Anthony slowly turned away from the window. He reached into his pocket, withdrew the solid gold Family Crest, and began casually twirling it between his knuckles.
"Santino D'Antonio."
He deliberately let the name hang in the air. As he uttered it, he watched John's expression instantly freeze.
"Do you remember him, John? Does he still hold the Blood Oath Marker you personally signed and handed over when you needed an army to complete Viggo's 'impossible task' so you could retire?"
A Blood Oath Marker was the ultimate, unbreakable "life-for-life" debt instrument officially recognized by the High Table.
Once the holder presented the open Marker, the debtor was legally obligated to unconditionally perform any task demanded of them, regardless of whether the content was suicidal, or violated their own personal morality.
As Winston was fond of saying: "Every Blood Oath must be honored, or you will die."
John's breathing quickened slightly for a fleeting moment, but his profound discipline quickly reasserted itself. He regained his composure, his dark eyes locking onto Anthony.
"Anthony... who exactly are you?" John asked, his voice low and dangerous.
"You're currently standing on the edge of a cliff with a sniper rifle pointed at your back, and you still have the leisure to investigate my identity?" Anthony sneered, dropping the gold coin into his pocket. "Focus on something useful, John. At the very least, you know I'm not the one currently trying to put you in the ground."
Marcus leaned forward, nudging John with his elbow. He sat up straight, addressing the younger man. "Anthony... what happens if John simply performs the task? What if he pays off his debt to Santino?"
Anthony turned his head, staring back out the window at the suffocating New York night.
"Marcus, someone wants him dead. Completely erased."
"If John refuses the Marker, he violates the absolute rule. He will be instantly stripped of his Continental membership, declared Excommunicado, and hunted down globally. But if he accepts it and completes the task... the High Table's elimination protocols will be activated immediately anyway. This isn't about him repaying a debt. This is about them forcing him to pick up a gun again so they have a legal excuse to execute him."
"Santino D'Antonio is just an actor on a stage. A convenient puppet pushed to the forefront," Anthony said, lighting a fresh cigarette and taking a deep drag.
"Think about it. Where else do you think a sniveling coward like Santino got the sheer guts to use a Blood Oath to try and leash the Baba Yaga? He's doing it because he knows he has the High Table standing directly behind him. Because the twelve oligarchs sitting in those high-backed chairs need a knife sharp enough and heavy enough to carve away a piece of troublesome flesh... without getting their own hands dirty."
Marcus suddenly stood up, crushing his cigarette butt violently into his palm, ignoring the burn.
"Anthony, stop fucking trying to scare us," Marcus growled. "If they try to trap him like that... aren't they afraid John will just storm their churches and kill them all?"
To Marcus's surprise, John didn't agree. He silently stubbed his own cigarette out in the glass ashtray and asked a question in an utterly flat, emotionless voice.
"Anthony. Who is Santino going to force me to kill?"
"Gianna. His own sister. Gianna D'Antonio."
In the deep, smoky twilight of the living room, Marcus's breathing suddenly stopped entirely.
John's movements froze.
It was explicitly clear that both veteran assassins knew exactly who Gianna D'Antonio was. She wasn't just a Camorra boss. She was a seated member of the High Table.
"They are terrified of your calm, John," Anthony said, sitting back heavily on the sofa, making no move to turn on a lamp.
"You are a living legend. A legend who possessed world-shattering destructive power, yet simply chose to walk away and retire. Your very existence is a walking mockery of the High Table's illusion of 'absolute control.' They need you to take action. They need you to shed blood again. They need to officially brand you as a rule-breaker."
"Only then can they legitimately authorize their damn 'Purity Protocols' and completely erase you from the face of the earth, proving to the underworld that no one escapes."
Anthony honestly wasn't entirely sure if his grand conspiracy theory was canonically correct. But judging from how the events of the films cascaded into one another, Iosef breaking into John's house and killing Daisy really did feel like the first domino in a massive, orchestrated setup.
Now, regardless of whether his specific deductions were right or wrong, the apocalyptic facts of Chapter 2 were about to be laid bare before John. It was a reality John could no longer ignore or avoid.
Anthony fully intended to use his meta-knowledge—playing the role of the "Prophet"—to bind these two legendary assassins firmly to his own faction.
Once this triangle was forged, it would instantly become the most stable, lethal entity operating within the High Table's ecosystem.
"From the exact moment you walked out of the Continental Hotel five years ago and decided to retire... your fate was sealed, John," Anthony said, leaning into the role of the doom-sayer.
"The only difference now is the method of execution. Will you be slowly strangled to death by their bureaucratic rules? Or will you be forced to dig your own grave with Santino's Blood Oath?"
Since John and Marcus already fundamentally believed Anthony's initial warnings, the more sordid and inescapable Anthony made the conspiracy sound, the stronger their innate, rebellious mentality would become.
John Wick was like a massive, lethal python trying to hibernate. He absolutely did not want to move a single inch unless violently disturbed. He didn't actively seek trouble; he only moved when provoked. But when he did move, he was unstoppable.
Marcus, however, was a tactician. He would try to seize the initiative.
"Anthony. Is there any way out of this?" Marcus asked. Despite his deep, lingering skepticism about Anthony's sanity, he chose to believe the kid's intelligence for the time being.
Anthony slowly shook his head. "No clean solution."
"Is John going to die?" Marcus's gravelly voice trembled slightly with genuine concern for his oldest friend.
Anthony paused for a long moment, letting the silence stretch. "I don't know the final outcome yet. But I know he's going to be backed into a horrific situation."
In the darkness, John finally looked up. "And what about you, Anthony? Aren't you worried that by taking over the Tarasov syndicate, you're putting yourself directly in the crosshairs?"
Anthony understood the underlying implication perfectly. He replied calmly, "My primary condition for formally accepting the Tarasov throne from the Adjudicator was this: I will never offer a bounty on your head, John. And I will never actively target you."
Marcus let out a skeptical snort.
Anthony spread his hands, a terrifyingly arrogant smile cutting through the gloom.
"Don't laugh, Marcus. At the very least... I currently have the official, stamped endorsement of both the Adjudicator and the Harbinger protecting my neck."
Silence descended upon the room once more. Only the three faint, imposing outlines of the men were visible in the heavy darkness.
Marcus broke the silence first. "Anthony, what exactly is your endgame in telling us all of this?"
"I'm telling you this..." Anthony's gaze shifted, looking straight ahead, "...because the three of us are currently in the exact same sinking boat. The High Table has its all-seeing eye fixed on John. And sooner or later, that eye is going to pivot to you, Marcus. After all, you actively sabotaged Viggo to help John survive. And the High Table hates traitors more than anything."
"You know I don't give a shit about the Table," Marcus chuckled darkly. "But... I think your assessment of the threat is accurate."
John stared at Anthony with freezing intensity. "So, what is your plan?"
"It's relatively simple," Anthony said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "We use the High Table's own rigid rules to turn the board upside down. The Adjudicator just handed me a golden ticket. I intend to use it to its maximum potential."
Marcus frowned, his brow furrowing in the dark. "You mean... you're going to just keep killing people?"
"I'm going to kill the people who deserve to be killed," Anthony's smile stretched, carrying a genuine hint of violent madness.
"For example: those arrogant fools who try to challenge my newly acquired authority. And those bureaucratic pawns who genuinely believe they can manipulate the rules to trap us."
He looked directly at John. "Let's just see how things unfold. When the time comes, and it is absolutely necessary... you two can provide the tactical assistance. And I will provide the flawless intelligence."
Marcus stood up, shaking his head. "Anthony, no fucking way. The three of us alone cannot dismantle the entire High Table."
Anthony shook his head in return. "I have no intention of dismantling the High Table. I just want to make sure we stay alive long enough to see tomorrow."
Finally, John spoke. His voice was incredibly slow, low, and terrifyingly firm.
"I will not be your knife, Anthony."
Anthony smiled.
"You already are, John. The only difference is... I haven't personally wrapped my hand around the hilt yet."
"So... Daisy was..." John suddenly surged to his feet. His imposing silhouette in the darkness instantly resembled a drawn sword, vibrating with lethal intent.
Anthony's Compensatory Perception flared, clearly sensing the massive, suffocating wave of killing intent radiating from the legendary assassin. John was piecing it together. Did Anthony orchestrate the dog's death to activate him?
"No," Anthony interrupted sharply, cutting the thought off immediately.
He would take the truth of his transmigration to his grave.
"I'll be completely honest with you, John. I knew of your existence and your legend, but I had absolutely no idea where you lived. I only used Helen to track you down that night, not to force my way into your life, but to slowly, carefully warn you about what was coming next."
John remained standing, his dark eyes staring coldly at Anthony's head, analyzing his micro-expressions. "Did you know Iosef was going to break into my house that night?"
Anthony leaned back against the sofa, his posture relaxing, his voice becoming equally cold and indifferent.
"John, if you're going to question my fundamental motives after I just handed you the keys to your survival, then we can break off all ties right now. Walk out that door. As for whether you live or die when Santino shows up, that's none of my fucking business."
Seeing that the fragile alliance was about to violently shatter, Marcus quickly stepped between them. "Both of you, shut the fuck up."
"One of you is about to be led by the nose to the slaughterhouse, and the other is a cocky brat who dares to provoke a living legend without fully understanding his own limitations."
Marcus grabbed John by the shoulder and forcibly pulled him back down onto the sofa. He turned to Anthony. "Anthony, you know he desperately needs to know the truth about Daisy..."
"All I knew was that Iosef wanted to steal his vintage Mustang!" Anthony blurted out, infusing his voice with the perfect amount of defensive frustration. "I never, in a million years, imagined the idiot would actually target the puppy!"
Marcus studied Anthony's face for a long moment. Then, he walked around the coffee table and extended his hand toward the young mob boss.
"Anthony. From this moment forward, we operate as an alliance. You provide the intelligence and the foresight. We provide the tactical methodology. And we let God sort out the bodies."
Marcus turned his head, glaring down at John. "John. Are you a fucking mute tonight?"
John remained silent for a long, tense minute. The gears were turning in his head. Finally, he gave a single, stiff nod.
"Agreed."
Marcus reached inside his trench coat. He withdrew a heavy, circular silver locket. It was a blank, unregistered Blood Oath Marker.
He flipped it open, revealing the pristine silver surface and the built-in, sterilized needle. Without hesitating, Marcus pressed his thumb against the needle. He smeared his bloody fingerprint directly into the center of the silver dish, formally binding himself.
He snapped the Marker shut and handed it directly to Anthony.
"As long as John and I are breathing, and as long as we are physically capable..." Marcus said, his voice solemn, swearing the ultimate underworld oath. "...you may call in this Marker at any time."
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