The Tarasov family's central estate was a massive, neoclassical stone mansion situated on an exclusive, heavily forested lot on the Upper East Side of Manhattan.
This fortress had been the absolute center of power for the Russian syndicate for nearly thirty years. Even in the bright afternoon sunlight, the cold, gray stones seemed to exude an aura of chilling dread.
Sergei hurriedly scrambled out of the front passenger seat of the armored SUV, fine beads of cold sweat glistening on his forehead. He practically sprinted around the hood to open Anthony's door.
Anthony stepped out of the vehicle. Helen immediately jumped down after him, her ears perked up and her nose twitching, clearly wary of the unfamiliar environment and the heavy scent of gunpowder lingering in the air.
The heavy, steel-reinforced oak front doors swung open. Sergei led the way inside. The burly Russian looked like a man standing on the very edge of an active volcano that was about to erupt at any second.
Ever since Anthony had casually drawn his weapon and executed Andrei Borodin on the sidewalk outside the Continental, Sergei had been living in a state of constant, suffocating fear. He had become terrifyingly polite, answering Anthony's questions during the drive with a gentle, subservient tone that contrasted wildly with his massive frame.
During the ride, Sergei had briefed Anthony on the surviving power structure of the "purged" Tarasov syndicate.
Aurelio managed the family's international car smuggling network and acted as the primary diplomat for negotiating with external syndicates. Anthony obviously knew him well from the films; Aurelio was the owner of the chop shop where Iosef had foolishly tried to fence John's stolen Mustang.
Viktor was the man officially in charge of managing the family's standing armed forces and enforcers. Anthony didn't recognize the name immediately, but Sergei confirmed that Viktor was the captain who had supplied the assault team that Viggo sent to attack John's house in the first movie.
Mikhail was the head of the "cleaning" department. He and his specialized teams never engaged in direct combat; their sole job was to expertly dispose of bodies, eliminate physical evidence, and ensure that the syndicate's violent activities never drew the direct, legal scrutiny of the High Table or the FBI.
Before the Adjudicator's Enforcers had violently "restructured" the syndicate the night before, Viggo's younger brother, Abram Tarasov, had been the undisputed second-in-command. Abram was the financial architect responsible for laundering the syndicate's massive illicit income, heavily utilizing Aurelio's chop shops and international shipping shell companies.
"Abram is currently the only one holding the master decryption keys for the offshore money laundering networks. Because he hasn't surrendered those codes yet, the captains decided to keep him alive for the time being," Sergei had explained cautiously during the drive.
Sergei couldn't read Anthony's expression at all. He felt that this young, scarred heir possessed a terrifyingly deep tactical mind, and Sergei couldn't extract a single clue about what Anthony was planning to do next.
Sergei was technically one of Aurelio's men. The surviving captains had thought that since Aurelio and Anthony had technically "met" once (when Anthony bought the Pathfinder), Sergei might be able to reason with the kid. They had sent him as the sacrificial lamb.
As Anthony walked up the long, garden-style driveway toward the mansion, he noted over a dozen heavily armed, towering bodyguards standing rigidly along the perimeter, with more tactical patrols circling the courtyard.
The bodyguards stared straight ahead, but as Anthony passed them, he caught the flashes of profound surprise in their eyes. They hadn't expected the new, ruthless Lord Tarasov to look so incredibly young.
Sergei kept his right hand respectfully raised, walking exactly half a step behind Anthony to guide him through the labyrinthine mansion.
When Sergei finally pushed open the towering double doors leading into the massive council chamber, over a dozen surviving family captains were already seated around a long, polished mahogany table.
As Anthony strode into the room, the majority of the men stood up, their eyes locked onto Viggo's legendary, illegitimate son—a ghost who had previously only existed in syndicate rumors.
Whispers immediately broke out across the chamber.
"That's him? That's Viggo's bastard?"
"I heard he executed Andrei right on the front steps of the Continental. The kid is a fucking psycho..."
"Why the hell would the Adjudicator designate him? He's a young upstart. How could he possibly keep the Bratva in line?"
The chatter didn't even pause as Anthony stepped fully into the room.
A massive crystal chandelier cast a stark, unforgiving white light down onto the conference table, illuminating the hostile, scrutinizing gazes of the captains.
The ornate chair at the head of the table—Viggo's throne—was empty.
However, sitting casually in the first chair to the right of the throne was a young man, perhaps thirty years old. He was idly spinning the cylinder of a solid gold, custom-engraved revolver, the heavy metallic click-click-click echoing monotonously through the silent hall.
"Ah, look who it is. Our esteemed Lord Tarasov has finally deigned to grace us with his presence," the man drawled, dripping with sarcasm.
He didn't bother to stand up. Instead, he spread his arms out dramatically, his arrogant voice carrying across the chamber.
Scattered, mocking laughter rippled down the table, heavily tinged with probing malice.
Sergei's face instantly turned the color of chalk.
"Alexei Petrenko," Sergei whispered urgently from just behind Anthony's shoulder. "He is the primary liaison for Viggo's most trusted and heavily armed supplier. They feel... they feel you are far too young and inexperienced to lead the syndicate."
"Oh. He's just a salesman," Anthony replied loudly, his voice cutting through the laughter.
He didn't pause his stride for a fraction of a second. He walked directly to the head of the table.
Sergei scrambled forward to pull out the heavy oak throne for him. Anthony sat down, completely relaxed, and Helen obediently dropped into a guard position right at his boots.
Anthony leaned forward slightly, resting his scarred forearms on the gleaming mahogany tabletop. His cold, gray-blue eyes swept methodically across the room, analyzing the board.
He recognized exactly one face.
Aurelio, the chop shop owner and underground diplomat, was sitting halfway down the table. At this exact moment, Aurelio was actively avoiding Anthony's gaze, looking highly uncomfortable.
Anthony's meta-knowledge fired up. In the first John Wick film, Viggo was an absolute dictator—both the supreme decision-maker and the ultimate enforcer. When John killed Viggo at the docks, the syndicate instantly fractured into a state of leaderless chaos.
Abram, though a brilliant financial mind, completely lacked the military respect and brute force required to hold the empire together, ultimately leading to his cowardly surrender in Chapter 2. Aurelio, while a trusted confidant, was just a mechanic and a diplomat; he possessed zero combat power and ultimately had to align himself with the new Camorra forces to survive.
Looking at the arrogant faces surrounding the table, Anthony finally realized the terrifying truth: the Adjudicator hadn't actually "purged" the syndicate for him at all.
She had merely orchestrated the violence to serve the High Table's interests. She had intentionally left the most dangerous, well-armed, and ambitious captains alive to maintain the massive tax revenue stream.
The Adjudicator didn't care if Anthony successfully consolidated power or got himself assassinated by his own men today. This was the true loyalty test. She wanted to see if the "wolf" could actually survive in the den.
Anthony's gaze finally locked onto Alexei Petrenko. The man's face was slightly flushed, reeking of expensive vodka and sheer entitlement.
Alexei casually holstered his gold revolver in a custom shoulder rig, a disdainful sneer plastered across his face.
"I heard a rumor that you executed one of Sergei's lieutenants right in front of the Continental an hour ago," Alexei said, leaning forward aggressively. "Does the High Table actually allow a rookie bastard to act so recklessly with our men?"
Anthony looked at him, a faint, chilling smile touching his lips. "The Adjudicator officially appointed me as the Patriarch of the Tarasov family. Do you have an objection to her ruling, Alexei?"
"Objection?" Alexei laughed, a harsh, barking sound.
"Listen to me, young man. The Tarasov syndicate pays its taxes and submits to the High Table, yes. But we are not a fucking colony. We are Bratva. We have our own traditions, our own internal hierarchy, and our own rules. The Table does not micromanage us."
Anthony laughed softly. "And the 'traditions' you're referring to... do they involve immediately trying to carve up the Tarasov territory the second my father's heart stops beating? Do they involve shattering my uncle's legs and locking a senior family member in a basement?"
Anthony's smile remained entirely fixed, but his eyes went dead. "Alexei Petrenko. Are you intentionally disrespecting me, the man chosen to sit in this chair?"
Alexei slammed his hand on the table. "It seems your father made a profoundly foolish choice when he didn't drown you at birth. And having met you, I now firmly believe that stupidity is a genetic trait."
Dead silence fell over the massive chamber.
Even the sound of men breathing seemed to evaporate.
Alexei jumped to his feet, his heavy wooden chair screeching violently against the polished marble floor.
"What the fuck did you just say to me?" Alexei roared, the veins pulsing angrily against his temples. His right hand instinctively dropped toward the gold revolver holstered under his arm.
"I said," Anthony replied, his voice suddenly dropping to a freezing, absolute zero. "That your family clearly possesses a genetic predisposition for severe mental retardation."
Alexei froze, his hand resting perfectly still on the grip of his revolver. His eyes were locked onto Anthony in sheer disbelief.
"Sergei," Anthony asked calmly, not breaking eye contact with Alexei. "Is there any historical precedent within the Tarasov syndicate of a guard dog being allowed to bite its owner?"
Sergei's heart hammered frantically against his ribs. He stared straight at Alexei, his voice trembling but loud enough for the room to hear.
"In the history of the Tarasov syndicate, Lord Tarasov... no dog has ever dared to bite its master. And no captain has ever dared to draw a weapon on the Patriarch."
Anthony slowly shifted his gaze away from Alexei, casually sweeping his eyes over the men sitting on both sides of the long table. "Who exactly is Viktor?"
The captains exchanged bewildered, nervous glances.
Sergei leaned in and whispered frantically. "Lord Tarasov... Viktor claimed he was severely ill this morning. He refused to attend the summit."
Anthony hummed thoughtfully. "I see. Well, since he didn't want to attend today, send a messenger to his house and inform him that he never needs to attend another meeting again. He's fired."
Upon hearing this casual dismissal, not only Sergei, but Aurelio and several other moderate captains underwent a drastic, horrified change in expression.
Alexei and his loyalist faction were initially taken aback, but their shock quickly morphed into smug, predatory smiles.
Viktor was the man who currently controlled all of the Tarasov syndicate's standing armed forces. If Anthony arbitrarily purged the commander of the army on his first day, the family's vast illicit businesses would become instantly defenseless.
Even if the other Five Families of New York didn't dare attempt a total, immediate annexation out of fear of the High Table, they would absolutely begin violently dismantling and absorbing the Tarasov's most valuable street-level assets by nightfall.
"Anton—Lord Tarasov," Aurelio interjected hastily, his voice tight with panic. "Please, you must reconsider. Viktor is fiercely loyal to the Tarasov name."
Anthony slowly reached into his pocket, retrieved his silver cigarette case, withdrew a single cigarette, and tossed the heavy case onto the mahogany table with a loud clack. He deliberately took his time lighting it.
"Aurelio, I am not blind," Anthony said, exhaling a thick plume of smoke toward the chandelier. "I am sitting in this chair. He is not. That is the only 'reason' I need."
One of the captains sitting near Alexei suddenly burst into mocking laughter. "Little Tarasov, are you truly delusional enough to believe that your supposed 'power' means absolutely anything without the collective approval of the men at this table?"
Anthony slowly turned his head. He looked at the laughing man with an expression of genuine, mild curiosity.
"Who exactly is this birdbrain?"
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