The Marquis de Gramont sat perfectly still in his sprawling, dimly lit living room. The firelight from the hearth danced across the deep purple velvet of his silk robe.
He held a crystal snifter of vintage Burgundy, the ice cubes chiming softly against the glass.
He was staring at a massive bank of six monitors that formed a video wall. Each screen was split into four distinct feeds, broadcasting live footage from different sectors of the upstate Hunting Ground.
"Hehe... how remarkably entertaining."
Gramont murmured to himself, his eyes reflecting the pale blue light of the screens.
On one of the feeds, a former Navy SEAL was attempting to drag himself through the forest. Both of his legs were broken, twisted at grotesque, unnatural angles.
Fifty meters behind the crawling man, three wealthy hunters strolled leisurely through the brush. They carried high-end sniper rifles, taking turns firing shots. They weren't trying to hit the SEAL; they were deliberately striking the dirt inches from his face, forcing him to scramble in blind, desperate terror.
Gramont took a sip of his wine. A graceful, elegant smile touched his lips.
This was art. Pure art.
Watching these self-righteous, highly trained soldiers break down and squirm in the mud was vastly superior to any opera.
"Marquis." Chidi entered the room, his posture as rigid as a blade.
"The Hunting Ground is experiencing an inventory shortage. We are burning through nearly thirty targets a day. Meanwhile, the VIP bettors are increasing their demands. They want a minimum of three large-scale hunts per week."
"Was last night's harvest unsuccessful?" Gramont asked casually, his eyes never leaving the screens.
"We swept the Bowery," Chidi replied smoothly. "Seventeen targets secured. Including two former Army Rangers who were working as private security contractors in the city."
Gramont swirled his wine. "Ensure you break one of their legs before releasing them into the forest. I will not tolerate these 'professionals' posing a genuine threat to our VIP clients. Especially not the aristocrats."
"As you instructed," Chidi reported, completely devoid of emotion. "Both men suffered comminuted fractures to the tibia. They were given rudimentary bandages and dropped into Sector Three."
"Excellent," Gramont set his glass down, tapping his long fingers against the armrest. "Has John Wick surfaced yet?"
"Our scouts have a perimeter around the Continental, but there has been no sign of him. Marcus hasn't returned to his townhouse either."
Gramont laughed softly. "Do you suppose... they know I've arrived?"
"Unlikely," Chidi said after a moment's thought. "They cannot deduce what Winston refuses to tell them."
Gramont slowly shook his head.
"John Wick and Marcus are apex predators. Their instincts are incredibly sharp."
"John abandoned his Ford Mustang," Chidi added. "We have no vehicular tracking data. And they have entirely scrubbed their digital footprints."
Gramont waved his hand dismissively. "I am too busy to hunt strays right now. Let them hide in the shadows. When the time is right, I will manufacture a scenario that forces them into the light."
"Maintain heavy surveillance on Anthony Tarasov. John will inevitably orbit his gravity."
Gramont's gaze shifted to another monitor. "Do we have any actionable intelligence on the location of Tarasov's private army?"
"Not yet," Chidi lowered his head. "However, satellite tracking indicated the convoy headed west into New Jersey. I have deployed scout teams to recon the rural counties."
Gramont nodded. "Do not utilize the NYPD for this. Bribe federal agents out of state. Have Homeland Security run the search."
"My Lord, Tarasov is preparing to move against the Crips," Chidi said, stepping closer to Gramont's chair. "The woman who delivered the message to Laroche was killed."
"Furthermore, word on the street is that a hundred-thousand-dollar bounty has been placed on Patrick Donald's head. The Crip leadership is in a state of absolute panic."
Gramont let out a soft hiss of appreciation, followed by a genuine chuckle.
"Anthony... what a brilliant maneuver. You have finally managed to pique my interest."
Gramont saw the strategy instantly. Anthony knew Anya was compromised, but he deliberately let the Crips kidnap and kill her. He used her death to manufacture a legitimate casus belli to eradicate the Crips—a justification so flawless that even the Adjudicator couldn't legally intervene.
"Laroche's death was not entirely in vain," Gramont smiled, a dark, sinister light in his eyes.
"You killed my knight, Anthony. Are you truly prepared to sacrifice your own pawns?"
Chidi thought for a moment before speaking. "My Lord. Now that Boris Tarasov has been exiled back to Russia, should we dispatch an asset to extract him? We could execute him in front of Anthony."
"Chidi, do you honestly wish to fall into Anthony's trap?" Gramont looked at his lieutenant with mild disappointment. "Anthony exiled Boris to pacify Abram. If we kill Boris now, Abram will assume Anthony orchestrated the hit to solidify his absolute control. That plays directly into Anthony's hands."
Gramont leaned forward. "However... if you were to systematically assassinate the remaining Tarasov loyalists—men like Yuri Petrenko and Viktor Romanov—Abram would naturally suspect his ruthless nephew is purging the old guard. If we assassinate enough of them, Abram will break his alliance with Anthony and tear the syndicate apart from the inside."
Chidi bowed slightly. "I will arrange the contracts immediately."
"There is no rush," Gramont waved his hand languidly. "The timing is not right. New York is entirely under my control. We can afford to be patient."
He stood up and glided toward the wall of monitors, lightly tracing his finger across the cold glass of a screen.
"Observe the board, Chidi. Notice how Anthony has taken absolutely no direct action against Bertrand Laroche's remaining corporate infrastructure..."
A hint of profound amusement flashed across Gramont's aristocratic features.
"Winnie Pritzker is his Achilles' heel. She is the collar that will ultimately chain Anthony Tarasov to the floor."
Gramont clenched his hand into a tight fist.
"And once a man has a weakness, he is already dead."
"Your Excellency," Chidi suggested cautiously. "Should we leak Anthony's mafia ties to the New York financial sector to ruin his legitimate business ventures?"
Gramont spun around, his eyes flashing with sudden, cold anger.
"Use your brain, Chidi. Laszlo and Valencia are currently utilizing the idiot Enrique Pritzker to launder their capital. If you expose Anthony to the SEC, the resulting federal audit will inevitably expose Enrique's medical syndicate as well."
"Even if Anthony is unaware of our operations, there are moments when enemies must share the same shadow to survive."
Gramont held out two fingers. Chidi immediately stepped forward, producing a silver lighter and clipping the end of a premium cigar.
"Furthermore," Gramont continued, taking a slow draw from the cigar, "exposing an authorized High Table agent to the civilian authorities would deeply offend the Adjudicator. It is a pointless risk."
Chidi bowed his head, looking suitably chastened. "My apologies, Marquis. An oversight."
Gramont hummed softly, exhaling a thick plume of blue smoke.
He turned away from Chidi, the heavy velvet of his robe sweeping elegantly across the marble floor.
"Now, back to our supply chain dilemma. The Bowery homeless remain our optimal resource. Those self-righteous assassins make excellent prey."
"However, the VIPs are growing bored of watching simple executions. They require... a more confrontational aesthetic."
Gramont strolled back to the monitors, tapping the glass.
The screen displayed a dank concrete basement. Several blindfolded men were being violently shoved into holding cages by armed guards.
"Break their legs, yes, but leave them enough mobility to crawl. I want the VIPs to experience the sheer exhilaration of hunting a wounded predator. Even a tiger that has lost its claws will still bare its teeth."
"Understood, Marquis," Chidi bowed. "I will instruct the extraction teams to intensify their sweeps of the Bowery."
"The Bowery is ideal. They are inherently violent, and the sudden disappearance of fifty vagrants will hardly register on the city's radar."
"No," Gramont corrected softly.
"We want to draw attention. We just cannot allow the local authorities to find a thread. We must overwhelm the NYPD with noise. We must force the FBI to chase ghosts. We must breed absolute paranoia among the street gangs..."
Gramont sank back into his velvet armchair, picking up his wine glass.
"Contact the Cartel in Los Angeles. Instruct them to ship three dozen healthy migrants directly to Enrique Pritzker's medical facility. Ensure they are cross-matched for organ compatibility."
"A healthy human slave is a goldmine from head to toe."
The High Table maintained four primary pillars of power in the United States.
The Tarasov Syndicate in New York.
The Mexican Cartels in Los Angeles.
The Cuban Exiles in Miami.
The Irish Mob in Chicago.
As an officially sanctioned proxy of the High Table, Gramont's geopolitical authority was vast, rivaling even the Adjudicators.
"I will dispatch the orders immediately," Chidi bowed.
Gramont rolled the cigar between his fingers, gently swirling his wine.
"This is the very essence of the game, Chidi. Chaos is never the final objective. The objective is to forge order from the chaos."
"I want every single faction in New York to feel an existential terror, yet remain entirely blind to the source of the blade."
"And when they are finally exhausted... when they have bled themselves dry tearing at each other's throats in the dark..."
He took a slow sip of the Burgundy.
"I will simply sweep up the pieces."
Gramont leaned back, staring into the bank of monitors.
Anthony's petty gang war in Queens was nothing but childish street theater. The true game of absolute power was not fought in the gutter. It was fought in the stratosphere.
And he, the Marquis Vincent Bisset de Gramont, was the architect of the board.
"The New York underworld?" Gramont whispered, a sneer twisting his elegant face.
"You and your feral friends can fight for the scraps in the dirt, Anthony. I am playing with the primal fears and the darkest desires of the men who truly own this world."
He raised his crystal glass in a mocking toast to the digital feed.
"To you, Anthony Tarasov."
"When your empire finally collapses around you... I sincerely hope you retain your last shred of dignity. Just like the animals in my forest."
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