Chapter 12: The High Table and John's Troubled History
Ethan left Pietro to hold down the restaurant and rode the elevator up with Marcus.
Marcus's unit was on the fifth floor. Each floor had roughly ten units — a mix of two-bedrooms and one-bedrooms. Marcus's was a one-bedroom, maybe five hundred square feet. Ethan had even thrown in a washer and dryer, which was more than most New York landlords could say. Half the apartments in the city made you haul your laundry to a shared coin-op room in the basement.
The moment they stepped inside, the smell hit — alcohol and blood, thick enough to taste.
The man on the couch must have heard them come in. He shot upright from where he'd been lying — suit rumpled, bandages wrapped around his torso — and had a gun leveled at the door before either of them could blink. His eyes were sharp, wary.
"Easy," Marcus said, stepping forward quickly. "This is my landlord. He's here to help. How are you feeling?"
The man relaxed at Marcus's words and lowered the weapon. "Sorry. I thought you were High Table."
Ethan studied the man — center-parted hair, full beard, the look of someone who'd been through hell and was only halfway out. Yep. This was definitely John Wick. The guy who'd once killed an entire crime family over a dog.
"You shouldn't have come here," Ethan said flatly. "You know that. Marcus saved you, and now he's got a target on his back too."
He paused, then added: "He already almost died once because of you. Or did you forget?"
A flicker of guilt crossed John Wick's face.
"It's fine," Marcus said with a wave. "That's what friends are for. But tell me — what happened? Why is the High Table after you?"
John glanced at Ethan, uncertain.
"He's good people," Marcus assured him. "He won't sell you out. I guarantee it."
"If Marcus weren't my tenant, I wouldn't bother with any of this," Ethan said with a cold smirk. "My tenants are my people. That's the only reason I'm here."
With Marcus's assurance, John Wick slowly recounted what had happened over the past few months.
Ten minutes later.
"So let me get this straight," Marcus said, disbelief written across his face. "The High Table's New York Elder blew up your house — and you killed him and his sister?"
"And then you broke Continental rules by killing someone inside the hotel? And Winston showed you mercy and let you walk?" Marcus shook his head. "Your life is literally a movie."
Ethan sat on the couch in silence, expression unreadable, already thinking about how to squeeze maximum value out of this situation.
The New York Elder seat was vacant. Could Uncle Fisk fill it?
The High Table was a global coalition of criminal organizations — an assassin syndicate with twelve seats of power, headquartered in the desert near Casablanca.
Those twelve seats were the ruling council: the Cosa Nostra, the Camorra, the now-defunct D'Antonio family represented by the siblings John had just killed, and others.
Sure, the High Table had rules about hereditary succession and all that tradition. But rules were made by the strong — and the strong could rewrite them.
Both the High Table and the Continental were serious power players. The Continental alone offered body-disposal crews, intelligence networks, and those bulletproof suits. And infighting among the seats was practically a tradition. Fisk was already a crime lord — slotting him into a vacant seat would be more than feasible.
John noticed Ethan's intense silence and misread it completely. He assumed Ethan was afraid — afraid of the trouble John had brought, afraid of the High Table's reach.
John stood abruptly. "I'm sorry. I'll leave right now. The High Table's people won't find out I was here. I won't cause you any more problems."
Ethan grabbed him by the shoulder and pushed him back down. "Relax. I'm not scared. I was just thinking. You really think I'm afraid of the High Table?" He let out a short laugh. "I was figuring out how to take over that empty Elder seat, actually."
"Your friend has quite the sense of humor, Marcus." John clearly didn't buy a word of it. He thought Ethan was delusional. "I should head to the Continental in Osaka and find help there."
Ring ring ring. Ethan's phone went off.
He picked up with his right hand and held up a finger with his left — quiet.
Marcus and John exchanged bewildered looks but said nothing, sitting side by side on the couch and listening to Ethan's half of the conversation.
"It's me. Yeah. He's here. We've got rats? Whose people?"
"The New York Continental got bombed?"
"The High Table's New York Elder is dead — look into it. See if there's an opening we can exploit."
Three minutes later, Ethan hung up.
He turned to John and Marcus. "The New York Continental was just destroyed. And because of you, Winston's concierge — Charon — is dead."
John's fist slammed into the couch cushion. "Who did it?"
"The Marquis. One of the twelve. His people." Ethan's voice was calm, clinical. "They've also picked up your trail. Assassins are already on their way here."
John stood again. "I'm leaving. Right now. I'll draw them away. You two are innocent — this isn't your fight."
Marcus shot Ethan a look. Help him.
"Sit down," Ethan said. "You think they'll leave us alone just because you left? The Marquis's people don't do loose ends." His voice was steady, almost bored. "Don't worry. This is Hell's Kitchen. If they want to come here, I'll make sure they never leave."
Suddenly, Ethan felt it — killing intent.
A gunshot cracked through the air. A bullet punched through the window from across the street. All three of them dove for cover.
Glass shattered across the floor.
Ethan's eyes went cold. He flicked his right hand and a bolt of red energy streaked from his palm, lancing out toward the sniper's position.
An instant later, the red light punched clean through the shooter. Dead before he hit the ground.
"Who told you people you could put holes in my building?" Ethan growled.
John and Marcus stared at him, frozen.
"Landlord—" Marcus's hand trembled as he pointed at Ethan. "You — you can do magic?"
"Is that really the part you're stuck on?" Ethan snapped. "The cost of that window is coming out of your security deposit. If the deposit doesn't cover it, you're paying the difference." He cracked his knuckles. "You two stay here. I'm going to deal with the rest of them before they wreck anything else."
John moved to follow, clearly not convinced Ethan could handle it alone.
"Stay. Heal," Ethan said, his tone brooking no argument. "I'm not sending a wounded man into a fight — even if he is the Baba Yaga. Just sit back and watch. This won't take long."