Anthony waved the thick, leather-bound parchment portfolio in his hand. "I'll make sure John handles Santino."
"Fuck! How could you—" Winston was absolutely furious, finally realizing Anthony's grand scheme. But before the manager could finish his sentence, Anthony had already pulled the heavy oak door open and vanished into the hallway.
From the few deliberate, calculated words Anthony had just revealed, Winston instantly deduced that John Wick and Marcus were already fully involved with the kid.
Winston now realized the horrifying truth: someone sitting at the High Table wanted John Wick dead, and they were going to use Santino D'Antonio's Blood Oath to orchestrate the execution.
However, even with their combined lethal strength, it was absolutely impossible for John, Marcus, and a rookie like Anthony to go to war against a seated Elder or a High Table Oligarch. A stunt like that would immediately result in them being hunted down worldwide.
And yet, Anthony—the most profoundly unstable, sociopathic factor in this entire equation—seemed completely unbothered.
"Marcus, you stupid, loyal bastard," Winston growled in a low voice, realizing the sniper must have sworn an oath to the kid to protect John.
As Anthony stepped out the revolving front doors of the Continental Hotel and onto the pristine sidewalk, he immediately spotted three heavily built, middle-aged Russian men standing at attention near the steps.
The man in the center appeared to be in his late forties and was built like a Siberian brown bear. His thick black hair was slicked straight back, and he possessed a sharp, hooked nose. He was wearing an expensive, tailored Armani suit with the silver crest of the Tarasov syndicate pinned discreetly to his lapel.
Seeing Anthony approach, the man immediately stepped forward. His posture was outwardly respectful, yet his eyes betrayed an inability to fully conceal his scrutiny of the young, scarred heir. The man bowed deeply from the waist.
"Respected Lord Tarasov," the man rumbled in a thick accent. "I am Sergei Alexeiev. Your armored convoy is fully prepared, and the remaining captains are currently waiting for you at the central estate. Please, come take charge of your family."
Anthony stopped walking. He glanced slowly over the three men, his expression entirely neutral.
"Sergei," Anthony said casually. "I won't be returning to the family headquarters for the foreseeable future."
"Viggo explicitly appointed me to take over the throne before he died, but there wasn't a single clause in his will dictating that I had to sit behind a mahogany desk every day."
Sergei's professional expression completely froze. "Sir... the family desperately needs you present. The board of captains is already assembled and waiting for your directives."
"Then let them keep waiting," Anthony replied, a flash of genuine displeasure crossing his face.
"Effective immediately, my uncle will act as the temporary proxy manager of the Tarasov syndicate. He will be solely responsible for maintaining daily logistical operations. There is absolutely no need for anyone to contact me unless an extinction-level decision requires my signature."
Abram Tarasov. Viggo's younger brother, and Anthony's estranged uncle.
In stark contrast to the violent arrogance and sheer conceit that defined Viggo and Iosef, Abram's most prominent psychological trait was his profound ability to rationally assess a situation and preserve his own life.
Anthony knew from his meta-knowledge of John Wick: Chapter 2 that Abram, fully aware of the Baba Yaga's terrifying, unstoppable power, chose to instantly compromise and surrender his assets to John, thereby peacefully averting his own demise.
Moreover, during Anthony's youth, Abram had actually treated the illegitimate boy reasonably well, unlike the rest of the family.
Anthony was absolutely confident that with the explicit, terrifying backing of the High Table's Adjudicator, no one in the Russian mob would dare attempt a coup, even if Anthony wasn't physically present.
Anthony needed absolute freedom to sort out his overarching strategy before Santino D'Antonio arrived in New York.
He needed time to rebuild his relationship with Winnie. He needed time to convince John to properly teach him elite Gun-Fu marksmanship. And he desperately needed time to hunt down random targets to accumulate system points.
Where exactly was he supposed to find the time to "go to work" as a mob boss?
"Is there a problem with my order?" Anthony asked, noticing that Sergei's gaze had suddenly become highly unsteady. "Is Abram... dead?"
"No, no, sir," Sergei stammered, a genuine hint of panic finally bleeding into his eyes. "But..."
Anthony's eyes instantly turned to ice. "Never hesitate when you speak to me, Sergei."
Sergei opened his mouth to explain, but one of the two captains standing behind him stepped forward. Seeing Anthony's blatantly dismissive, bossy attitude toward the syndicate's elite, the captain looked at the young man with obvious, sneering dissatisfaction.
While Anthony was the Patriarch officially appointed by the Adjudicator, these three men were the hardened survivors recognized and spared by the Enforcers during last night's bloody purge. They felt they had earned their place.
The captain jutted his chin out defiantly. "Mr. Tarasov. Things are incredibly unstable within the family right now. We need a strong, present leader to step forward and consolidate the territory. If you are too cowardly or unwilling to physically take over the Tarasov operations, you can go right back inside and declare your abdication to the Adjudicator."
Anthony stared at the captain for two full seconds. A deep, chilling smile slowly spread across his face.
Without breaking eye contact, Anthony's left hand moved with blinding speed, reaching for the small of his back.
The captain's eyes widened slightly as he realized Anthony was drawing a weapon, but his arrogant expression remained largely unchanged, and he made absolutely no move to defend himself or seek cover.
The captain knew the golden rule: no one, no matter how powerful or insane, would ever dare to conduct 'business' and execute someone directly on the front steps of the Continental Hotel.
Sergei was intimately aware of this absolute rule as well. He raised his hands in a placating gesture. "Sir, please, he didn't mean—"
Sergei only wanted to de-escalate the situation and give Anthony a graceful way out.
But the deafening, unsuppressed CRACK of a 9mm gunshot echoing in his ears, and the sudden, geysering bloody hole that materialized in the center of the arrogant captain's forehead, caused Sergei to entirely forget how to breathe.
The explosive gunshot violently startled the mundane pedestrians walking down the New York street. Several civilians screamed and scattered, while others instinctively dropped to the pavement, clinging tightly to the brick walls.
Sergei only snapped out of his paralyzed shock when the dead captain's body crashed rigidly onto the sidewalk, his lifeless eyes staring up at the sky. Absolute, primal fear flooded Sergei's soul.
Anthony calmly smoothly tucked the smoking Walther P99 back into his waistband. His voice was utterly devoid of emotion.
"I took over the Tarasov syndicate to rule it. Not to clean up your insubordinate messes."
He looked directly at Sergei, pointing a finger down at the bleeding corpse.
"Why exactly didn't the Enforcers kill this piece of trash last night? Sergei... if you can't even handle a minor disciplinary issue like this on your own, how can you possibly be worthy of wearing the Tarasov crest?"
Sergei's face turned the color of ash. He bowed deeply again, his entire body trembling, completely unable to utter a single syllable.
"Anthony!"
Winston's furious, booming shout echoed from just inside the Continental's revolving doors. "You... you... you absolute fuck!"
Anthony looked up at Winston, who was standing on the top step, completely unable to maintain his legendary gentlemanly demeanor. Anthony simply smiled and pointed a finger at the massive brass pillars framing the hotel's entrance.
"Winston. Those pillars designate the official boundary of the sanctuary zone. I remember reading in the rulebook that the public streets, the municipal sidewalks, and the external public areas were not explicitly included in the Continental's absolute protection."
Anthony's meta-knowledge of John Wick: Chapter 3 proved this. When John was declared Excommunicado, he found temporary refuge from the assassins purely by pressing his hand against the physical glass of the Continental's door. The sanctuary only extended to the threshold. The sidewalk was fair game.
Anthony continued, his voice cold and loud enough for everyone to hear. "It seems the Adjudicator failed to keep her promise to me regarding the total purge of the rebellious captains. I am being forced to clean my own house. Winston... tell her this administrative failure is entirely her fault."
Winston's jaw clenched so tight he thought his teeth might crack.
Technically, Anthony was completely correct. Executing an insubordinate subordinate on the public sidewalk outside the hotel did not fundamentally violate the rules of sanctuary. But it was an obscene, highly public challenge to the High Table's bottom line regarding discretion.
The High Table could either choose to legally condone the sidewalk execution as a purely internal syndicate matter, or they could initiate severe penalties for "disrupting the peace" adjacent to the hotel. It all depended on how the Adjudicator chose to interpret the event.
And Anthony had perfectly framed it. He shot the man because the High Table's Enforcers hadn't done their jobs properly the night before. Moreover, Anthony had explicitly negotiated a clause stating that the High Table would not interfere in Tarasov's internal purges for three years.
Winston suddenly realized the terrifying truth: Anthony was actively, brilliantly stress-testing and exploiting every single microscopic loophole within the High Table's sacred texts.
What horrified Winston most wasn't that Anthony was breaking the rules. It was that Anthony was manipulating the situation to make it appear as if the High Table's absolute rules were entirely subject to his personal whims.
It was as if Anthony was the one writing the laws.
Anthony turned his attention back to the trembling Sergei. He calmly lit a cigarette. "Now. Continue your report regarding my uncle Abram."
Sergei stood ramrod straight, pressing his hands tightly against the seams of his trousers, his head bowed in absolute submission.
"Lord Tarasov... during the purge of Viggo's inner circle last night... some of the overzealous captains believed Abram was also an authorized target of your wrath. To prevent him from escaping, they shattered both of his legs and temporarily locked him in the estate's subterranean basement. They were waiting for you to return to personally dictate his fate."
Anthony looked up at the midday sun, a dark, inexplicable laugh escaping his lips.
Poor Abram. The guy just can't catch a break in any timeline.
He took out his burner phone, typed out a quick, encrypted message to Marcus, and hit send.
Anthony adjusted his suit jacket. "Change of plans, Sergei. Take me to the Tarasov estate right now."
High above the street, Winston stood by the window of his rooftop office, watching Anthony's black armored SUV merge into the Manhattan traffic and disappear.
"I sense that he is profoundly dangerous," Winston whispered to the empty room behind him. "He may be entirely impossible to control."
From the shadows near the vault door, the austere woman in the charcoal-gray suit slowly stepped forward. Her pale eyes remained perpetually cold.
"Danger is entirely relative, Winston," the Adjudicator said, her voice a mechanical hum. "He upheld the ultimate dignity of his new station in his own brutal manner. A Patriarch's authority must occasionally be defended with blood."
"Do you truly believe the absolute nonsense he just spewed on the sidewalk?" Winston asked, turning around, a deep frown carving lines into his face.
The Adjudicator walked to the window, gazing down at the bloodstain rapidly being cleaned off the pavement by the hotel staff.
"The true utility of our rules does not lie in blind obedience, Mr. Scott. It lies in how effectively they can be weaponized. Anthony Tarasov intimately understands this concept. And that precise understanding is his greatest potential value to the High Table."
A second voice, deep and synthesized, echoed from the far corner of the office.
"Sometimes, Adjudicator... the most dangerous battlefield is not found in the shadows of an underground casino. It is found in the blinding sunlight."
The masked Harbinger stepped out of the darkness, slowly closing a small, black leather notebook.
"God bless New York," the Harbinger rumbled. "Adjudicator... you believe you have successfully leashed a highly aggressive guard dog. But you have actually adopted a starving wolf."
The Adjudicator remained utterly silent, her jaw tight.
The Harbinger's silver metal mask gleamed as it caught the sunlight reflecting off the windowpanes.
"Anthony Tarasov boldly claimed that you failed to keep your promise regarding the purge," the Harbinger said, the mechanical synthesis failing to hide the distinct, dark amusement curving his unseen lips.
He tapped the leather notebook against his palm.
"I believe I need to go and observe this 'wolf' in his natural habitat."
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