding behind your back, feeding you the absolute lie that you are capable of taking my bullet for him?"
Anthony slowly raised his right hand and casually scratched his chin with his index finger.
BANG!
A deafening, unsuppressed gunshot violently ruptured the tense silence of the Brooklyn night.
A massive, high-velocity sniper round brutally slammed into the leather sofa exactly one centimeter away from Deshawn's right hand. The violently acrid smell of burning leather and scorched foam instantly filled the gang leader's nostrils.
Deshawn completely froze. He didn't dare move a single muscle, but his dark face twisted in a mixture of absolute terror and helpless fury.
"You fucking—!"
"It is highly advisable that you remain perfectly still," Anthony stated indifferently, not breaking eye contact. "My overwatch is a Force Recon sniper who recently returned from a highly classified deployment in the mountains of Afghanistan. You cannot hide from him, Deshawn. He never misses twice."
A block away, the sound of police sirens suddenly wailed to life.
Jimmy was strictly keeping his promise. He aggressively activated the cruiser's sirens, but he didn't advance toward the club. He simply let the deafening, authoritative wail echo through the streets, ensuring everyone inside knew the NYPD was fully mobilized.
It was a highly calculated, psychological warning.
Deshawn's terrified gaze slowly shifted from the bullet hole in his sofa, back to the red bandana, and finally settled on Anthony's perfectly calm face.
"What the hell are you trying to accomplish here? You think dragging the fucking pigs to my club proves you got the upper hand?"
"Let me finish," Anthony interrupted, his voice suddenly turning as sharp and unforgiving as a razor blade. "Bringing the police here is my ultimate display of diplomatic sincerity."
"If I hadn't explicitly ordered the NYPD to establish a perimeter... my paramilitary squads would have already leveled this building. I am not here to initiate a war tonight, Deshawn."
"But if it is a war you want, the Tarasov syndicate is fully prepared to fight until every single drop of blood is drained from this borough. So, think incredibly carefully. How much capital did your mysterious backer actually pay you? Was it genuinely enough to justify risking the complete, apocalyptic annihilation of the Bloods gang by actively offending the Tarasov empire?"
Deshawn clearly wanted to leap up in a furious rage, but after stealing another terrified glance at the shattered window and the dark night outside, he remained firmly planted in his seat.
"I heard the rumors on the street about Staten Island," Deshawn gritted out defensively. "But that hit had absolutely nothing to do with the Bloods. If the Tarasovs are actively trying to frame my organization to justify a hostile takeover, I'll happily take the fall and fight you in the streets."
"Thirty-seven of my men were brutally slaughtered," Anthony continued, his powerful voice echoing through the dead-silent VIP lounge. "They were Tarasov men. Now, the surviving security footage clearly displays the heavily armed attackers wearing red bandanas and sporting fresh Bloods tattoos."
Sergei reached into his jacket, pulled out an encrypted CD containing the surveillance footage, and tossed it onto the table next to the bandana.
"However, strangely enough, these supposed 'Bloods' were exclusively utilizing highly modified, military-grade M4 assault rifles. Furthermore, their tactical movements and room-clearing procedures were identical to those of elite, tier-one professional mercenaries. And..."
Anthony paused deliberately, allowing the gravity of his words to fully sink into the gang leader's mind.
"Someone is actively attempting to utilize the Bloods as a disposable proxy to assassinate Tarasov assets," Anthony stated, treating the apocalyptic conspiracy as a simple, undeniable fact.
"And you, Deshawn, are being utilized as the sacrificial pawn. So I have to ask you... when the Tarasov syndicate inevitably begins its absolute, merciless retaliation... when our respective organizations suffer catastrophic, bloody losses... is your mysterious backer going to sit safely in his penthouse and laugh at us?"
"Laugh at the two massive idiots who destroyed each other for his amusement?"
Deshawn stared down at the encrypted CD resting on the table. Heavy beads of cold sweat rapidly formed across his scarred forehead.
"The Bloods would never actively provoke the Russian Mafia without a goddamn good reason," Deshawn said through tightly gritted teeth. "Since you already seem to know that someone is actively impersonating my crew..."
"Then you are going to help me hunt them down," Anthony interrupted coldly, refusing to surrender control of the conversation. "The mercenaries who orchestrated this massacre are explicitly impersonating the Bloods. The Tarasov syndicate will absolutely not accept the responsibility of clearing your gang's name for you."
"I will give you exactly twenty-four hours, Deshawn. Utilize your street network to hunt down the operatives impersonating your men. Because if you fail to deliver them to me... the next time I visit your territory, you will not see my face, and you will certainly not see the police."
Anthony slowly stood up, staring down at Deshawn with freezing, absolute contempt.
"When it comes to raw, military-grade firepower, you already know exactly what kind of global logistics my syndicate commands. But when it comes to the sheer, bureaucratic realities of mass murder... believe me when I tell you, the NYPD won't even bother utilizing police tape. They will simply arrive to collect your corpses."
The wailing sirens outside suddenly grew significantly louder.
The two marked police cruisers aggressively broke their perimeter, pulling up and parking directly across the street from the nightclub. However, no officers actually stepped out of the vehicles.
The aggressively spinning red and blue police lights painted the shattered facade of the club, looking exactly like a cautious, highly trained predator observing its prey from a safe distance.
Anthony pointed casually toward the flashing lights illuminating the street.
"I am fully aware that the NYPD happily accepts bribes from street gangs. But you absolutely do not possess the sheer political capital required to force them to run a tactical escort for you."
"Deshawn. I am not simply threatening you. I am not attempting to casually intimidate you. I am presenting you with an absolute, undeniable reality."
Deshawn stared out the shattered window at the waiting police cruisers. He looked back at Anthony's completely unbothered expression, and finally glanced at the deeply terrified, shifting eyes of his surviving bodyguards.
Deshawn knew, with absolute certainty, that Anthony Tarasov was telling the truth.
Deshawn wasn't deeply involved in the complex, global politics of the High Table. He didn't know the specifics of the Tarasov syndicate's international reach.
But he knew the established street laws of New York. And the cardinal rule was that absolutely no one—not even the Five Families of the Italian Mafia—dared to touch Tarasov holdings.
Deshawn had heard the terrifying urban legends. Over a decade ago, Viggo Tarasov had completely eradicated a massive rival syndicate using only a single, legendary assassin.
The mythical Boogeyman known as John Wick.
"Twenty-four hours," Deshawn finally agreed, his voice barely rising above a hoarse whisper. "This conspiracy directly concerns the street reputation of the Bloods. I will actively investigate the breach."
"An incredibly wise choice," Anthony nodded approvingly. His demeanor instantly shifted, acting as though the violent, life-or-death standoff they had just concluded was nothing more than a routine corporate negotiation.
"Oh, and Deshawn? I highly recommend you keep a very close eye on your second-in-command, Carlos. I heard a reliable rumor he recently acquired a massive, entirely untraceable influx of capital."
Deshawn's pupils violently contracted.
Having successfully planted the psychological bomb, Anthony turned his back on the gang leader and calmly walked toward the exit.
Sergei aggressively backed out of the club, keeping his twin Makarovs permanently trained on the Bloods enforcers until Anthony safely reached the Escalade and opened his door.
The massive Cadillac roared to life and slowly drove away into the night.
In the Escalade's rearview mirror, Anthony could see Deshawn still standing rigidly under the club's broken neon signs. The aggressively flickering scarlet light completely engulfed the gang leader's figure, making it look as though he were standing waist-deep in a pool of fresh blood.
"Do you genuinely believe he will investigate the Frenchmen?" Sergei asked from the driver's seat.
"He absolutely wouldn't dare refuse," Anthony replied, staring out the reinforced window at the rotting industrial landscape rushing past.
"He is going to violently interrogate Carlos. And Carlos... is going to immediately contact the people operating behind him."
"Then what is our next tactical move?"
"We wait," Anthony replied. He pulled out his encrypted phone and dialed Mike's frequency. "Overwatch, break down your hide. We are exfiltrating the grid."
"Mike, I want you to initiate a massive, twenty-four-hour surveillance net. Put eyes on Carlos immediately."
After ending the call with his sniper, Anthony quickly dialed a second number.
Abram answered on the first ring.
"How did the operation proceed?" Abram's voice sounded incredibly tense.
"The seed of paranoia has been successfully planted," Anthony stated softly, a dangerous smile spreading across his face. "Now, we simply wait to see exactly who leaps out of the shadows to violently water it."
As the heavily armored Escalade smoothly crossed the Brooklyn Bridge, the sprawling, infinitely bright lights of Manhattan stretched out before them like a dazzling, chaotic ocean of electricity.
But Anthony knew the terrifying truth. Beneath that blinding, glamorous light, a massive, apocalyptic shadow was violently creeping across the city.
A high-stakes chess match had officially begun. And Anthony had absolutely no intention of acting as a disposable pawn. He was going to violently massacre the opposing player.
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