Fifteen minutes later, a fleet of black Cadillac Escalades pulled slowly into the driveway of the chop shop.
The door of the lead vehicle opened, and Viggo Tarasov stepped out.
The head of the Russian syndicate was tall, dressed in an impeccably tailored dark suit, his short gray hair neatly slicked back.
He stood tall and straight, projecting an aura of absolute authority, but the tension burning in his eyes was impossible to hide.
He was flanked by four heavily armed bodyguards, their expressions hard as stone.
Viggo faltered for a fraction of a second when he noticed Anthony standing in the driveway, holding the leash of a beagle.
Anthony offered a cold, mocking smile and pointed to the pristine 1969 Ford Mustang parked in the bay.
"Viggo. Do you recognize this car?"
The moment Viggo laid eyes on the Mustang, the color completely drained from his face. He staggered back two steps, exhaling a single, exhausted word.
"Fuck."
Viggo fully understood the apocalyptic gravity of the situation.
Iosef hadn't just made a mistake. He hadn't just stolen a car. He had lit the fuse that would inevitably burn their entire empire to the ground.
As the man who had personally unleashed John Wick on the underworld, Viggo knew the Boogeyman's capabilities better than anyone alive.
To John, that puppy wasn't just a pet. It was the physical embodiment of hope—a final gift from his late wife, Helen. It was his anchor to a peaceful life.
By severing that emotional anchor, Iosef had uncaged a monster of unrestrained, biblical destruction.
Viggo whirled around. He backhanded Iosef across the face with explosive force, roaring in furious Russian.
"Do you have any idea who you just stole from?!"
"You absolute idiot! How many times have I told you? There are some things we do not touch! There are some people we do not cross!" He grabbed his son by the lapels, lifting him onto his toes. "But this time, you crossed the devil himself!"
Iosef covered his bleeding face, arguing defiantly. "Dad, he's just a washed-up drunk! He couldn't even fight off three guys to protect his own dog. What the hell can he do to us?"
"Shut up, you ignorant, arrogant fool!" Viggo's roar echoed down the quiet street. "He will come for you. And there is absolutely nothing you or I can do to stop him! Even I don't dare offend him!"
"Do you know the legend of the man who killed three men in a bar with a fucking pencil?! Do you know whose blood built the very foundation of this syndicate in a single night?!"
At this moment, Viggo was caught between blinding fury at his son's monumental stupidity, and paralyzing terror that the weapon he had forged was about to be turned against him.
He had always viewed John Wick as Pandora's Box. Once opened, it could never be closed. And Iosef, in his infinite ignorance, had just smashed the box to pieces with a baseball bat.
Viggo slapped Iosef again, the crack echoing like a gunshot. "Do you know why the entire New York underworld calls him the Baba Yaga?!"
"Because he is the one you send to kill the fucking Boogeyman! He will take your life silently in the dark, and you won't even know he was there until you're already dead!"
A heavy, brutal punch sank into Iosef's stomach. The young man folded in half like a dying shrimp, his mouth opening in a silent, agonized gasp.
"He was trapped in his own grief. He was out of the game! Why did you have to wake him up?!" Viggo grabbed his son by the hair, forcing him to look at the stolen car. "My foolish child... there are some problems in this world that cannot be solved with money and power."
Seeing the genuine, unadulterated terror in his father's eyes, Iosef was truly baffled.
How could a legendary master assassin be ambushed and beaten to a pulp by three street thugs?
Wasn't he just a pathetic, grieving drunk? Why was the most powerful man in the Russian mafia shaking with fear?
"Dad, don't worry. I can handle this myself," Iosef gasped, trying to project confidence.
"Fuck!" Viggo kicked his son hard in the ribs, infuriated that the boy still dared to talk back.
He yelled, his voice bordering on frantic, "If you say one more word, I will beat you to death right here myself!"
Viggo turned to Aurelio, desperately trying to soften his tone.
"Old friend. I assure you, this is entirely a misunderstanding. My son is an idiot. He had no idea whose car he was taking. I will personally apologize to John. I will compensate him for everything."
"You shouldn't be saying this to me," Aurelio said, shaking his head slowly. "It's too late, Viggo. The moment Iosef killed that dog, he signed his own death warrant."
"And the executioner will be here any minute."
Viggo's face turned the color of ash. He suddenly spun around and locked his eyes on Anthony.
"Anthony. Take your brother and leave. Right now. Get as far away from the city as possible."
Aurelio looked at Viggo in disgust. "This is how you handle it?"
"I have to protect my son!" Viggo snapped, stomping his foot in frustration. "I will negotiate with John personally. If he lets Iosef live, I will agree to literally any demand he makes."
Seeing Anthony standing lazily by the Mustang, making absolutely no move toward the SUVs, Viggo roared. "I told you to take your brother and get out of here! Are you deaf?!"
Before Anthony could even open his mouth, Viggo pointed a shaking finger at Helen. "And leave the dog! I'm giving it to John as compensation."
"Viggo, are you out of your fucking mind?" Anthony laughed, a cold, exasperated sound. "If you can't even protect him from John Wick, where the hell am I supposed to take him?"
His eyes were filled with open mockery. "Or do you just want me to die with him to buy him an extra ten seconds of running time?"
Anthony knew exactly how Viggo's mind worked. Viggo had forced him into the Marines hoping to forge a new assassin—a replacement for the retired John Wick.
After all, John was an outsider. If Anthony could be molded into a weapon, Viggo would have a lethal enforcer tied to the family by blood.
"Anthony, are you betraying the Tarasov family? Are you betraying me?" Viggo's eyes burned with sudden, desperate rage.
Anthony met his father's furious gaze with absolute calm. "Viggo. From the night your pathetic excuse for a son burned my mother alive, I ceased to be a Tarasov."
"So don't even dream about me dying to save your heir." Anthony reached down and scooped Helen securely into his arms. "And don't even think about handing my dog over to save your own."
Viggo was apoplectic that Anthony dared to openly defy him. His face twisted into an ugly snarl. He gestured for his bodyguards to move in, ready to teach the bastard a brutal lesson.
"Viggo," Aurelio warned sharply, stepping forward. "If you want to live to see your son die..."
The implication hung heavily in the air. Time was up.
Viggo panicked. He turned and screamed at his bodyguards. "What are you waiting for?! Get that idiot in the car!"
The bodyguards dragged the groaning Iosef into the back of an Escalade. The convoy peeled out of the driveway, tires screeching against the asphalt as they fled.
Exactly five minutes later, a sleek American muscle car rumbled down the street, pulling to a smooth stop outside Aurelio's Chop Shop.
The driver's side door opened.
John Wick stepped out.
He was wearing a perfectly tailored, charcoal-black three-piece tactical suit. His hair was slicked back, wet from a recent shower.
When Aurelio saw John dressed like that, his heart skipped a beat.
The hitman in the suit had returned.
John was no longer the bleeding, grieving drunk from the night before. He had fully donned the mantle of the Baba Yaga once again.
Beneath his meticulously combed hair, his gray-blue eyes were as cold and desolate as the Siberian tundra. There was zero humanity left in them.
The suit fit him flawlessly, its dark fabric expertly concealing the lethal arsenal strapped beneath the lining.
Aurelio had seen those eyes before, years ago, on the night John exterminated the Tarasov syndicate's fiercest rivals. It was the kind of gaze that made the entire criminal underworld hold its breath.
John didn't look at Aurelio. He didn't look at Anthony.
He walked in dead silence toward the center of the shop, stopping in front of the 1969 Ford Mustang.
His glacial gaze swept over the pristine chassis before slowly, methodically coming to rest on the smeared bloodstains Anthony had left on the hood.