A sharp wind blew off the water, cutting across the open grassland of Upstate New York.
The newly acquired Tarasov farm covered two hundred acres, bordered by dense stands of towering pine that formed a natural perimeter wall. It was one of three such properties Anthony had bought in a single cash transaction. The other two sat quietly near New Jersey and on Long Island.
The morning mist hadn't burned off yet. Sixty-three men stood on the wet grass.
They were a mixed bag of veterans pulled from every corner of the country. Some stood rigidly at attention. Others slouched, hands in their pockets. But a common thread ran through the eyes of every man present -- the hard, flat vigilance forged in combat.
Anthony stood on the wooden steps of a converted barn. Helen sat quietly at his heel.
Mike stepped forward, his voice carrying easily over the open field.
"Lieutenant. All sixty-three present and accounted for." He didn't look at the men; he kept his eyes on Anthony. "Twenty-two operators pulled from Delta, the Rangers, and SEAL Team Six. The remaining forty-one are Marines, all with confirmed combat deployments."
Anthony scanned the crowd.
He recognized faces. Men he'd served with in Afghanistan. Brothers from the Corps. They ranged in age from their mid-twenties to early forties. Different backgrounds, different records, but right now they all wore the same unmarked tactical rigs and dark cargo pants.
Some looked skeptical. Others just looked hungry for the payday. Five thousand dollars a week, plus hazard bonuses, was top-tier private sector money.
"My name is Anthony Tarasov," Anthony said. He didn't shout, but his voice cut through the wind. "I am not your commanding officer. You are looking at the new head of the Tarasov syndicate in New York."
A white man with a tight buzz cut and a pale scar slashing across his cheek raised a hand.
"Mr. Tarasov. Mike told us this was a war," he said. "I'd like to know the enemy. Are we shooting street gangs or a standing army?"
"Fair question." Anthony walked down the steps, closing the distance to the front line. "You might run into a professional operator wearing gang colors. You might run into a mob enforcer wearing a bespoke suit. In New York, the distinction rarely matters."
He stopped in front of the scarred man. "Name and unit."
"Karl Miller. Army Rangers. Three tours in the Korengal," the man replied, keeping his chin level.
"Karl. You make contact, and the enemy squad is running tighter tactics than yours. What's your play?"
"Stay alive first," Karl answered instantly. "ID them second. Report it up the chain."
Anthony nodded and turned back to the steps. "That is exactly what I want."
He looked out over the sixty-three operators.
"I don't need you charging into alleys like street thugs. I need you thinking, moving, and surviving like you're in a war zone. Because you are."
He let the reality of it settle over them.
"You sign the paper today, you belong to the Tarasovs. I will provide you with the best gear on the market and the highest pay in the sector. In return, I demand absolute loyalty."
He paused, his eyes hardening.
"Make no mistake. You are not my mercenaries. I expect us to operate as brothers-in-arms. But this isn't a training exercise. The brass you fire will be live. The casualties will be real. And the penalty for treason is absolute."
He didn't need to elaborate. The silence that followed proved they understood.
A tall Black man stepped forward from the middle ranks.
"Anthony. We showed up because you made the call, not because we want a mafia badge," he said. "You pulled me out of a bad spot in Kabul. But I won't touch drugs, and I won't touch human trafficking."
Anthony smiled faintly. Phineas Clayton. A good Marine.
"Relax, Phineas. The Tarasovs don't run drugs, and we don't traffic people. Our business is localized protection and asset control. Your job is to keep this family breathing while the streets burn."
Anthony raised a hand to cut off any further murmurs. "But before we deploy, we train."
He pointed to the cluster of Tier 1 operators. "The twenty-two of you from Special Operations. You are running point. Teach the rest of these men how to clear a brownstone, how to hold a choke point, and how to execute a tactical exfil in civilian traffic."
"We supply the hardware. You supply the doctrine."
He looked at Mike. "Questions?"
James Fitzgerald, a former Delta operator standing near Mike, grinned. "Boss, as long as they don't wash out, we'll build you a tier-one strike force."
"Good," Anthony said. "Mike will sort the deployments across the three farms. During the day, you're farmhands. When the sun drops, you're ghosts."
Inside the barn, the space had been stripped and wired into a makeshift command center.
Abram Tarasov sat in his wheelchair near a folding table, staring at an open ledger. His face looked gray.
"Three properties. Renovations. The armory orders," Abram muttered, tapping a pen against the paper. "Seventeen million dollars gone. And we still have to rebuild the Staten Island facility."
He looked up, genuine panic in his eyes.
"Anthony, our cash flow is bleeding out."
Anthony walked over and poured himself a glass of water from a plastic jug. "Uncle, money is just a metric. If we're dead, the bank accounts don't matter."
"I understand that, but we have to spread these men out. We can't cluster them. And we can't let the other families know we've built a private army."
"We won't," Anthony said.
"But the cost--"
"Uncle," Anthony cut him off, his tone dropping an octave. "The Tarasov family is standing on a landmine. One wrong step and the bloodline ends. Completely."
Abram thought of the burning refinery. He swallowed hard.
"Is it truly that bad?"
As the nominal head of the family, Abram understood the High Table and the Adjudicator. But he didn't know the specifics of Anthony's leverage over John Wick, and he knew absolutely nothing about the Marquis de Gramont.
"It's worse," Anthony said. He poured a finger of whiskey into a clean glass and handed it to the older man. "There's a mole inside our house. We need to cut it out before we can move."
Abram took the glass, his hand shaking slightly. "You suspect Anya?"
"I don't know who it is yet," Anthony said, shaking his head. "And we don't have the luxury of time to run an internal investigation."
"And the cash shortage?"
"We have ATMs." Anthony pointed to a map of Brooklyn pinned to a corkboard. Several blocks were circled in heavy red marker.
Abram leaned forward, squinting at the map. "That's Crips territory. You want to raid them?"
"It's payback," Anthony said, tapping the red circles. "Their people hit our refinery."
Abram gripped the armrests of his wheelchair. "Anthony, this is madness. We just took a massive hit, and now you want to start a street war?"
"Uncle. I need to flush out our traitor before I move on my real target." Anthony smiled coldly. "I want you to leak the strike plan internally. Let the family know we're hitting the Crips. Give the rat a chance to warn our enemies."
Abram stared at him in horror. "You want to hand them our playbook? Do you have any idea how many of our men will die if they walk into an ambush?"
Anthony walked around the table and crouched down so he was eye-level with his uncle.
"Sometimes, to kill a snake, you have to let it strike the bait." His voice was dead calm. "I don't want to doubt our blood. But if someone in this family is selling us out to the High Table..."
He paused, letting the weight of the threat land.
"...then the Crips will do us a favor by identifying them for us."
Abram stared into his nephew's eyes for a long time. Finally, he nodded slowly.
"I will leak the schedule," Abram said quietly. "But there is no proof of the Crips hitting the refinery. If we attack without justification, what will the other New York syndicates do? What will the High Table do?"
"The Table only cares that the gold coins keep flowing. They don't micromanage gang violence," Anthony said, standing up and patting Abram's shoulder. "As for the other syndicates... Uncle. We are the Russian Mob. We don't need to justify ourselves to street gangs."
That evening. Manhattan.
Boris Tarasov stood by the floor-to-ceiling window of his study, a crystal glass of vodka in his hand. The city pulsed with neon below him, but his eyes were dark and focused on nothing.
The heavy oak door opened with a soft click. Anya walked in.
She wore a dark red silk robe. Her blonde hair fell loose over her shoulders. In the dim light of the study, the crimson polish on her fingernails looked like drying blood.
"Is he actually going to do it?" she asked, her voice a low murmur.
"I got it from my contacts in the strike teams," Boris said, without turning away from the glass. "They're raiding the Crips tonight. Fifty men. Viktor is leading the assault."
Anya crossed the room and stopped beside him, resting her fingers lightly on his forearm. "This is an opportunity."
"An opportunity?" Boris scoffed, taking a sharp sip of vodka. "To sit here and watch that bastard Anthony consolidate his grip on the family?"
"No." Anya leaned in closer, her breath warm against his ear. "An opportunity for him to break his teeth."
Boris finally turned his head to look at her. "What are you suggesting?"
Anya's eyes caught the city lights, gleaming sharp and cold in the shadows.
"What if someone were to make a phone call to the Crips tonight?" she whispered. "Before Viktor's team arrives?"
A pause hung between them.
"If the Crips are waiting with their guns drawn," Anya smiled, "what do you think happens to Anthony's precious strike force?"
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