Anthony frowned slightly, opening his eyes to look at John across the aisle.
"What are you thinking about?" John asked in a low voice, a rare note of curiosity breaking his usual stoicism.
Anthony's frown dissolved into a slight, wry smile.
"I was just thinking about whether, if we could do the whole fight over again, we could somehow arrange it so they destroyed a little less of my furniture."
He knew that feigning ignorance in front of the Baba Yaga was utterly futile.
John Wick was a man who could smell death in pitch darkness and predict a bullet's trajectory before the firing pin even struck the primer.
Anthony's smile faded into something much sharper. He gave a single, firm nod. "John, I ran the simulation. Your only genuine weakness in a tactical environment is isolation against a top-tier sniper. In a one-on-one scenario with an AWM operator, your baseline survival probability drops to thirty-seven percent."
John stared at him, his dark eyes unblinking. "You calculated that?"
"My brain is wired differently," Anthony shrugged, tapping his temple. "It allows me to passively deduce a massive amount of environmental and statistical data."
He let out a heavy sigh. "But in the face of absolute, overwhelming lethality, it doesn't matter how clever my deductions are. I still have a zero percent chance of survival."
Anthony leaned forward slightly. "John, you are going to have to watch my back."
John looked genuinely astonished. "You think she might actually break protocol and attack us?"
"I don't know," Anthony laughed softly, "but we need to actively guard against the possibility."
John paused, his mind clearly shifting gears into a purely tactical mindset. "You provide the overarching strategy. I will handle the execution."
He locked eyes with Anthony, his voice carrying the weight of an absolute vow. "No one is going to kill you while I am still breathing."
"Now that's what I like to hear! The legendary John Wick, actually doing a little bragging!" Anthony laughed heartily, the tension breaking for a brief moment.
The corners of John's lips twitched upward by a microscopic fraction, though his face ultimately returned to its standard, expressionless mask.
Anthony, however, understood the nuance perfectly. For John Wick, that twitch was the absolute limit of a "smile."
John glanced at him, his expression completely unreadable.
He had never been a particularly talkative man. Especially after Helen had died, and then Daisy... he had retreated entirely into himself. He had become exactly what Marcus always called him: an immovable block of wood.
"I also predicted a much worse outcome for tonight," Anthony admitted, pulling out a small leather notebook and casually tossing it onto the empty seat beside him.
"If we were back at the Continental, and Ares had actually drawn her blade on me... how many seconds do you think I would have lasted?"
"In that specific environment? A narrow hotel corridor, confronting a High Table Shadow head-on?" John considered the variables for a fraction of a second. "It would only take one second."
Anthony raised a skeptical eyebrow. "You're that certain? That precise?"
John nodded grimly. "I know exactly what her combat capabilities are."
Anthony smiled thoughtfully, analyzing the data. "And what about you? How long could you hold her off in that hallway?"
John looked at him with chilling calmness. "If I were a year younger, I would be one hundred percent certain that I could kill her."
"Right now? I am only about eighty percent sure I would survive the encounter."
He didn't say kill her. He said survive her.
That specific phrasing proved just how warily John viewed Ares's current threat level.
Anthony had absolutely no right to judge him for it.
John Wick was now over fifty years old. He had long since passed his physical prime. Ares was in her late twenties, operating at the absolute, terrifying peak of her combat lethality.
Anthony understood perfectly well that John was no longer as blindly confident in his physical dominance as the myth surrounding him suggested.
John had been out of the assassin underworld for over five years. He hadn't maintained his grueling tactical training regimen. Even if his legendary reaction times were still intact, his baseline physical stamina and muscle recovery simply weren't what they used to be.
"Ares isn't just an elite bodyguard," John leaned forward, dropping his voice to a grave whisper. "She is a sworn Shadow. A top-tier, apex assassin personally certified by the High Table."
Anthony nodded in agreement. "I ran the simulation multiple times. I mapped out every possible variable."
"The hotel corridor was too narrow. There was zero viable cover. Ares's knife proficiency genuinely pushes the limits of human biomechanics. My draw speed with a handgun could never mathematically match her strike speed, and..."
Anthony let the sentence hang for a moment. "I ran at least five different evasion protocols in the simulation. Every single one of them failed."
"My calculated probability of death... ninety-five percent."
In his mental sandbox, Anthony had utilized Compensatory Perception to test a variety of attack vectors, defensive postures, and even simulated scenarios where Winston actively intervened.
The result?
Without fail, he ended up with his throat slit.
Ares's blade was simply too fast. Even with his System predicting the attack trajectory perfectly in advance, his physical body simply did not possess the speed required to dodge the killing blow.
John stared at him in silence for a long time before suddenly asking, "If you knew the risk was that high, why did you go out of your way to provoke Santino? Was it purely just to anger him?"
"There is absolutely no strategic value in simply provoking him," Anthony replied calmly. "I just needed him to publicly lose face in front of the Continental management."
"I couldn't just swallow my anger and let him walk away thinking he had the upper hand. And regardless of his temper tantrum, he simply doesn't have the political capital to authorize my execution inside the sanctuary."
John narrowed his eyes. "You mean you're committed to killing him in Rome, regardless of the fallout?"
Anthony let out a slow, measured breath. "John, if someone proves themselves to be a lethal threat to your existence, the only logical response is to strike first."
"You cannot operate defensively like you did with Viggo. You cannot sit around and wait for the enemy to make the first move against your life. Doing so is fundamentally disrespectful to your own survival."
John turned his gaze toward the window, retreating into silence.
The plane jolted slightly as it hit a pocket of turbulence, and the flight attendants began quietly moving through the cabin to distribute the first-class meal service.
Anthony and John both bypassed the food, each ordering a neat whiskey instead.
"Let's focus on practical matters," John said, turning his attention away from the window.
He reached into the breast pocket of his tailored suit and produced a glossy photograph, sliding it across the tray table to Anthony.
The photograph showed Gianna D'Antonio. She was a striking, aristocratic woman in her early forties, her blonde hair styled in an elegant, complex updo.
She was standing majestically in front of the Roman Colosseum. Standing a few paces behind her was a sharply dressed bodyguard with an utterly expressionless face.
"Cassian," John noted, tapping a finger against the bodyguard's image.
"Gianna's most trusted Shadow. He is also widely recognized as one of the premier tactical masterminds operating within the global underworld."
Anthony studied the image for a moment, then slid the photo back to John with a knowing smile. "Do you think Gianna has ever suspected that Santino is actively plotting to assassinate her?"
"Gianna is the rightful, bloodline heir to the D'Antonio family empire," John explained clinically. "That means she directly controls the highest absolute authority within the Italian underworld. To a man as boundlessly ambitious as Santino, her position is fatally attractive."
"Gianna is undoubtedly on high alert, but she is politically paralyzed. She cannot make the first move. Under High Table law, there are incredibly strict, unforgiving procedures for handling internal family succession disputes. She is forced to wait for Santino to overtly cross the line first."
Anthony sneered into his whiskey glass. "And Santino's grand masterplan was to use you as the blunt instrument to cross that line. Your Blood Oath Marker was the perfect, untraceable tool."
"If the legendary Baba Yaga assassinates Gianna, the entire underworld will view it as a professional contract fulfillment. It would be categorized as an internal power struggle completely compliant with High Table regulations."
John nodded, following the ruthless logic. "Exactly. It would cleanly bypass the High Table's most sacred, overt law: 'Members shall not kill each other.' Santino would seize total control of the Camorra syndicate by force, and then publicly cement his absolute authority under the righteous guise of avenging his murdered sister."
Anthony took a slow sip of his drink. "If I wasn't so committed to making sure they slaughter each other, I would have just used Marcus's marker to have Santino killed in New York."
John understood the brutal reality of their current strategy. Unless he personally intervened as the catalyst, Santino would eventually be forced to attempt the coup using his own assets.
But Santino simply did not possess the elite underworld connections required to hire top-tier, untouchable assassins like Zero or Caine.
Having definitively lost his leverage over John's Blood Oath, the only remaining avenue for Santino to seize the High Table seat was through a direct, violently overt power grab.
According to High Table doctrine, orchestrating a hit within one's own immediate family was a grievous violation of the old ways.
But Santino's blinding ambition could not be checked. He would inevitably deploy every single resource at his disposal to launch a hostile coup.
He would order Ares to lead a strike team to execute Gianna. He would actively incite rebellion among the dissatisfied, power-hungry captains within the Camorra ranks. He might even attempt to collude with rival High Table members to secure external military backing.
And as the rightful, seated heir, Gianna would be forced to ruthlessly suppress Santino's rebellion using the full, sanctioned authority of the High Table.
Seven hours later, Anthony and John arrived in Rome.
The Rome Continental Hotel was nestled within a breathtaking, 17th-century stone estate situated directly on the banks of the Tiber River. Its architecture was vastly older and more opulent than its New York counterpart, featuring priceless Renaissance frescoes suspended beneath a magnificent, gilded central dome.
The grand lobby was a masterclass in luxurious, retro elegance. Massive crystal chandeliers cast a warm, soft glow across the marble floors, while impeccably dressed concierges moved soundlessly among the aristocratic guests.
Unlike New York, there was no centralized reception desk in the main atrium. Instead, an elderly, distinguished gentleman wearing gold-rimmed spectacles sat comfortably behind an ornate mahogany writing desk, leisurely savoring a glass of vintage red wine.
It was Manager Julius, a sharply dressed middle-aged man with a meticulously trimmed beard.
Julius looked up from his ledger. The moment his eyes landed on John Wick, a flash of genuine, undisguised shock rippled across his refined features.
The smile that slowly spread across his face was not the practiced, professional courtesy of a hotel manager; it was the warm, authentic greeting of an old friend.
"It has been a very long time, John," Julius greeted him warmly, extending a hand across the mahogany desk. "I must admit, I never expected to see you return to Rome."
"Julius," John replied calmly, accepting the handshake. "It is a pleasure to see you."
Julius's sharp gaze lingered on John's stoic face for a long, measuring moment. "John... I truly hope you are only here to attend Gianna's coronation."
John offered a single, noncommittal nod.
Julius let out a subtle, deeply relieved sigh and smoothly slid a heavy brass room key across the polished wood.
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