Anthony was intimately familiar with the overarching lore of the John Wick franchise.
He knew that in Chapter 4, John had to formally re-enter the High Table ecosystem as a recognized member just to gain the legal right to challenge the Marquis de Gramont to a proxy duel.
He also knew that in Chapter 2, Santino D'Antonio utilized an unbreakable Blood Oath Marker to force John to assassinate Gianna D'Antonio, purely so Santino could usurp her seat at the High Table. After the assassination, the High Table didn't hold Santino accountable for orchestrating his own sister's murder; instead, they officially recognized his succession and granted him her power.
This meta-knowledge proved one absolute, undeniable fact: the twelve oligarchs of the High Table were not a monolithic, unified entity.
On the surface, they maintained a terrifying facade of infallible unity and absolute adherence to the rules. But in reality, they were vicious, self-serving power players constantly entangled in bloody conflicts of interest.
They secretly placed bounties on high-ranking officials, they colluded in the shadows, and they frequently committed legalized murder by exploiting the very rules they swore to uphold.
John Wick might not have known exactly what the future held, but given his decades of experience, how could he not be aware of the sordid, hypocritical dealings within the High Table?
When Anthony had explicitly mentioned a "Blood Oath" over the phone, it had clearly triggered a profound realization in John's mind.
"Anthony... you need to be very, very careful," John had warned, his voice dry and strained, right before he hung up.
"Careful?" Anthony tossed the burner phone onto the passenger seat of the Pathfinder and let out a dark, genuine laugh.
The Adjudicator had officially sanctioned his takeover of the Tarasov syndicate. At least for the time being, his position was legally secure.
If the High Table tried to punish him now for killing Blake and the guards—especially when the Adjudicator herself had explicitly ordered him to spill innocent blood as a loyalty test—how would the rest of the underworld view the Adjudicator's authority?
While the Adjudicator certainly wouldn't actively protect Anthony out of the goodness of her heart, her own bureaucratic survival dictated that she would have to exploit loopholes in the rules to justify his actions. Otherwise, it would be a glaring dereliction of her duty to manage the New York territory.
However, Anthony also understood the internal politics. An Adjudicator could be marginalized or replaced if a situation spiraled out of control. But a Harbinger? The Harbingers' positions were absolute. They were the untouchable overseers.
This dynamic proved that in the eyes of the High Table, witnessing the absolute enforcement of power was vastly more important than merely exercising it.
"Mr. Harbinger," Anthony murmured to himself, a strange, predatory smile curving his lips. "A bureaucratic middle-manager like the Adjudicator won't be able to bear the weight of what's coming. I need to find a way to drag you onto the board, too."
John's warning still echoed in his mind.
Careful?
"John," Anthony whispered to the empty car. "In this game, the cautious ones are always the first to die. The madmen are the ones they fear."
His stomach let out a loud, hollow growl, abruptly interrupting his scheming. He realized he hadn't eaten anything since Winnie's care package the day before. He decided to find a place to refuel.
He turned the corner onto a quieter street in Tribeca and spotted a high-end French bistro with an unassuming awning: Le Jardin.
Inside, the restaurant boasted crisp white tablecloths, soft amber lighting, and lush, strategically placed greenery that created a quiet, dignified atmosphere.
It was the perfect place to think.
"Table for one, please," Anthony said to the maître d' as he walked in.
The waiter led him to a secluded window seat and handed him a leather-bound menu. Anthony didn't need to look at it. He ordered a rare ribeye steak and a double pour of expensive bourbon.
The bistro was intimate, holding perhaps a dozen tables, and was currently only at about forty percent capacity.
In the corner, an elderly couple conversed in hushed, affectionate tones. Two tables over, a pair of sharply dressed businessmen were quietly reviewing a stack of legal documents. The overall ambiance was peaceful and highly civilized.
At least, it was supposed to be.
"What the hell is this garbage? I want a burger! Right now!"
A shrill, piercing child's voice suddenly shattered the quiet elegance of the dining room.
Anthony looked up. A boy, roughly seven or eight years old, was standing directly in the middle of the main aisle, aggressively stabbing the pristine white tablecloth with a heavy silver fork.
The expensive coq au vin on the plate in front of him had been haphazardly mashed into an unappetizing paste.
The boy's parents—a wealthy-looking couple in their early thirties—were both staring intently at their smartphones, seemingly entirely oblivious to their child's obnoxious behavior.
"Mark, sit down and be quiet," the mother said without bothering to look up from her screen, her tone dripping with lazy dismissal.
"No! This French food is disgusting! I want fried chicken and a hamburger!" the boy screamed at the top of his lungs.
Suddenly, the boy grabbed his heavy porcelain dinner plate and violently hurled it onto the hardwood floor.
The plate shattered like a small bomb. Shards of porcelain flew across the aisle, and a thick spray of dark wine reduction splashed directly onto the hem of a woman's dress at the adjacent table.
"Jesus Christ!" the woman shrieked, jumping up from her chair and staring in horror at her ruined skirt.
"I'm sorry, ma'am," the boy's father finally put his phone down, though his voice carried absolutely zero genuine apology. "Kids like to act out sometimes. I'm sure you understand."
"Understand? Your brat just ruined a three-thousand-dollar Dior dress!" the woman shouted, her voice trembling with sheer outrage.
"It's just a dress," the father replied, offering an arrogant, dismissive shrug. "Don't make a scene over a child who doesn't know any better, lady."
The atmosphere in the restaurant instantly froze.
The other patrons began to whisper uncomfortably, their eyes darting nervously between the entitled family and the furious, victimized woman.
Anthony took a slow sip of his bourbon, his eyes narrowing slightly.
This pathetic little farce reminded him of an old, fundamental rule of the High Table: Chaos is the breeding ground for power. And in chaos, the weakest are always the first to fall.
"Hey! You!"
The boy suddenly wheeled around, pointing a sticky finger directly at Anthony. "Why the hell are you staring at me?"
Anthony slowly lowered his crystal glass to the table. His scarred face went completely blank.
Suddenly, a brilliant, incredibly dangerous idea clicked into place in his mind. He had just figured out the perfect way to force the Harbinger into the game.
"I wasn't staring at you, kid. I was looking out the window," Anthony replied, forcing a mild, completely neutral smile, attempting to appear accommodating.
"You're lying!" the boy shrieked. He jumped off his chair, stomped over to Anthony's table, and pointed directly at his face. "You were looking at me, you bastard! And I don't like your eyes!"
The boy's parents finally stood up and strolled over to Anthony's table. The mother placed a manicured hand on the boy's shoulder, a hollow gesture to signal him to be quiet.
The father looked down his nose at Anthony, taking in the man's dark coat and the fading bruises on his jaw.
"Sir," the father began, raising his chin arrogantly. "Please do not stare at my son like that. You are frightening him."
Anthony gently swirled the bourbon in his glass, listening to the soft clink of the ice cubes against the crystal. "I wasn't looking at him. I was simply thinking about my work."
"You're lying to cover it up. I saw you," the mother interrupted, her voice shrill and accusatory. "You were glaring at him. Mark is a very sensitive child, and your aggressive posture scared him."
Right on cue, the boy began to dramatically sob, though his eyes remained entirely dry.
"Listen to me very carefully," Anthony said, leaning slowly back into his chair. His dead eyes swept over the parents.
"I am not in a particularly good mood today. I highly suggest you take your 'sensitive' son back to your table, finish your overpriced meal in silence, and leave. It will be significantly better for everyone involved."
"Are you threatening us?" the mother gasped, her face flushing crimson with indignation. "Do you have any idea who my husband is? He works at City Hall."
A cold, razor-thin smile curled the corners of Anthony's mouth.
"Lady, this is New York. Everyone knows someone important," Anthony said softly. "But in this specific room, at this exact moment, the only thing that actually matters is..."
He paused, his voice dropping to a gravelly, chilling whisper.
"...my steak is getting cold, and you are wasting my time."
"You arrogant piece of shit!" The father slammed his fist onto Anthony's table, causing the silverware to rattle loudly. "Tell me your name right now! I'll have you run out of this city by tomorrow morning!"
"Be my guest," Anthony said calmly. He offered a slight, mocking shrug and casually reached for his steak knife.
Before his fingers could touch the silver handle, the boy suddenly lunged forward. He grabbed the heavy glass of ice water sitting on the table and hurled the contents directly into Anthony's face.
The freezing water hit him perfectly, soaking his hair, streaming down his cheeks, and completely drenching the collar of his shirt.
The entire restaurant plunged into absolute, dead silence. Every single patron in the room was staring at the scene in horror.
Anthony didn't flinch. He didn't blink.
He slowly reached for a linen napkin and meticulously dried his face. His movements were incredibly deliberate, projecting an aura of terrifying, coiled restraint.
"You know," Anthony said, his voice so quiet it was almost a hum.
"Where I grew up... if a child was this profoundly disrespectful, his parents would teach him a severe lesson in manners. And if his parents failed to teach him... someone else would."
"Oh my God, the threats are escalating!" the mother scoffed, throwing her hands up in mock disbelief. "What are you going to do? Are you going to hit a child?"
She turned and addressed the silent dining room, projecting her voice. "Look at this degenerate! Not only is he picking a fight with a seven-year-old, but he's actively threatening our family!"
Anthony stood up slowly.
At six-foot-two, with the broad, heavily muscled shoulders of a Force Recon Marine, his physical presence instantly dominated the small space. The terrifying, murderous aura he had been holding back flooded the room.
"I was hoping today would be peaceful," Anthony said directly to the parents, his eyes locking onto the father's. "But you two insisted on reading from the exact same, tired script."
The father puffed out his chest, desperately trying to maintain his aura of entitled arrogance despite the sudden, primal fear screaming in his hindbrain.
"Listen to me, you fucking thug. You can't scare me," the father sneered, stepping closer. "My name is David Miller. I have connections you can't even fathom. If you so much as lay a single finger on my son, I will make sure you rot in a federal cell for the rest of your miserable life."
Read ahead with 70+ chapters now with daily updates!
@patreon.com/Authorizz