There was a long silence on the other end of the phone, punctuated only by the faint hiss of static electricity.
Winston knew all too well the destructive power of rumors, especially in an underworld where prestige and bullets were the only true currency. If a mundane civilian could openly question and insult the authority of a High Table Lord, and if that transgression went unpunished... the very foundation of their absolute terror would crack.
He could almost envision the Adjudicator's perpetually frozen face contorting at the sheer audacity of Anthony's defense.
However, against all logic, Anthony's bizarre, psychotic outburst actually served to genuinely uphold the fundamental doctrine of the High Table.
Winston finally spoke, his voice grave.
"The Adjudicator wants to see you in person. This afternoon at four o'clock, on the top floor of the Continental. The Harbinger will be present to record the inquiry."
"Of course," Anthony grinned, the tension leaving his shoulders. "I'll be there on time."
Inside the luxurious private office at the Continental, the Adjudicator's lips curled down very slightly—a micro-expression of profound disgust that Winston had never seen on her face before.
She had just finished reviewing the unedited audio logs intercepted from the restaurant's security feed.
"The deceased, David Miller, never mentioned the High Table throughout the entirety of the conflict," the Adjudicator stated flatly. "Furthermore, at no point did he refer to the Table as 'pretentious idiots.'"
Winston's heart plummeted into his stomach.
After committing a wanton, public massacre, Anthony actually possessed the sheer, sociopathic audacity to blatantly fabricate a false testimony to Winston, knowing full well he was likely on a speakerphone monitored by the High Table!
"That... that is an undeniable felony," Winston said, his voice trembling—whether from profound anger or sheer worry, he couldn't tell. "Contempt of the rules, fabrication of evidence to an official, and the unauthorized slaughter of innocents."
"Innocent?" the Adjudicator interrupted sharply, her gray eyes narrowing into absolute daggers.
"The definition of 'innocent' was immediately nullified the exact second that boy unholstered a weapon containing a chemical irritant and discharged it at the face of a newly appointed High Table Patriarch."
"The scales of our justice never tip in favor of the weak or the mundane, Mr. Scott. They only exist to uphold the order itself," her voice grew even colder, taking on a metallic resonance.
"David Miller did not utter those specific words, yes. But it is an undeniable fact that he arrogant condoned his son's physical assault on Lord Tarasov. His municipal arrogance, his profound ignorance, and his wife's foolish encouragement fundamentally polluted the absolute order of that environment."
"Anthony Tarasov's behavior was excessively violent and brutally unrefined. He requires a severe, formal reprimand."
"However... judging purely from the empirical results," the Adjudicator paused, an incredibly rare hesitation, as if she were painstakingly selecting the most precise, legally unassailable words.
"He eliminated a potential source of chaos that would have continued to breed trouble. And he did so in a highly efficient, terrifyingly deterrent manner."
Winston felt a sudden, profound chill race down his spine. "Adjudicator... are you implying..."
"I am implying exactly what I said, Winston," the Adjudicator replied, turning her gaze back to the sprawling view of the New York skyline. Her tone had regained its usual, mechanical indifference. "Anthony Tarasov has just taught us a very specific lesson regarding blood and lies."
"He proved that when absolute, unchecked madness is combined with meticulous, predatory calculation, our own rules can be weaponized against us. He completely fabricated a motive, yet he coincidentally achieved the exact psychological effect the High Table requires."
"His actions will be classified as a bloody, highly public warning to the mortal world. A reminder of what happens to those who dare to pry into, or even accidentally challenge, the underground order."
"The restaurant's CCTV footage can easily be redacted to perfectly uphold the dignity of the High Table," she stated coldly. "After all, the dead cannot refute the official narrative. And the living only need to accept the 'truth' we choose to present to them."
She tilted her head slightly, her cropped brown hair gleaming under the amber lights of the office.
"Tell Anthony he is required to provide a highly detailed, logically sound medical explanation regarding his 'stress response.' Furthermore..."
Her tone dropped to absolute zero. "This is the first and the absolute final time he will be afforded this leniency."
"The High Table does not require a knife that cannot be controlled. If he cannot learn to temper his bloody edge and keep it sheathed within the parameters of our rules... then authorizing the immediate erasure of a newly appointed Patriarch, while administratively troublesome, is certainly not impossible."
Winston bowed deeply, his face pale. "Understood, Adjudicator."
As he watched the austere woman walk silently out of his office, Winston suddenly felt a wave of profound, bone-deep weariness wash over him, followed by a spike of inexplicable fear.
Through a frenzied killing spree and a brilliant, sociopathic web of sophistry, Anthony had successfully won himself a breather. But in doing so, he had inextricably shackled himself to the High Table's cold, grinding war chariot.
This bastard. He completely ignored the spirit of the rules, choosing to violently exploit the letter of the law instead. He was vastly more dangerous and unpredictable than John Wick ever was.
If John had encountered that entitled family in a restaurant, he would have simply paid his bill and left quietly. At most, he might have flashed his sidearm to intimidate the father. John would never have gone on a rampage and slaughtered them.
But Anthony? As the Adjudicator correctly deduced, Anthony was actively, aggressively testing the absolute limits of the High Table's tolerance.
And the terrifying part was... his improvised excuse of PTSD and "defending the Table's dignity" had worked perfectly.
Even if Anthony managed to survive this current crisis, who knew what catastrophic, irreparable damage he might cause to the ecosystem later?
"If I had known he was this much of a sociopath, I would have begged the High Table to parachute their own agent into the Tarasov seat," Winston muttered through gritted teeth.
He walked over to his antique liquor cabinet and poured a generous measure of single malt Scotch. The amber liquid swirled in the heavy crystal glass, reflecting his deeply solemn, aging face.
He picked up his personal, encrypted phone, navigated to Anthony's secure number, and hovered his thumb over the dial button for a long time. He ultimately didn't press it.
On the other side of the city, Anthony hung up the burner phone and tossed it onto the passenger seat.
The cigarette he had been holding had burned all the way down to the filter, the heat stinging his fingers. He dropped it out the window.
He didn't suffer from combat PTSD. He never had. He was perfectly, coldly rational. But in this treacherous underworld, the objective truth was rarely the most important factor.
What mattered was who could spin the most compelling, legally sound narrative, and who possessed the sheer audacity to weaponize the rules against their makers.
Anthony knew that if Charon had been the one to call him back, he would have never spouted that psychotic manifesto about "defending the Table's honor."
But the moment he heard Winston's uncharacteristic rage, he knew the stakes were different. More importantly, he knew that the Adjudicator and the Harbinger would be actively monitoring Winston's communications regarding a public massacre.
He had delivered a performance directly for the Harbinger. And based on Winston's sudden silence on the call, Anthony's high-sounding, fanatical rhetoric had landed exactly as intended.
He had successfully forced the High Table to share the burden of his crimes.
He started the Pathfinder's engine and took a slight detour, pulling into the parking lot of a discreet, mob-affiliated pharmacy in Queens. He walked in and purchased a bottle of heavy-duty sleep aids and a bottle of prescription anti-anxiety medication.
Back in the SUV, he popped the caps, poured a handful of the pills out the window into the gutter, and placed the half-empty bottles on the passenger seat. They were essential "props" for his upcoming theatrical performance with the Adjudicator.
When he finally pulled into his driveway in Mill Neck, Helen began barking excitedly from the backyard, clearly sensing her master's return.
Anthony unlocked the front door, and the massive Malinois immediately rushed over, leaning her heavy head affectionately against his thigh.
He walked into the living room and deliberately placed the bottle of anti-anxiety medication in a highly prominent position on the coffee table, right next to the solid gold Family Crest.
Then, he walked into the bathroom, turned on the faucet, and aggressively splashed freezing cold water onto his face.
He stared at his own scarred, dripping reflection in the mirror.
"You're going to need an Oscar-caliber performance this afternoon, Anthony," he whispered softly to himself.
"But remember... you aren't just acting. To survive this ecosystem, you have to dance on the razor-thin tightrope the High Table has strung up for you."
"Luckily... that steel cable seems strong enough to support your weight for now."
Anthony understood the reality of his position. How could Viggo Tarasov have ruthlessly ruled the New York underworld for decades without occasionally slaughtering innocent people who got in his way? He absolutely did.
The implicit rule was simple: as long as the Patriarch handled the incidents discreetly and maintained the broader peace, the High Table would turn a blind eye to the collateral damage.
From the exact moment he received the "loyalty test" order from Charon, Anthony knew his takeover of the syndicate was functionally guaranteed.
Since the Adjudicator and the Harbinger were technically the ones "sponsoring" his rise to power, he had every reason to immediately create a massive, chaotic burden and force them to share the administrative weight of it.
Even if he hadn't conveniently run into that profoundly obnoxious family at the restaurant, Anthony would have actively hunted down a similar situation. There was never a shortage of entitled, arrogant civilians in America willing to pick a fight with the wrong person.
In retrospect, the Adjudicator and the Harbinger had swallowed the bait and accepted the blame quite easily.
Even if they fundamentally despised Anthony's lack of restraint, they were bureaucratically trapped. They had to grit their teeth and endure his madness to protect their own investment.
After taking a long, scalding shower to wash away the scent of blood and pepper spray, Anthony lay down on his worn sofa and closed his eyes, immediately entering a deep state of Compensatory Perception.
He mentally projected himself back into the dining room of Le Jardin.
But this time, he altered the simulation. He imagined that every single patron in the restaurant—the elderly couple, the businessmen, the manager—were highly trained High Table Enforcers.
He visualized them armed with suppressed Glocks, combat knives, and even composite tactical bows, launching a synchronized, 360-degree assault on his position.
Anthony's Compensatory Perception analyzed the incoming threat vectors, while his Rapid Computing attribute meticulously deconstructed the complex ballistic trajectories and CQC strike patterns.
A massive, highly complex matrix of intersecting attack paths illuminated his mind's eye.
0.3 seconds.
That was exactly how much time he had to react when seven elite enemies attacked simultaneously.
Read ahead with 70+ chapters now with daily updates!
@patreon.com/Authorizz