"Anthony, is that you?" Officer Jimmy Simmons's voice came through the phone receiver. He sounded exhausted and utterly bewildered.
"It's me," Anthony said, his eyes tracking the panic in the MetLife hallway. "As for the reason, you can ask the survivors when you get up here."
He could hear Jimmy covering the mouthpiece, muttering quietly to a patrol partner on the other end of the line.
Finally, Jimmy came back.
"Anthony. Listen to me. Take your people and leave. The NYPD will secure the scene in three minutes."
"Thanks, Jimmy. You're a good cop." Anthony hung up and slid the phone into his jacket pocket.
He turned to look at John's stony expression. "You see? Even the police understand that this is simply an unfortunate misunderstanding."
They took the private elevator down to the second floor, kicked open the emergency stairwell door, and walked out of a side exit, seamlessly blending into the dense morning pedestrian traffic on Fifth Avenue.
"Why kill an executive like that?" John finally asked, his voice low over the roar of passing traffic.
Anthony laughed. "Listen to me, John. Men like Clemens are worse than the street thugs we deal with."
"We bleed for our money. We risk our lives to take territory. All they have to do is sit in a velvet chair and sign their names on a piece of paper to destroy a thousand lives."
Anthony turned his collar up against the wind. "My malice toward the corporate sector is far deeper than my malice toward the mafia."
He scanned the street. [Compensatory Perception] fired, running a passive sweep. No tails. No watchers.
"The business is handled for today," Anthony said. "I'm going to take you to see the sights. Staying locked up in that farmhouse like a hermit isn't good for you."
John didn't object. He just stared straight ahead.
Anthony signaled for Sergei to take the SUV back to the estate alone. He raised a hand and flagged down a passing yellow cab.
"Queens," Anthony told the driver.
In a penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park, the heavy velvet curtains were drawn tight against the morning sun.
The overhead lights were off. The massive room was lit only by the flickering flames of a marble fireplace and the soft glow of a few brass wall sconces.
The Marquis de Gramont paced barefoot across a priceless Persian rug. He wore a dark silk robe tied loosely at his waist, his posture carrying the languid grace of a man entirely at peace with the world.
He paused by a silver tray resting on a side table. Half a croissant and a soft-boiled egg sat untouched.
A man in a sharp black suit materialized from the shadows near the doorway. He moved silently, stopping exactly three paces behind the Marquis. He bowed his head.
"My Lord."
"Chidi," Gramont said. He took a sip of espresso, keeping his eyes on the fire. "Tell me you bring interesting news."
"Bertrand Laroche is missing. His tracking signal has vanished, and our sweepers have not located a body," Chidi reported, his voice a flat, mechanical baritone. "Furthermore, only two operators from the Blood Skull unit returned from the casino engagement."
Chidi paused for a fraction of a second. "Also, Carlos of the Bloods was executed by his own boss, Deshawn. The communication lines between our proxies in the Crips and the Bloods have been severed. Do you wish to reestablish contact?"
Gramont swirled the espresso in his cup.
"Dead?" The Marquis's voice carried no anger. Only a faint trace of genuine amusement.
"My dear Bertrand. Logically speaking... the Tarasovs should not have possessed the capacity to kill him. How could he have fallen so easily?"
"Based on fragmented police scanners and surviving Crips chatter," Chidi said, "the tactical element that hit the nightclub and the casino was not standard Tarasov muscle. They moved like elite military contractors. They appeared without warning and vanished the same way. We have no leads on their origin."
"Oh?" Gramont finally turned his head.
The firelight danced across his pale blue eyes, illuminating a sudden, feral spark of joy.
"So. Is Anthony elevating the Tarasov family's military doctrine? Or is a third party attempting to capitalize on the chaos to steal the board?"
"Given the operational timeline, the strike team must belong to Anthony," Chidi deduced. "However, our intelligence still indicates that Winston and John Wick are unaware of your presence in New York."
"Anthony. What a remarkably clever little mouse," Gramont murmured. He picked up a silver knife and gracefully sliced open the soft-boiled egg, watching the golden yolk bleed into the toast.
Chidi continued the briefing.
"Twenty minutes ago, Anthony Tarasov walked into the MetLife building and executed four people. Including Senior Vice President Robert Clemens and Claims Manager Smir Hanson."
Gramont threw his head back and laughed.
"Not only is he clever, but he possesses a wonderful audacity! Those poor bastards at the NYPD must be exhausted cleaning up his messes."
Chidi lowered his head slightly. "Shall we escalate surveillance on Anthony? Or authorize direct countermeasures? He is actively severing our financial and gang-level tentacles in the city."
"No."
Gramont set down his cup. He walked to the massive floor-to-ceiling window and seized the velvet drapes, ripping them open. The sudden flood of morning sunlight hit his pale face.
"Let him break a few insignificant claws. I want to see exactly how much chaos this little mouse can inflict upon my chessboard."
He stared down at the sprawling green expanse of Central Park.
"The louder Anthony becomes, the less likely John Wick is to stay in the shadows."
He turned back to his enforcer. "Where is John? Still no trace?"
"None, my Lord. He has vanished. No registered activity at the Continental. The Tarasov estates are locked down. Marcus is equally untraceable."
"Then we force him into the light." Gramont's voice dropped ten degrees. "Anthony has made entirely too much noise. The Adjudicator... can no longer pretend to be blind."
Gramont walked to a heavy mahogany desk and picked up a satellite-encrypted phone. He dialed a sequence of numbers he rarely used.
The line rang twice before the connection clicked open. The person on the other end offered no greeting.
Gramont's aristocratic smile returned.
"Your Excellency," Gramont said warmly. "The air in New York has become rather polluted lately."
"The little stray dog you personally pinned a badge on is currently urinating all over the city. He even bit the servant I sent to clean up the trash."
Gramont paced slowly behind the desk. "It makes it very difficult for me to sit quietly and appreciate this... performance that the High Table has so graciously permitted him to stage."
The line was dead silent for three seconds.
When the Adjudicator finally spoke, their voice was perfectly smooth and entirely devoid of human warmth.
"Marquis de Gramont. The rules of the High Table apply to all members and all sanctioned agents. Anthony Tarasov's actions carry their own boundaries. And their own costs."
"Boundaries?" Gramont chuckled softly.
"His boundary seems to be the total destruction of the New York underworld. Or his own immolation."
"And the costs? I believe he is paying them quite easily. He has even figured out how to use your precious rules to shield his barbaric mob tactics. Isn't that fascinating?"
"What is your point, Marquis?" the Adjudicator asked.
"My point is that a game requires balance," Gramont said, his tone turning cold. "A rat that runs too fast and catches the scent of the hunter ruins the poetry of the hunt."
"John Wick must be forced back to the table. Or... you need to remind your chosen proxy that there are certain lines that cannot be uncrossed."
"After all," Gramont finished smoothly, "the High Table cannot rely on an old assassin's PTSD to maintain its absolute authority forever. Wouldn't you agree?"
An even longer silence stretched across the encrypted line.
"The will of the High Table is absolute," the Adjudicator finally replied. "Matters in New York will be resolved within the rules."
"Then I shall eagerly await the good news."
Gramont smiled and severed the connection.
He walked back to the window and stared down at the greatest city on earth. From this height, it looked like a massive sand table built out of concrete, blood, and gold coins.
"Anthony Tarasov," he whispered to the glass. "Are you fighting to survive? Or are you just enthusiastically digging your own grave?"
"Keep dancing. Let us see if the mouse that wandered onto the board gets eaten by the cat... or if it actually manages to steal a piece of cheese."
The sunlight caught his eyes, illuminating a feverish, fanatic anticipation.
"John," Gramont breathed. "You cannot hide forever."
"When Anthony's blood stains the streets of Brooklyn, you will step out of the dark. You will pick up your guns for him."
"Won't you?"
Gramont understood the architecture of power perfectly. The High Table required a blood sacrifice to restore its absolute terror. And New York was the altar where Gramont intended to be crowned.
John Wick was simply the most dazzling offering he could place on that altar.
Gramont savored the process. He loved watching the rats thrash in the maze. He loved watching a dull blade regain its killing edge through blood and fire.
This is true art, he thought.
Gramont walked back to the table and poured two fingers of Scotch. He threw it back. The liquor burned a hot, welcome trail down his throat.
"New York!" he said to the towering skyline.
"Are you ready for your new king?"
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