Everyone in Rome knew Gianna D'Antonio would be crowned tonight.
And everyone in Rome knew what John Wick's presence meant during a succession ceremony.
He was the kind of man the underworld joked about in whispers, the kind of man who would take a contract on a saint and still sleep like a baby afterward.
John's voice was calm, almost polite.
"I need equipment, Julius."
A flicker of doubt passed through Julius's eyes.
Then the Rome manager's smile returned, smooth as silk.
"Of course, John. Whatever you need."
Julius guided him down a long corridor and stopped before a heavy oak door.
John opened it.
Inside was a room that felt like a private museum designed by a weapons engineer and a master tailor working together.
The walls were lined with firearms, displayed like art.
Italian Berettas. German HKs. American Colts.
There were hand-built pieces too, old-world customs that looked like they belonged to ghosts. There were modern rifles as well, clean and new, waiting to be used.
In the corner, a tailor worked with obsessive focus, hands moving with quiet precision.
He looked up, and his face brightened the moment he saw John.
"Ah. My old friend," the tailor said warmly. "I thought you'd never come back to Rome."
"Angelo," John replied.
Then he got straight to the point.
"I need two suits. My best. Fast."
Angelo smiled like a man receiving a sacred request.
"Of course, John. Come. Measurements."
Minutes later, the measuring tape was gone, the pins were set, and the suit was no longer fashion.
It was armor.
John moved to the weapons wall.
He didn't reach for sentiment. He reached for practicality.
His own P30L had stayed behind, because planes had rules and the underworld did not care about fairness.
So John chose a Glock 34, a competition-tuned model with a longer slide and extended magazine.
Not familiar.
Not beloved.
But reliable.
He added a smaller backup pistol, compact and concealable.
Then he selected a rifle, an AR-platform set up for fast handling with a low-power optic, the kind of weapon that turned pistol-only bodyguards into a bad joke.
Finally, John picked a shotgun.
A Benelli M4.
The choice wasn't romantic.
It was brutal.
In tight corridors, there were few arguments a shotgun could not end.
Last, he chose a folding knife.
Not as a primary weapon.
As a promise.
Anthony didn't follow John into the Rome armory.
John had sent him elsewhere, with a brief set of instructions and a look that said, Stay out of sight.
So Anthony went to a discreet workshop near St. Peter's Basilica, the kind of place that didn't advertise what it sold.
He chose his loadout like a man preparing for a sewer, not a ballroom.
His primary was an HK MP7A1, compact, fast-cycling, built for confined spaces.
His sidearm was a custom-tuned SIG, full-size, heavy enough to track cleanly, with extended magazines and hot 9mm ammunition.
He requested expanding rounds.
Not because he liked the idea.
Because he liked certainty.
His secondary kit was simple.
Two tactical blades.
Two stun grenades.
Through map modeling and pure paranoia, Anthony already knew the shape of the underground passage they were about to use.
Narrow. Twisting. Blind corners.
A place where lateral fire became a fantasy and every intersection was an ambush waiting to happen.
If the enemy only had pistols, they could still turn stone columns and gate arches into murder.
Anthony also understood something else.
In canon, John had gone into that underground maze to deliver a message, not to start a war.
This time was different.
John was trying to keep Anthony out of the High Table's spotlight.
But the equipment Anthony chose was built for exactly that environment.
The underground palace would be dark.
Not movie-dark.
Real dark.
Pools of light. Long shadows. The kind of visibility that made perfect marksmanship a lie.
The MP7 gave him suppression. It gave him control.
And the stun grenades gave him the one thing that mattered in a corridor.
Time.
A flash, a blast, a heartbeat where enemies flinched and men lived.
Both of them understood it.
In extreme environments, the best weapon wasn't the biggest.
It was the combination that turned every movement into leverage.
Before they landed, Anthony also bought two pairs of protective goggles and active hearing protection, plus a hard-plate vest.
He didn't have John Wick's habit of walking through gunfire like it was weather.
He preferred to survive.
Three hours later, John and Anthony stood in the shadows along the banks of the Tiber River.
Wind rolled off the water, damp and sharp, carrying the smell of fish and old stone.
In the distance, the dome of St. Peter's gleamed coldly under the moon.
John's gaze was locked on a drainage outlet half-hidden by vines below the riverbank.
He didn't ask how Anthony knew it existed.
John asked the question that mattered.
"Are you really going in?"
Anthony's tone was quiet.
"Gianna is your friend. Even if she doesn't believe you, she probably won't make things difficult for you."
He looked at John, eyes steady.
"It's still smart to be wary."
"The High Table would love nothing more than to send you away, legend. Once you're gone, it becomes Marcus's turn."
John's jaw tightened.
"You have the Adjudicator's certification. Why are you involving yourself in this?"
Anthony gave a small, humorless laugh.
"The story has already reached this point. How do I avoid it?"
He pulled out a flashbang and rolled it in his palm, casual, like a coin.
"If something goes wrong, go through the underground route. I'll meet you inside."
Then he threw both weapon bags down the slope.
And jumped after them.
John leaned over the railing, voice tight with something he almost never showed.
"There are guards down there. How are you getting in?"
He exhaled sharply.
"You're a complete rookie at this."
Anthony looked up from the darkness, water glinting off his hair.
"If you go in first, every guard's attention goes with you."
John's eyes narrowed.
Then his expression shifted.
"Fuck," he muttered. "So that's the plan."
Anthony's grin flashed.
"You just need to remember where things are placed in that palace. Otherwise you won't even be able to find a pencil."
John let out a slow breath, almost a laugh and almost a warning.
"Careful, Rookie."
He checked his watch.
Then he turned, straightening his suit, and walked toward the ceremony like a man heading for confession.
The Rome crypt complex was hidden beneath history and wrapped in modern security.
Tonight, it wasn't just a coronation.
It was a ritual space where High Table tradition and violence braided together until they became the same thing.
In the banquet hall of an ancient palace, guests with High Table certification gathered alongside the elders of the D'Antonio family.
And deeper inside, behind locked doors and guarded silence, Gianna D'Antonio sat in her private bath chamber.
A gilded dressing table gleamed beside her.
Maids adjusted her gown in front of a full-length mirror, making final preparations.
Her velvet dress was studded with diamonds, emphasizing every line of her composed, aristocratic posture.
An emerald necklace rested against her throat, catching the candlelight like a quiet threat.
A maid pinned her hair into a careful bun.
A gold hairpin glinted as it slid into place.
Then the phone rang.
Gianna's brow furrowed.
"Santino?"
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