Rex looked up, his face deathly pale, completely drained of blood. "I don't know any fucking 'Grillamon.' Who the hell are you?"
He genuinely didn't know Gramont's name. Anthony looked into the man's terrified eyes and completely believed him.
"My name is Anthony Tarasov," Anthony said smoothly. "And the Nightingale nightclub that your men just attempted to violently dismantle... belongs to me."
A flash of horrifying realization finally hit Rex. "Someone just paid my crew in blind cash to go cause some property damage. That's all it was! It was just a localized hit!"
Rex stared at the heavy muzzles of the shotguns and swallowed hard.
"I know," Anthony nodded calmly. "So it is logically fair that I am standing here right now, isn't it?"
Rex's breathing rapidly devolved into hyperventilation. "What... what exactly do you want?"
"What do I want?" Anthony stood up straight, his cold eyes slowly sweeping over the other terrified people currently held hostage in the gym.
The heavy-hitting boxers. The veteran coaches. The maintenance staff.
There were roughly fifteen people remaining alive in the room. Every single one of them was staring at Anthony in absolute, suffocating horror.
"Gramont murdered one of my elite operators," Anthony began slowly, his voice echoing in the silent gym. "I just slaughtered eight of his hired men."
"Now, I am going to systemically execute every single breathing soul in this room as a localized reward for myself."
Rex's eyes bulged from his skull. "You... you can't fucking do that—"
"I absolutely can," Anthony interrupted him, his voice dropping to a freezing whisper. "Because this is a sovereign war between him and me, and I refuse to leave any loose variables on the board."
Anthony turned his back to Rex and looked directly at Mike and the Vanguard operators.
"Cripple them all. Do not execute lethal shots. I will personally handle the finishing blows."
The Vanguard didn't hesitate.
A deafening, continuous barrage of suppressed gunfire violently erupted inside the gym, sounding like heavy hail pounding against a tin roof.
The Vanguard operators flawlessly executed the order, shooting kneecaps, shattering femurs, and heavily wounding the remaining personnel without instantly killing them.
Once every single person had collapsed to the blood-soaked floor, agonizingly gasping for life, Anthony slowly walked through the carnage. He systematically raised his Glock and executed flawless, point-blank headshots on every single survivor.
He required the attribute points. A massive, localized influx of them.
He mathematically needed to violently grind his [Stamina Limit] from LV6 to LV9 as rapidly as possible. If he didn't drastically increase his raw biological endurance, he would be entirely incapable of surviving a kinetic engagement against an apex predator like Caine in the near future.
Minutes later, Anthony walked out of the shattered front entrance. He stood on the wet Brooklyn street and calmly lit a cigarette.
The lacerated wound on his left arm was still screaming with phantom pain, but he actively ignored it.
He stared out at the sprawling New York nightscape, the flashing neon lights bleeding into the puddles, and the distant, oblivious pedestrians hurrying through the cold.
This specific underworld was deeply complex. It was bound by ancient rules, sovereign power, vast financial interests, and inevitable betrayal.
But sometimes, the mathematics were beautifully simple.
You slaughter my men. I slaughter yours.
Blood for blood. Tooth for tooth.
"Boss. We only secured a few hundred thousand in loose cash from the safe," Tom reported, stepping out of the gym.
"Leave it. Let's go," Anthony casually flicked his cigarette onto the wet asphalt and crushed it beneath his combat boot.
He turned and climbed into the armored SUV. The Vanguard convoy rapidly accelerated away from the boxing gym, seamlessly vanishing back into the dark city.
Inside the facility, twenty-one mutilated corpses lay scattered across the floor. Thick rivers of dark blood actively trickled into the central drainage grates.
A framed photograph of a smiling, former heavyweight champion hanging on the wall was entirely coated in a thick layer of arterial spray, blurring the face into a horrific crimson mask. The heavy leather punching bag beside the ring still swayed gently back and forth, as if a ghost were actively striking it.
The Continental Hotel. Penthouse Suite.
Marquis de Gramont sat deeply nestled into his expensive leather sofa. His manicured fingers tightly gripped the slender stem of a crystal wine glass. He had remained perfectly silent for several long minutes.
Outside his reinforced window, the dazzling lights of New York City spread out in the darkness like a violently shattered galaxy.
"The boxing club has been reduced to a literal slaughterhouse. The localized drainage systems are physically overflowing with blood."
Zero's bald head gleamed with a cold, bluish-gray reflection under the ambient lighting, looking exactly like a meticulously polished granite tombstone.
"Rex's entire operation was systematically eradicated. Twenty-one confirmed casualties. The body count includes eight professional enforcers, five coaches, three logistical support staff, and five underage civilian trainees."
"The absolute madman..." Gramont chuckled darkly, whispering the word with a profoundly complex mixture of disbelief and seething hatred.
His original operational geometry had been incredibly simple.
Pay Rex's localized thugs to execute a highly visible, chaotic raid on Tarasov's newly acquired nightclub. The objective wasn't to physically harm Anthony; it was simply to generate localized chaos and bureaucratic headaches for the Adjudicator's newly appointed agent while Gramont awaited John Wick's return.
But Anthony had entirely ripped up the script.
The Russian madman made absolutely zero attempt to hide his Vanguard. He had actively, deliberately waited for Rex's men to breach the Nightingale. He had deliberately ordered his security to execute them in full view of the civilian public, intentionally leaving the mutilated corpses on the marble floor for the NYPD to mop up.
Then, he immediately pivoted, marched his Vanguard directly into Rex's headquarters, and delivered a horrifying, apocalyptic message to the entire criminal underworld.
Anyone who accepts a contract against the Tarasov syndicate will be violently erased from the earth.
Despite orchestrating such a massive, hyper-violent counter-offensive—and knowing full well he was personally caught in the center of the geopolitical storm—Anthony hadn't displayed a microscopic fraction of hesitation.
"What the fuck is actively operating inside that Russian's brain?"
Gramont stood up abruptly and slowly, deliberately poured the expensive amber whiskey from his glass directly onto the pristine black marble coffee table.
Zero remained perfectly still in the shadows, resembling a lifeless, tactical sculpture. His dark eyes tracked the glaring stain pooling across the marble.
"The Adjudicator is undoubtedly already aware of the massacre," Zero noted. He paused deliberately, allowing Gramont to fully digest the lethal implication. "But her localized channels remain as quiet as a graveyard."
Gramont hummed a dark note of agreement, his bruised face tightening.
"That Russian psychopath systematically executed twenty-one people, including five underage civilian trainees! It is a verified, localized massacre!"
"But it is a massacre the rules technically permit," Zero countered, looking up at him with absolutely dead eyes.
"Standard gang conflicts, turf wars, and localized personal vendettas fundamentally do not fall under the High Table's sovereign jurisdiction. So long as Anthony does not actively execute a High Table member, or violently violate the neutral sanctuary of the Continental Hotel... the Adjudicator will absolutely not intervene."
Gramont fully understood the bureaucratic reality.
It was Gramont who had initially crossed into Anthony's sovereign territory in New York. It was Gramont who had deliberately slapped the Russian in the face by importing the Camorra and the Cartel.
Now that Anthony was violently retaliating against non-Table proxies, the Adjudicator would simply stand by indifferently. She might even view the massacre with a quiet, internal smirk, silently acknowledging that Gramont had walked into his own trap.
Gramont knew Zero's tactical assessment was flawless.
The foundational laws of the High Table operated exactly like a massive, complex fishing net, draped heavily over the global underworld.
But the mesh of that net was incredibly wide.
Street-level gang warfare, localized assassinations, proxy vendettas... those chaotic variables slipped effortlessly through the holes in the mesh. So long as the net itself wasn't violently torn, the High Table actively turned a blind eye.
Anthony Tarasov had clearly, meticulously studied the structural integrity of that net.
Every single individual Anthony had slaughtered tonight was officially classified as a "hostile gang affiliate." None of them possessed a direct, sanctioned blood-tie to the High Table.
"So I am simply expected to sit in this penthouse and watch a Russian street dog run completely feral across my operational board?" Gramont's voice dropped into a lethal, vibrating register. A strange, unhinged laugh escaped his throat.
"I am supposed to passively watch my localized assets be systematically butchered, and then smile while the bureaucracy informs me that it is perfectly legal?!"
Zero remained entirely silent.
Some geopolitical truths did not require vocalization. The rules were exclusively forged by the apex predators, and they were actively weaponized by the apex predators.
Anthony was currently weaponizing the exact same bureaucratic loopholes that Gramont prided himself on manipulating, effortlessly turning the Marquis's own game against him.
"What absolutely flawless, perfect fucking rules," Gramont chuckled bitterly.
"Let her wait. When I finally violently twist that Russian mad dog's head off his shoulders and casually toss it onto her desk, we will see if she can maintain that freezing, indifferent expression!"
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Three incredibly light, perfectly rhythmic taps echoed against the heavy mahogany door of the suite.
Gramont violently clenched his jaw. He took a deep, steadying breath, aggressively straightened the lapels of his bespoke suit, and forced his bruised face into a mask of aristocratic calm.
"Enter."
The Adjudicator glided smoothly into the penthouse. She was dressed in her standard, immaculate black suit, her face completely devoid of human emotion.
The Harbinger followed heavily behind her like a living shadow, the dark eyes beneath his mask gleaming with a cold, metallic light in the dim room.
"Marquis de Gramont," the Adjudicator's voice was as freezing and sharp as glacial ice.
"I have just received verified intelligence that the Tarasov syndicate actively executed a massive, localized 'cleanup operation' deep within Brooklyn."
Gramont forced a tight, entirely artificial smile. "You are remarkably well-informed, Adjudicator."
"Twenty-one localized casualties." The Adjudicator walked slowly toward the leather sofa, refusing to sit. She simply stood there, staring directly into his soul.
"This specific catastrophic incident has already deeply agitated the NYPD's central command. While their localized bureaucracy will eventually file the massacre away as standard gang violence, the immediate civilian public pressure is highly significant."
"That is precisely the point I have been attempting to make!" Gramont instantly seized the opening, his voice rising.
"Anthony Tarasov's psychotic actions have catastrophically disrupted the structural order of New York! His blatant, massive utilization of military-grade force in populated civilian sectors, combined with his absolute disregard for collateral damage, is a direct, violent provocation against the authority of the High Table!"
The Adjudicator stared at him. Her dark pupils perfectly reflected the desperate, seething hatred burning on his bruised face.
"Marquis de Gramont," she stated slowly, enunciating every syllable.
"According to the verified intelligence collected by the Continental Hotel's localized network, at exactly 9:40 PM last evening, eight hostile enforcers operating out of the Rex Hoffman Boxing Club violently breached the Nightingale nightclub—a legally incorporated business operated by the Tarasov syndicate. The enforcers initiated the kinetic assault, physically battered civilian patrons, and actively stabbed a licensed security contractor with a lethal weapon."
She paused, allowing the heavy, bureaucratic silence to suffocate his argument.
"As for the subsequent catastrophic retaliation at the Brooklyn boxing facility... every single shred of verifiable forensic evidence points exclusively to a standard, localized gang retaliation. It is officially classified as a private, personal feud."
Gramont's artificial smile instantly froze, shattering like thin glass.
"A personal feud?" Gramont actually let out a short, incredulous laugh.
"Adjudicator. Do you genuinely, mathematically expect me to believe that you view this slaughter as a simple 'personal grudge'?"
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