Anthony leaned back into the plush leather sofa. Despite the apocalyptic tension in the room, his voice remained perfectly calm and frighteningly even.
"So, tell me, Winston... if the Marquis de Gramont actually does launch a covert invasion of New York, do you honestly believe he is going to politely check into your hotel and properly inform the esteemed Manager of his itinerary?"
"Gramont..."
Winston's voice was entirely dry. Every single syllable sounded as if it were being violently dragged through sandpaper.
"How... how in the absolute hell do you know that specific name? How do you possess the sheer audacity to casually mention him?"
Winston took a deep, shuddering breath, desperately attempting to calm his violently turbulent emotions.
"That aristocratic madman... he is the ultimate gravedigger of the rules. He actively treats the High Table council chambers as his own personal gladiator arena, and he views the other Table members as nothing more than disposable slaves existing entirely for his sadistic amusement..."
All three men in the room inherently understood the geopolitical reality. As a direct descendant of incredibly pure, deeply entrenched French nobility, Gramont's aristocratic status had provided him with a golden ticket directly into the absolute inner circle of the High Table.
However, the Marquis de Gramont's violently rapid ascension from the periphery of the Table to the absolute center of global power was fundamentally a byproduct of the desperate power struggles currently ravaging the Twelve Seats.
Gramont was the absolute, unquestionable butcher's knife specifically selected by the Elder!
Anthony possessed absolute meta-knowledge regarding this exact dynamic. He knew precisely why the High Table was currently panicking.
Because of Anthony's flawless tactical interference, John Wick had been forced to pick up a gun again, but he had executed his vengeance entirely within the confines of the established rules.
By legally assassinating Santino via Marcus's Marker, John had completely prevented the High Table from officially declaring him Excommunicado. He had legally survived the impossible.
At this specific, highly volatile juncture, the deeply terrified High Table desperately required a strong-willed, violently uncompromising enforcer to forcefully restore global order under the terrifying political mandate of: Kill John Wick.
The Marquis de Gramont had astutely, brilliantly grasped this massive political vulnerability. He had gleefully volunteered to become the Table's personal butcher's knife.
He had not only explicitly promised the Elder he would systematically eradicate John Wick, but he had also proposed an incredibly extreme, scorched-earth strategy: violently slaughtering every single person who had ever aided or associated with the Baba Yaga.
This psychopathic methodology perfectly aligned with the Elder's core objective: making a terrifying, global example out of John's allies.
"But that is absolutely impossible!" Winston suddenly blurted out, his aristocratic voice trembling slightly with genuine urgency.
He subconsciously raised a hand to adjust his gold-rimmed glasses. His fingertips were icy cold.
"The Marquis de Gramont... he currently operates as the absolute, undisputed special proxy of the Twelve Seats. In terms of sheer, unilateral bureaucratic authority, he is second only to the Adjudicator."
"If he had genuinely launched a tactical incursion into New York City, he would have absolutely been required to officially notify the Continental Hotel. Operating completely in the shadows within my designated territory is a blatant violation of the rules, and it is entirely beneath his aristocratic status."
John Wick slowly lowered his glass. His Adam's apple bobbed slightly before he replied in a flat, dead tone.
"He purposefully detonated an entire cathedral in Paris simply to force a single, low-level traitor to break cover. Twenty-seven innocent civilians were violently killed in the blast, including an entire children's choir."
John paused, a cold, deeply cynical smile touching the corner of his mouth.
"The High Table officially punished him by revoking the deeds to three of his ancestral castles. He didn't even flinch. For a man like Gramont, the sacred rules of your world... are simply disposable toys."
Anthony understood the political reality vastly better than Winston did. He knew the High Table possessed absolutely zero actual control over Gramont. The Marquis was an apocalyptic wild horse violently holding the reins of power.
Fully knowing this terrifying reality, the Elder had still actively granted Gramont absolute, unilateral authority to handle the John Wick crisis.
On the surface, it appeared as an absolute endorsement of Gramont's ruthless abilities. But in absolute political reality, the Elder was intentionally pushing the psychotic Marquis to the forefront, actively utilizing him as a lightning rod to draw all retaliatory fire away from the Twelve Seats.
For the Elder sitting isolated in the desert, it absolutely did not matter whether John Wick or the Marquis died in the impending bloodbath. Once the carnage concluded, the surviving power structure could easily be rebuilt.
Anthony clearly remembered the climax of John Wick: Chapter 4. When Winston brilliantly orchestrated "beating the rules with the rules" by formally guiding John to challenge the Marquis to an ancient, High Table duel... the Adjudicator simply stood back and allowed it to happen.
The terrifying reality was that even Marquises were nothing more than highly expensive, entirely disposable pawns.
Exactly like Santino.
Exactly like John.
Winston took another deep, shuddering breath, violently forcing his panic down. But his voice remained incredibly tight.
"Anthony, where the hell did you acquire that specific name? The Marquis de Gramont is violently eccentric and completely ruthless, yes. But his primary targets are always massive, geopolitical rebellions actively threatening the stability of the High Table itself. He doesn't target..."
Winston nervously glanced over at John.
"He doesn't target the Tarasovs. Your syndicate just barely survived a massive internal civil war. Your global foundation is currently highly unstable. A man with Gramont's apocalyptic power would absolutely disdain utilizing such petty, low-level street tactics against a weakened mafia family."
Winston aggressively shook his head, his eyes behind his glasses filled with absolute disbelief.
"Blowing up a civilian refinery? Hijacking a crude oil tanker? That operational methodology is simply too 'low-level' for a man of his caliber. He operates on an entirely different geopolitical plane. He plays a high-level game utilizing nuclear-level deterrence."
"Low-level?" Anthony scoffed loudly, leaning aggressively forward.
"Do you honestly believe a psychopath who habitually utilizes the burning ruins of a cathedral as his personal negotiating table would suddenly discover a moral objection to utilizing disposable street gangs as his proxy weapons?"
"Would a man who effortlessly disassembles and violently reassembles the absolute, sacred rules of the High Table exactly like a set of children's building blocks genuinely care if he has to take a few tactical detours to achieve his objective?"
Winston rubbed his temples violently. A massive, throbbing headache was rapidly blooming behind his eyes.
"Anthony... if the Marquis de Gramont has genuinely launched a covert operation in New York... the absolute destruction of your refinery is merely the opening salvo."
"I am acutely aware of that fact," Anthony replied, casually tossing a cigarette across the table to John.
"I am the newly appointed syndicate boss, officially backed by the Adjudicator. But more importantly... I am currently standing far too close to John Wick."
Winston's already ashen face grew noticeably paler.
"Anthony, you are violently overestimating the timeline. This is pure, unadulterated paranoia."
"Even if the Twelve Seats genuinely desire to completely eradicate John, they would absolutely not deploy their apex proxy to New York this rapidly."
Anthony sneered mockingly. "Do you genuinely believe they care that Santino's death was legally executed via Marker?"
"Let me tell you a terrifying reality, Winston. The Table probably doesn't even believe Santino possessed the sheer competence required to successfully kill John in the first place! And furthermore, they know Marcus is still currently breathing!"
Winston heavily agreed with Anthony's brutal assessment.
The High Table had explicitly weaponized Santino's Blood Oath, desperately attempting to force John into a violent corner, praying he would finally commit a fatal foul against the rules.
But throughout his entire, legendary career in the underworld, John Wick had consistently been the absolute, most fiercely law-abiding assassin on the planet.
He followed the rules so flawlessly that the High Table fundamentally lacked any legal justification to forcefully eliminate him.
But currently, John Wick existed exactly like a massive, unexploded nuclear bomb lying entirely dormant right under the Table's collective nose. He was fully primed to detonate at any moment, without a fraction of warning.
Specifically, if an unknown third party who legally possessed a Blood Oath over John suddenly decided to forcefully drag him out of retirement again, John Wick could instantly transform into a completely uncontrollable, apocalyptic disaster for the High Table.
Winston slowly shook his head, his mind seemingly lost in some deeply terrifying memory. His voice trembled almost imperceptibly.
"Anthony... if Gramont has genuinely breached the New York perimeter... given his violently sadistic personality, he will absolutely not stop at simply destroying your corporate infrastructure."
"Winston's tactical analysis is completely accurate, Anthony," John finally spoke, his voice grave.
"Gramont is the oldest, most violently insane, and entirely unpredictable viper operating within the High Table. Absolutely no one can accurately predict his next tactical maneuver."
"He doesn't simply enjoy possessing absolute power. He derives pure, sexual pleasure from violently crushing the power of others, and actively watching his victims desperately struggle to their deaths within the twisted, psychological games he personally designs."
Winston locked his sharp gaze entirely onto Anthony.
"Anthony... do you genuinely believe a man with virtually limitless global resources would bother deploying a massive artillery cannon simply to crush a single ant?"
Anthony stared back at the Manager for a long moment before suddenly bursting into genuine laughter.
"You are absolutely correct, Winston. In the eyes of the absolute power brokers at the Table, the Tarasov syndicate is nothing more than a pathetic, insignificant ant."
"Perhaps... I severely misjudged the situation."
John took a slow sip of his whiskey. "I heard specific rumors regarding his operational methodology when I was executing a high-profile contract in Europe."
"He never physically pulls the trigger himself. He infinitely prefers to sit comfortably in a secure control room, staring at a monitor. He expertly weaponizes limitless gold coins, beautiful women, and the lives of innocent family members to slowly, methodically pry open the psychological will of his prey."
"Only when his prey completely breaks down psychologically, falling to their knees and desperately begging for the sweet release of death, will he step forward to slowly and elegantly end their existence."
John's expression turned incredibly cold and entirely unforgiving.
"The sick bastard actively refers to this psychological torture as 'Art'."
"Art?" Anthony sneered, his freezing gaze smoothly sweeping back over Winston.
"Tell me, Winston. The Continental Hotel legally functions as the primary, all-seeing eye of the High Table in this city. If Gramont genuinely intends to launch a massive, scorched-earth purge of New York... do you honestly believe he will hesitate to violently gouge out that eye?"
John's expression drastically changed.
He intimately understood that Anthony absolutely never issued a warning of that magnitude without profound, tactical justification.
"Anthony... are you implying..."
Winston's hand trembled violently, nearly dropping his glass a second time.
"The New York Continental Hotel is absolutely, irrevocably protected by the highest, most sacred laws of the High Table! Even if Gramont is physically present in the city, he would absolutely never possess the sheer, suicidal audacity to attack my hotel!"
"Rules only work on fiercely loyal, honorable idiots like John," Anthony quipped flawlessly, completely uncaring if the Baba Yaga took offense to the brutal characterization.
Seeing that Anthony was absolutely resolute in his apocalyptic warning, John slowly turned to Winston. "You had better immediately utilize your most secure, deeply embedded intelligence network to definitively verify if the Marquis has breached the city limits."
Winston quickly pulled a pristine silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and began frantically polishing his glasses.
He wiped the lenses with desperate, meticulous care, but his eyes remained completely unfocused, clearly spiraling deep into paranoid, tactical thought.
"I will immediately deploy my absolute best intelligence gatherers to conduct a highly covert investigation."
"However, since he explicitly bypassed the Continental's official registry, he clearly intends to remain entirely hidden. Locating him within the sprawl of New York will be incredibly difficult."
John nodded in grim agreement. "He possesses intimate, encyclopedic knowledge regarding exactly how the Table's Enforcers operate. He absolutely knows how to evade standard surveillance networks."
John slowly turned his head, looking directly at Anthony. His brow was heavily furrowed. "Anthony... do you genuinely suspect the paramilitary strike team that annihilated your refinery is directly connected to Gramont's vanguard?"
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