477 Lexington Avenue, Midtown Manhattan.
The brass sign reading "MetLife Insurance" caught the morning sunlight, reflecting a cold, polished glare onto the pavement.
Anthony stood across the street, dressed down in a casual jacket. John stood beside him, hands deep in the pockets of a dark hoodie. They looked like two men waiting for a bus.
Sergei, however, looked exactly like what he was. He wore a cheap gray suit that strained tightly across his massive chest. He kept adjusting his collar, looking miserable, his massive hand repeatedly drifting toward his left armpit.
"Relax," Anthony said, his eyes fixed on the revolving doors of the high-rise. "We're just here to talk about a claims payout."
"Mmm," Sergei grunted. His palm was sweating against the grip of his holstered Glock 19.
The events of the last forty-eight hours had put him on edge. He kept scanning the morning commuter crowd, half expecting another wave of Gramont's French assassins to materialize from the shadows.
The three men crossed Lexington and pushed through the revolving doors.
The receptionist in the marble-lined lobby was a blonde woman in her forties with immaculate makeup. She looked up and flashed a practiced, corporate smile.
"Good morning, gentlemen. How can I help you?"
"Representatives of the Tarasov family," Anthony said pleasantly. "We're here regarding the insurance claim for the Staten Island Refinery."
The woman's smile froze. She recovered a second later.
"Please wait one moment. I will contact the claims department."
She picked up her desk phone, murmured something, and looked back up. "Mr. Tarasov. Mr. Hanson, the head of the claims department, is currently in a meeting. You may need to wait in the lobby."
"Tell him we're not here for the coffee," Anthony said, his tone entirely devoid of warmth.
The receptionist blinked at the flat look in Anthony's eyes. She picked up the phone again.
"Mr. Tarasov," she said quietly. "Sixteenth floor. Mr. Hanson is waiting in his office."
The elevator doors slid open on the sixteenth floor.
The corridor was lined with glass-walled cubicles. Men and women in sharp business attire tapped on keyboards and spoke into headsets. No one looked up. It was the sterile, humming machinery of white-collar wealth.
At the far end of the hall, a heavy oak door stood open. The brass plaque read: Smir Hanson - Claims Manager.
Hanson sat behind a sprawling mahogany desk. He was in his fifties, bald, wearing gold-rimmed glasses and French cuffs. He was reviewing a file when he heard their footsteps. He looked up, deploying the patronizing smile reserved for difficult clients.
"Representatives of the Tarasov family?" Hanson stood and extended his hand across the desk. "Smir Hanson. A pleasure."
Anthony ignored the hand. He walked past the desk and sat down on the leather sofa.
"Anthony Tarasov," he said, crossing his legs. "I understand you rejected Tarasov commercial insurance claims twice now."
Hanson's hand hung in the air for a second before he slowly pulled it back. The smile thinned out.
"Regarding the Staten Island Refinery," Hanson said, returning to his chair. "We regret to inform you that upon investigation, the incident falls under the exclusion parameters of our 'Acts of War' clause."
He slid a manila folder across the desk. A red CLAIM DENIED stamp marred the front page.
"Pursuant to Article 7, Paragraph 3 of the policy, catastrophic damage resulting from gang conflict, terrorism, or acts of war are not covered by the underwriter."
Anthony picked up the file. He didn't open it. He tossed it back onto the desk.
"When the refinery burned, there was no war declared in New York."
"My refining operations are fully licensed and legal. I paid the premiums on the commercial policy. As long as the Tarasovs pay their taxes, you pay your claims."
"Gang conflict qualifies as an extended definition of an act of war," Hanson said, his tone hardening into bureaucratic concrete. "You must understand our position. We have NYPD reports confirming a massive firefight between unknown armed elements at the facility. It was clearly organized violence."
Anthony lit a cigarette. "As an insurance executive, you understand the legal definition of the Castle Doctrine. We were defending our property."
Hanson's Adam's apple bobbed.
"I apologize. MetLife cannot subsidize organized crime. It is a matter of corporate principle."
"So you refuse to pay."
"Yes. I refuse."
Anthony looked at Sergei.
Sergei stepped forward, unlatched his briefcase, and dropped a heavy stack of documents onto Hanson's desk.
"This is the revised claim," Sergei said. "It includes the third-party structural damage assessment, and--"
"Mr. Sergei, you have already visited this office twice," Hanson interrupted. The corporate politeness was entirely gone now. "I have made myself clear. The paperwork is irrelevant. You are not getting a check."
Sergei cleared his throat.
"Manager Hanson. According to Section 342 of the New York State Insurance Code, an underwriter cannot deny a valid claim without substantive, proven cause. Doing so exposes the company to a punitive ruling of triple damages."
"Then sue us," Hanson sneered, leaning back in his leather chair. "Take us to court. Can the Tarasovs afford to wait three years for a civil judgment? I am extremely confident a judge will uphold the 'Act of War' exemption."
Sergei reached into the briefcase again. He pulled out a second, much thicker binder and slammed it onto the mahogany desk.
"These are the files for every gang-related claim MetLife has denied in the five boroughs over the past five years," Sergei said, tapping the binder with a massive finger. "In every single case, your office forwarded 'suspicious leads' to the FBI to justify the denial."
He flipped open the cover.
"Last year, a Chinese supermarket burned down in Queens. You denied the payout. When the owner's daughter filed a formal complaint with the state board, your 'investigators' leaked her address to the Crips. They dragged her into an alley. She jumped in front of a subway train three days later."
Hanson's face lost its color. "That... that has absolutely nothing to do with this!"
"Nothing to do with it?" Anthony laughed, a cold, sharp sound.
"You use 'gang activity' as a legal shield to hoard premiums," Anthony said. "You use the law as a rag to wipe the blood off the murder weapon. You're no better than the thugs who lit the match."
Anthony stood up and walked over to the desk. He leaned over it, planting both hands flat on the mahogany.
"Twenty million dollars. Call it an insurance payout. Call it armed robbery. I don't care. I want the money."
"Are you threatening me?" Hanson's voice hitched. "This is Midtown Manhattan. There are security cameras in the hall. Fifth Avenue is right outside."
He looked nervously between Anthony and the silent, hooded figure of John Wick standing by the door.
"I know who your family is. I know what you do. But this is Manhattan. The law means something here. Your mob tactics will not work in this building."
Anthony stared into Hanson's panicked eyes.
"Hanson. You know who we are," Anthony said softly. "So tell me. Who is sitting behind you, giving you the leverage to deny a perfectly legal twenty-million-dollar commercial claim from the Russian Mafia?"
Hanson swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry.
"Sergei," Anthony said, tapping his fingers on the desk. "I've lost my patience. Manager Hanson is right. We are a gang."
Hanson's eyes widened. "What are you doing? If you touch me, I'm pressing the panic button--"
Sergei moved.
He stepped around the desk, grabbed Hanson by the back of his scalp, and slammed his face brutally into the polished mahogany.
The gold-rimmed glasses shattered. The lenses drove deep into the flesh around Hanson's eyes.
Hanson shrieked, a high, wet sound of pure agony.
"Now," Anthony said. He pulled up a leather guest chair and sat down directly across from the bleeding executive. "Let's reopen the negotiation."
Hanson pushed himself up. Half his face was slick with blood. The broken frame of his glasses hung from one ear.
"You're crazy," Hanson sobbed, clutching his eye. "This is Manhattan..."
"Are there no gangs in Manhattan?" Anthony asked. He pressed the cherry of his cigarette directly into the mahogany desk, burning an ugly black scar into the wood. "Or have you just never met a real one?"
Anthony held up two fingers.
"Two choices. One: you sign the payout authorization, and the funds wire to the Tarasov accounts by three o'clock today."
He lowered one finger.
"Two: I have Sergei throw you through that sixteenth-floor window, and then I go upstairs and have this exact same conversation with your boss."
Hanson stared at the scarred wood. The corporate arrogance had completely collapsed. Only raw, animal terror remained.
"I... I can't authorize twenty million alone," Hanson stammered. "I need executive approval."
"Then call him," Sergei growled, shoving the desk phone toward the bleeding man. "Now."
Hanson's hands shook violently as he dialed a four-digit internal extension. He spoke in a frantic whisper, blood dripping from his chin onto his expensive shirt collar.
He hung up the phone and looked up, his good eye darting toward John Wick in the corner.
"The Vice President says... he can authorize fifty percent. Ten million. Because... because Tarasov enforcers were involved in the firefight, which constitutes gang retaliation..."
Anthony smiled.
There was absolutely zero light in his eyes.
"Sergei. Break his knee."
"Wait!" Hanson screamed, throwing his hands up. "I can get a special waiver! I'll apply for the override right now!"
It was too late.
Sergei drew the Glock 19 from his shoulder holster. He had been waiting to use it for two days.
He pointed the muzzle directly at Hanson's left kneecap.
The gunshot detonated in the enclosed office, shaking the glass walls and rattling the ceiling tiles.
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