"Damn it!" Vito cursed violently, ducking hard as a 9mm bullet struck the thick tree trunk inches from his head.
Jagged splinters of bark exploded outward, embedding themselves deeply into his cheek. Panic overtook his military training. He scrambled backward, completely forgetting that he was perched on a branch fifteen feet in the air.
Vito plummeted into the thick bushes below, his prized AWM sniper rifle slipping from his grasp and crashing into the underbrush.
Inside the shattered apartment, Riccardo heard the heavy thud and the sudden cessation of covering fire. He realized with a sinking dread that his sniper support had been neutralized.
Desperation set in. He ripped two M67 fragmentation grenades from his tactical vest.
"Go to hell!" Riccardo roared, pulling the safety pins and rearing his arm back to throw.
John was not about to give him the chance.
Ghosting out from the shadows, John leveled his P30L and fired a single 9mm Luger round. The bullet struck Riccardo precisely in the wrist, shattering the bone.
The live grenades slipped from his paralyzed fingers, bouncing heavily onto the floorboards right at his feet.
Riccardo's pupils constricted to pinpricks.
Marcus casually stepped out from behind the ruined door frame, a wild, unrestrained grin on his face.
"Welcome to New York, you bastard," Marcus sneered.
Boom!
The twin explosions merged into a deafening roar, engulfing Riccardo in a blinding fireball. The sheer kinetic shockwave blew the wooden rocking chair completely off the front porch.
A few minutes later, John holstered his weapon and walked back into the ruined living room.
Marcus was still grinning, casually slapping a fresh magazine into his MAC-11. "Should we pin a thank-you note to their bodies and ship them back to the Italians?"
John ignored the joke, turning his attention to Anthony. "Your house is compromised. Do you need me to call in a dinner reservation?"
Anthony was kneeling on the floor, holding a visibly trembling Helen against his chest. He let out a long, heavy sigh of relief.
"The Tarasov cleaning crew is under my direct control now," Anthony said, stroking the dog's fur. "They'll handle the bodies. But the explosions are going to be a massive headache for Officer Jimmy."
He stood up, glancing around the bullet-riddled, smoke-filled wreckage of his home. "Since Santino refuses to let me sleep in peace, I suppose I'll have to book a room at the Continental tonight."
Marcus raised an eyebrow. "You think this was Santino's work?"
"A heavily armed hit squad with Italian accents?" Anthony laughed dryly. "Who else could it possibly be? Let's head to the Continental. I think I owe him a piece of my mind."
Marcus nudged John with his shoulder. "See? Even if we can't conduct business on hotel grounds, we can at least make him miserable."
John shook his head. "Let's not provoke a war inside the sanctuary. We should just head straight to Rome tonight."
"John, they brought a war to my living room," Anthony sneered, his eyes turning cold. "We absolutely cannot let him get away with this."
Anthony turned toward the back door. "Don't worry. I have a guaranteed method to ensure he doesn't try anything else until we land in Italy."
Twenty minutes later, Anthony led John and Marcus to a secluded corner of the backyard. They dug up a heavy metal lockbox containing $480,000 in untraceable cash.
"Fuck," John muttered under his breath.
Even though John knew the money had been stolen from Viggo's private vault, he rarely swore. Seeing the sheer volume of the Tarasov slush fund clearly struck a nerve.
They loaded the heavy duffel bags into the back of Anthony's Ford Explorer. Marcus walked over to his own vehicle, ready to split off.
"Don't check into the Continental," Anthony warned the older sniper. "If Santino is desperate enough to find John, he might not care about collateral damage."
Marcus laughed, a gritty, raspy sound. "Kid, I'm going so far off the grid that even Winston won't be able to find me."
His smile faded, replaced by a deadly serious stare. "But you two need to watch your backs. Rome is the heart of Camorra territory. Take good care of John. He's a legendary hitman, but he tends to shoot first and think later."
John's lips twitched slightly in annoyance, but he didn't offer a rebuttal.
Forty minutes later, Anthony parked the Ford Explorer in the Continental's secure underground garage. He walked into the opulent lobby through the main entrance, a massive duffel bag in one hand and Helen's leash in the other.
The lobby was softly illuminated, the pristine marble floors perfectly reflecting the warm glow of the crystal chandeliers.
Charon stood behind the mahogany front desk, dressed impeccably in his crisp, tailored concierge uniform.
A flicker of surprise crossed Charon's eyes when he saw Anthony, but he expertly maintained his polished composure.
"Mr. Tarasov," Charon greeted smoothly. "Welcome back."
Anthony hoisted the heavy duffel bag onto the polished counter and unzipped it, revealing stacks of shrink-wrapped hundred-dollar bills.
"Charon, I need this deposited into a secure, anonymous offshore account," Anthony requested. "And I would greatly appreciate it if you could look after Helen for a few days."
Charon glanced at the fortune, then down at the Malinois. He didn't ask a single question. "It would be my absolute pleasure to serve you, sir. And an honor to host her."
Anthony reached into his pocket, pulled out an ancient, blood-stained gold coin, and slid it across the counter.
"I'll need a room for the night."
Charon's stoic demeanor finally cracked. His eyes locked onto the coin. "A genuine Nero-era mint. Sir, are you entirely certain you wish to use a Camorra relic of this caliber to simply pay for a room?"
"I'm sure," Anthony replied, a freezing smile curling the corners of his lips.
"You and I both know who this specific coin belonged to," Anthony continued softly. "I think what actually concerns you isn't the historical value of the gold, but rather the fact that I pried it from a dead Italian's fingers an hour ago."
Charon paused, the silence stretching between them. He discreetly slid the coin off the desk and handed Anthony a brass room key.
"By the way, which suite is Santino staying in?" Anthony asked casually.
Charon paused again, his dark eyes looking up to meet Anthony's gaze.
"Mr. Tarasov, I highly recommend that you do not visit Mr. D'Antonio this evening."
"Why is that?" Anthony asked, feigning innocent curiosity.
"You publicly humiliated him at the Plaza Hotel," Charon stated calmly. "The rules permit personal disputes to be settled outside these walls. However, the Continental is not a battlefield, and Mr. Winston will not tolerate anyone breaking the sanctuary."
"Don't worry, Charon, I won't cause any trouble," Anthony said with a dismissive wave. "I just want to ask him why he sent a hit squad to my apartment."
Anthony leaned in slightly. "Tell me, if the High Table can operate with total impunity, what is the point of Winston's rules in the first place?"
Charon's expression hardened. "He attacked you on your private property?"
"Your switchboard operators will likely receive the police scanner chatter in a few minutes," Anthony replied.
Charon stared at him for two agonizing seconds. "Suite 366."
Charon leaned forward, his voice dropping to a grave whisper. "Please remember, Mr. Tarasov. Any act of violence within this hotel will result in immediate excommunicado."
Anthony grinned, turning on his heel to walk toward the elevators.
"I promise I won't touch him. Even if he stabs me in the chest, I won't raise a hand."
The opulent corridors of the third floor were lined with thick, acoustic carpets that completely absorbed the sound of his footsteps.
Anthony stopped outside Room 366.
He raised his fist and hammered on the heavy oak door with a rapid, obnoxious rhythm, like an impatient pizza delivery boy.
Dead silence radiated from inside for a few seconds. Then, the door slowly creaked open a fraction of an inch.
When Ares peered through the gap and saw Anthony standing there, genuine shock registered on her face. Her right hand instantly dropped to the tactical dagger holstered at her waist.
Anthony flashed the mute enforcer a brilliant, mocking smile. "Hi, beautiful. Is the master of the house in?"
Ares didn't move a muscle.
Anthony didn't care. He raised his voice, shouting right through the crack. "Santino! It's me, Anthony! I've come back as a ghost to haunt you!"
Deep inside the lavish suite, Santino heard the voice. He violently flinched, nearly dropping his crystal tumbler. Half of his expensive amber whiskey sloshed over the rim and stained the carpet.
He slammed the glass down onto the coffee table. "Let him in."
Ares pulled the door open. Anthony strolled into the suite at a leisurely pace, his hands casually stuffed into his pockets.
Ares slammed the door shut behind him, planting herself firmly in front of the exit.
She could not fathom how Anthony was still breathing. The strike team her boss had dispatched consisted of five elite Camorra operatives. There was absolutely no one left in the crippled Tarasov syndicate capable of surviving that kind of firepower.
Now, if Santino gave the signal, she was fully prepared to slit Anthony's throat. Even if it meant breaking the rules of the Continental.
Anthony completely ignored her lethal posture. He strolled right past her to the center of the room, picked up a spare crystal glass, and poured himself a generous measure of Santino's whiskey.
"This is a decent vintage, Santino," Anthony said, taking a sip. "But it doesn't pack nearly the same punch as the assault rifles your men were using."
Santino stood up from his armchair, his face twisted in poorly suppressed rage.
"Anthony, you have an incredible amount of nerve," Santino hissed. "You knew I sent men to kill you, yet you still dared to walk right into my suite?"
Anthony topped off his glass, completely unbothered.
"I just paid for my room downstairs using a pristine Nero-era gold coin," Anthony noted casually. "I wonder how interesting Winston's expression will be when Charon hands him that specific piece of Camorra silver."
Santino's face drained of color, turning from flush red to a sickly pale white. He stared at Anthony with dawning horror. "John... John was with you."
Santino finally understood. Without the Baba Yaga, this arrogant Russian kid would have been a corpse in a burning house.
Anthony remained utterly silent. He slowly swirled the whiskey in his glass, taking another agonizingly slow sip.
"Each of your five Italians was carrying a High Table coin," Anthony finally said, clicking his tongue. "None of them survived to spend it. What a terrible waste of your money."
Santino erupted, slamming his fists down on the coffee table. "You're fucking asking for it, Tarasov!"
Anthony just raised his glass in a mock toast, a gentle, infinitely condescending smile on his face.
"Santino, the Continental is not your personal playground."
Anthony tapped a finger against his own forehead and chuckled darkly. "Come on. Draw a weapon. Kill me right here if you have the nerve."
Anthony's eyes hardened into ice. "Do it. Or prove that you're nothing but a pathetic coward."
Behind him, Ares gripped the hilt of her dagger. She stared intently at the back of Anthony's neck, her eyes cold and unblinking, like a viper waiting to strike.
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