"In the past week, the number of missing persons reports across the city has spiked by forty percent compared to this time last year," Jimmy said, his voice a tense whisper over the phone. "Queens is the hardest hit, followed by Brooklyn. And Anthony, this isn't just street thugs skipping town. It's real people."
"Office workers. The homeless. Bodega clerks. Since yesterday, even retired cops and former federal agents have vanished."
When Anthony heard the phrase former federal agents, his sense of dread deepened into a cold certainty.
If it were merely gang members disappearing, the underworld would assume a standard territorial purge. But kidnapping retired cops and federal agents? Who else in New York besides the Marquis de Gramont possessed the sheer, untouchable arrogance to pull that off?
"Federal agents are missing, and there hasn't been a single leak to the press?" Anthony asked.
"It's completely blacked out," Jimmy replied. Anthony could hear the rustle of paperwork in the background. "I managed to see a single line from an FBI preliminary report. It read: No signs of struggle. No forensic evidence of forced entry. No bodies. The targets vanished as cleanly as ghosts."
Anthony narrowed his eyes. "What about the Tarasovs?"
"You guys?" Jimmy sounded confused. "I haven't heard a damn thing about the Russians."
"The street gangs don't exactly file missing persons reports with the NYPD," Jimmy continued. "We have to piece it together through CIs. But that's the weirdest part of all of this."
Jimmy let out a humorless chuckle. "Every crew in the five boroughs is bleeding. The Five Points. The Aryan Brotherhood. The Latin Kings. They're all panicking. But the Tarasov territory? It's as quiet as a church on Sunday."
"So we're the only ones untouched," Anthony said, flicking his cigarette ash onto the pavement. "Isn't that interesting."
"Do the Feds have any actionable leads?"
"Nothing," Jimmy said, the helplessness obvious in his tone. "No witnesses. No CCTV footage of the abductions. No ransom demands. The victims just evaporate into thin air."
Jimmy fell silent. In the background, someone yelled his name. He muttered a quick response, then lowered his voice one last time.
"Listen to me, Anthony. This is a deep, dark mess. The kind of mess that swallows people whole. The FBI is running around like a pack of rabid dogs, but they haven't dug up a single bone. Someone at the very top of the food chain is suppressing the intel."
Anthony didn't say anything.
"Watch your back, Anthony. Tell John to watch his," Jimmy said finally. "The city... something has been off lately. There is something lurking in the shadows, and we don't even know what to look for."
"Thanks for the heads up, Jimmy."
Anthony ended the call. The screen went dark, reflecting his hard, unreadable expression.
"Jimmy doesn't know," Anthony said, sliding the phone into his jacket. "Or rather, he doesn't know anything more than the kids on the street."
"If the FBI is investigating and finding nothing," John said calmly, "either the enemy is incredibly sophisticated, or..."
"Or someone very powerful doesn't want the truth to be found," Anthony finished. He dropped his cigarette and crushed it under his heel. "Let's go home. I need to talk to Abram."
In the study of the Tarasov estate, Abram sat in his wheelchair, hunched toward the dying embers of the fireplace.
He hadn't slept since he forced his son, Boris, to flee the country the night before. The crystal ashtray on his desk was overflowing.
"Uncle," Anthony said, tossing his jacket over the leather sofa. He walked to the liquor cabinet and poured two glasses of vodka. "I need to ask you something. Are you aware of the disappearances hitting the local gangs?"
Abram took the offered glass and downed the vodka in a single, violent swallow. His Adam's apple bobbed.
"I heard the whispers," Abram rasped. "Last week, one of my oldest informants vanished in the Bronx. He was a retired NYPD detective living quietly on his pension."
Abram gripped the armrests of his wheelchair.
"I used every connection I had left. The police archives. The morgue attendants. Even the junkies on the street corners. Nothing. Not a single trace."
He turned his chair toward Anthony, the wheels squeaking dully against the carpet.
"Anthony, this is not standard mafia procedure. Twenty years ago, when your father purged his rivals, he left their bodies floating in the Hudson to send a message."
His withered, trembling hand slapped the leather armrest.
"Why are they taking low-level thugs and homeless men? What is the tactical value? It isn't extortion. These people have no money."
"Someone is playing a new game, Anthony. And the terrifying part is... they haven't announced the rules."
A log cracked sharply in the fireplace, sending a shower of orange sparks up the chimney. In the dim light, Abram looked incredibly fragile.
"The current geometry is disastrous for the Tarasov syndicate," Abram said softly. "The other families will grow paranoid. They will isolate us. And when their fear finally overrides their caution, they will unite. We will become the common enemy, and they will tear us apart."
Anthony leaned forward, the firelight reflecting in his dark eyes.
"Then let them come."
Abram shook his head, a bitter, exhausted smile touching his lips.
"Child. You are far more ruthless than Viggo ever was. But your heart is colder. When Viggo burned a city to the ground, he at least understood what he was fighting for. You..."
Anthony tapped his own chest. "My heart is with the people in this family who are still breathing."
He stood up. His shadow fell over the old man in the wheelchair.
"That includes you, Uncle. Get some rest. The sky isn't falling, and the sun will rise tomorrow."
Anthony walked toward the door, stopping with his hand on the brass knob.
"By the way, Uncle. If the day comes when I have to go to war against the High Table... will you stand with me?"
Abram frowned, staring at his nephew's broad shoulders.
"You are my brother's son," Abram said, forcing the ghost of a smile. "Viggo is dead. Boris is exiled. And you are all the Tarasovs have left."
"So yes. I will stand with you. Even if you decide to tear a hole in the sky."
Anthony smiled. It was a brief, genuinely warm expression.
"Thank you, Uncle."
Back at his private villa on the estate grounds, Anthony poured himself a drink and prepared to take a shower.
His secure phone vibrated on the coffee table.
The caller ID read: The Continental Hotel.
"Winston," Anthony answered.
"My apologies for calling at such a late hour, Anthony," Winston's deep, resonant voice flowed through the receiver, carrying its usual aristocratic elegance. "But there are certain matters that simply cannot wait for the dawn."
Anthony walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out over the dark, sprawling grounds of the black-site farm. "The Adjudicator wants to see me."
"Indeed," Winston paused, carefully selecting his next words. "The Adjudicator is... displeased. She does not appreciate surprises, Anthony. And you have manufactured far too many of them recently."
"She requires a reassessment. She needs to determine whether the violent storm you are currently generating aligns with the High Table's vision for the future of New York."
"When does she want the meeting?"
"Tomorrow morning. One A.M. Sharp," Winston said smoothly. "You will attend alone. You will be unarmed. She wishes to hear your explanation as to why the Tarasov syndicate has pointed its guns at the established order of the High Table."
Winston's tone hardened slightly. "This is a formal summons, Anthony. Not an invitation. Failure to attend will be construed as an open declaration of war against the Table."
"Understood."
Anthony ended the call and tossed the phone onto the sofa.
He threw the vodka back, letting the alcohol burn a hot, numbing trail down his throat.
Of course he had to go alone. Bringing a PMC squad, or worse, bringing John Wick, would instantly validate the Adjudicator's suspicion that Anthony was operating a rogue faction.
He remembered what John had said to him earlier on the streets of Queens: At least nobody is shooting at them.
Anthony's mouth twitched into a dark smile.
No. There is a war here.
Most people were just too blind to see the battle lines or hear the artillery. The war was being fought in the dark alleys. It was being fought in suppressed missing persons reports, in the boardrooms of corrupt insurance companies, and in the delicate, lethal phrasing of High Table diplomacy.
He was already standing in the center of the battlefield. Whether he wanted to be or not.
Light footsteps brushed against the carpet in the hallway outside. They were completely silent, like a panther prowling through a house.
John Wick leaned against the bedroom doorframe. Dressed entirely in black, he seemed to blend seamlessly into the shadows of the unlit hall. Only the faint glint of light in his dark eyes gave him away.
"Winston?" John asked quietly.
"The Adjudicator formally summoned me," Anthony said, turning around and pouring a second glass of vodka. He held it out.
John stepped into the room and took the glass. He didn't drink.
"She is not someone you can manage with a gun or a bribe," John warned him.
"I can handle her," Anthony replied.
He looked at John, his expression perfectly calm.
"Because in her eyes... I am infinitely less dangerous to the High Table than you are."
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