Anthony reached out and gently patted the older man's cold, trembling hand.
"Uncle Abram, from this moment forward, you will manage all of the syndicate's core businesses for me. That includes the casino revenues, the arms supply logistics, the international oil smuggling routes, and coordinating the High Table's taxation."
Abram's broken body trembled violently against the iron cot. It wasn't a spasm of physical pain, but sheer shock from the immense, terrifying amount of power and responsibility contained within those words.
He swallowed with extreme difficulty, looking up into his nephew's young, strangely unfamiliar eyes. His gaze then shifted nervously past Anthony's shoulder, landing on the ghostly, masked figure standing in the shadows like the Grim Reaper.
Abram nodded, a slow, incredibly difficult gesture of absolute submission.
"Don't worry about the rest of the politics. I will handle the captains," Anthony said, standing up. His face smoothed out into a mask of pure, emotionless authority.
"Sergei!"
"Sir!" Sergei came sprinting down the cellar stairs, responding as quickly as the most fiercely loyal hound.
"Contact the best underworld surgeons in New York immediately and have them brought here," Anthony commanded, pointing down at Abram's shattered legs.
"Yes, Lord Tarasov. I will arrange for the medical team right away," Sergei stammered. He frantically signaled for the bodyguards waiting on the stairs to come down and carefully carry Abram out of the freezing cellar.
Soon, only Anthony, Helen, and the Harbinger remained in the dim, damp basement.
"You executed two high-ranking captains that the Adjudicator explicitly left alive," the Harbinger finally spoke, his synthesized voice echoing off the stone walls. "They were syndicate leaders she implicitly endorsed on behalf of the High Table. I fail to understand why she would ultimately accept your violent advice regarding their fates."
"I purged ambitious traitors," Anthony corrected smoothly, turning to face the emissary. "And traitors do not deserve the protection of the High Table."
"Were they truly traitors to the High Table?" the Harbinger asked, his voice entirely indifferent. "Or do you simply believe that anyone who dares to disobey your personal whims is a traitor?"
"The Tarasov syndicate currently faces only two choices, esteemed Harbinger," Anthony said, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it, the flare illuminating his scarred face.
"Choice one: I allow the family to continue wallowing in Viggo's idiotic hatred, picking a fight with a legend until we are utterly destroyed by John Wick. Choice two: I violently rebuild my family from the ground up, forging us into a fundamentally more powerful, disciplined force."
"Since the ambitious captains clearly wanted to lead the Tarasovs to absolute destruction, I was left with no choice but to remove them."
The Harbinger remained still, his silver mask gleaming coldly in the dim light of the cellar.
"The Adjudicator has granted you a miraculous, singular opportunity, Anthony," the Harbinger warned softly. "Do not waste it."
"I know better than anyone on earth how precious a fleeting opportunity is," Anthony smiled, a genuine, terrifying expression. "In the mountains of Afghanistan, a lethal opportunity often lasts only 0.3 seconds. You take it, or you die."
"You have been relentlessly testing the absolute limits of the High Table's tolerance," the Harbinger observed. "Like publicly displaying that Blood Oath Marker. Like the slaughter in the restaurant. Like executing a captain on the Continental's front steps. You are deliberately, aggressively testing the Adjudicator's patience."
"I am merely testing for the truth," Anthony corrected again, his voice dropping to a conversational murmur. "Tell me the truth. Does the High Table actually want a weak, obedient puppet managing their tax revenue? Or do they want a ruthless leader who can actually rebuild the Tarasov empire?"
He took a step closer to the masked man.
"Why exactly did the High Table initially support Viggo Tarasov's meteoric rise, while actively abandoning the traditional Italian Five Families? Doesn't that prove the Table fundamentally prefers power defined by daggers and blood, rather than bureaucratic boards of directors and stock tickers?"
The Harbinger remained utterly silent for a long time. Finally, with a sharp snap, he closed his dark leather notebook.
"The sheer audacity of your thought process never ceases to amaze me, Anthony Tarasov," the Harbinger said. A strange, indecipherable light flashed behind the eyeholes of his mask.
"Good luck."
The Harbinger turned on his heel and strode toward the stairs, leaving the cellar without ever looking back at Anthony.
The heavy, rhythmic footsteps of the Enforcer phalanx faded outside the oak doors, leaving only the profound silence of the cellar, the faint aroma of spilled wine, and the rich scent of aged oak barrels.
Anthony exhaled a long, ragged smoke ring. Helen whimpered softly at his feet, leaning against his leg, intuitively sensing the immense, suffocating anxiety her master was hiding behind his arrogant facade.
He pulled out his burner phone and checked the screen. It was 5:43 PM.
It was far too late to rush to JFK Airport to pick up Winnie.
He quickly typed out a text message: "I'm so sorry, Winnie. A massive, unavoidable emergency came up at work. I can't make it to the airport to pick you up."
Winnie never asked him for anything, and yet, he had disappointed her once again.
Just as the screen went dark, it buzzed with a reply: "It's fine. Just got off the plane. My family sent a driver to pick me up. They seem to be in a rush."
The message was entirely neutral. Neither cold nor intimate.
In Anthony's mind, it felt as though Winnie had deliberately drawn a massive, insurmountable chasm between the two of them.
He understood it, though. He knew he was rapidly descending into darkness. He was a mob boss and a murderer now. Her wariness and desire for distance were perfectly normal, healthy reactions.
Especially considering the massive social gap between them; she likely just wanted to politely maintain a superficial classmate relationship to avoid offending him.
"Winnie... you will always be mine. And only mine," Anthony murmured to the empty room.
Looking at the massive rows of wine barrels, a strange, happy smile touched his lips.
"Sir," Sergei's voice called out cautiously from the top of the stairs, interrupting his thoughts.
"Lord Tarasov... Mr. Abram has officially taken charge. He has summoned a private medical team from our affiliated hospital. He is currently conducting an emergency meeting with Aurelio and the remaining captains. He said he will undergo surgery immediately afterward."
"Mr. Abram sent me to ask... is there anything else you require at this moment?"
Anthony stubbed out his cigarette against the iron rim of a wine barrel. "Tell him to wait."
Sergei was clearly confused by the vague order, but he was far too terrified to ask for clarification. He simply bowed and retreated.
Anthony was waiting. He was waiting to secure the future of the Tarasov syndicate, and he was waiting for an answer to a trap that might never actually spring.
The wine cellar fell into absolute silence once more, save for the rhythmic sound of Helen's even breathing.
Suddenly, Anthony's phone lit up. It wasn't Winnie's number. It was an encrypted, unknown caller ID.
Anthony answered the call but didn't speak.
"I... I am Viktor," a trembling, exhausted voice came through the speaker. "I desperately need to see you, Lord Tarasov. I am coming alone."
Anthony casually glanced at his expensive watch. "I'm in the subterranean wine cellar. You have exactly five minutes."
He ended the call.
Anthony gestured with his chin toward the stairs, knowing Sergei was still hovering nearby. "Sergei. Make the necessary security arrangements. Ensure there are no ambushes or sniper lines on his approach."
"Yes, sir," Sergei replied, his footsteps retreating quickly.
Anthony leaned comfortably against a massive oak barrel, closing his eyes to rest his mind. Helen curled up securely over his boots, her warm body pressing firmly against his calves.
A few minutes later, the sound of heavy, irregular, dragging footsteps echoed down the stone stairs.
Viktor emerged into the dim light of the cellar. He was a hardened, graying veteran, but right now, he looked like a corpse. His right arm hung at a grossly unnatural, dislocated angle from the elbow, and his tailored suit was heavily soaked in fresh blood.
His face was the color of dirty parchment, and cold sweat plastered his graying hair to his temples.
"Lord Tarasov," Viktor rasped, immediately dropping to his knees, his head bowed low in utter submission. "Because of Pavel's sheer, arrogant foolishness... I have come to beg for your forgiveness."
Anthony didn't move from his relaxed position against the barrel. He didn't even open his eyes.
"Tell me the truth, Viktor," Anthony said softly. "Why exactly were you absent from today's summit? And why did you deliberately send your idiotic deputy, Pavel, to provoke me?"
"I... I received an anonymous tip this morning that you were planning to totally purge the armed forces," Viktor explained hoarsely, fighting through the pain of his shattered arm. "Alexei Petrenko told me... he said that you were entirely unfit to take over the Tarasov empire. So I... I hesitated to attend. And Pavel used that hesitation to threaten me."
"Oh? Pavel wanted to replace you as commander?" Anthony sneered, finally opening his eyes. "Did he have some kind of leverage over you? Or did Alexei promise him the promotion if he helped stage a coup?"
After a long, agonizing silence, Viktor finally confessed. "My son... he is currently studying in Moscow. Alexei used him as leverage to threaten me."
"How old is your boy?"
"Nineteen years old. He is in his second year at the military academy," Viktor replied, a profound, desperate hint of paternal tenderness flashing through his pained eyes. "Pavel swore that if I didn't cooperate with Alexei's coup, he would order Yuri Petrenko's Russian contacts to... to attack my boy."
Anthony pushed himself off the barrel, turning his back to the kneeling commander. "Do you want to know why the Adjudicator's Enforcers didn't execute you in your sleep last night, Viktor?"
"Because... because I was once Viggo's most loyal, decorated warrior," Viktor whispered.
"No. Because if you are truly loyal, you cannot be easily coerced," Anthony corrected sharply, spinning around, his eyes flashing with cold fury. "I understand the primal instinct to protect your family, Viktor. I really do. But the Tarasov syndicate is not a fucking charity organization."
Viktor lowered his head until his forehead almost touched the stone floor. "I understand completely, sir. I will accept whatever punishment you deem necessary."
"Punishment?" Anthony chuckled darkly. "What kind of theatrical punishment would satisfy you? Do you want me to amputate your other hand? Or perhaps you'd prefer I beat your skull in with a gold coin, like I did to Alexei?"
Viktor snapped his head up, sheer, visceral terror flashing in his eyes, before quickly averting his gaze again.
"Stand up, Viktor," Anthony commanded.
Viktor groaned, struggling to his feet, wincing violently as his dislocated arm shifted.
Anthony reached into his pocket and handed the trembling commander a cigarette, even striking a match to light it for him.
"Listen to me very carefully, Viktor. I am offering you exactly two options," Anthony said, his tone utterly devoid of emotion. "Option one: You formally retire today. You move down to Florida, or anywhere else on the planet you'd like to go. The Tarasov syndicate will pay out your full pension, guaranteeing you can live comfortably and safely for the rest of your life."
Viktor violently shook his head. "I will never abandon the Tarasov Bratva, sir. I swore a blood oath to—"
"Then we will proceed with option two," Anthony interrupted smoothly, raising a hand to silence him.
"Your nineteen-year-old son will be immediately recalled from Moscow. He will assume the official title of Commander of the Armed Forces, reporting directly to my Uncle Abram. You will remain by his side as his senior tactical advisor. You will personally teach him the absolute definition of the word 'loyalty,' until he is fully capable of running the army independently."
Viktor stared at Anthony, a chaotic storm of absolute despair, sheer terror, and trapped anger swirling in his eyes. "Lord Tarasov, please... he is only nineteen years old..."
Anthony stared back, his face a mask of stone. "Yes. Exactly as you thought."
"Your son's absolute safety now depends entirely on your absolute loyalty to me," Anthony said, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "This is a hostage negotiation, Viktor. Not a favor."
"More importantly, the Tarasov army desperately needs fresh, hungry blood. Not the stagnation, numbness, and treacherous ambition that you and Pavel allowed to fester."
Viktor remained frozen in silence for a full, agonizing minute. Helen paced slowly around Anthony's boots, issuing a low, warning growl at the bleeding man.
Finally, Viktor swallowed his pride and his fear. He gave a sharp, emphatic nod. "Yes, sir. I understand, Lord Tarasov."
"Excellent," Anthony smiled warmly, reaching out to pat Viktor's uninjured shoulder. "Now, go upstairs and get your arm reset. Sergei has already arranged for a world-class surgeon."
Viktor turned heavily to leave, but paused at the bottom of the stairs. "Sir... what about Yuri Petrenko? He still controls the arms supply."
"Do not concern yourself with Yuri," Anthony replied, his eyes turning to absolute ice. "The High Table's Enforcer division is currently handling him. I assure you... those who actively betray the Tarasov syndicate will not meet a pleasant end."
Viktor bowed deeply, a shiver running down his spine as he realized Anthony had somehow weaponized the High Table against his own captains. He turned and limped up the stairs.
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