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The part of New York surrounding the Continental was almost deserted. Narrow streets lined with grand, elaborate stone buildings bordered the haven sought by every member of the Underworld in their time of need. The Continental was one of the more ostentatious on its short street, thirteen stories high with the best view of New York. Its front door sat beneath an entry of carved black marble, supported by four imposing pillars, each as wide as a tree trunk.
John Wick closed his car’s door and frowned. The sun was already setting, the twilight cold and grey. He looked at his watch—seven o’clock. There was plenty of time to go inside and decide what he would do about the Marker Santino D’Antonio sent.
In his time being part of the Underworld, he had faced several of the more dangerous crime bosses in the world. They were more diverse than one might expect. Some were merely small-time thugs who had, through luck and an appetite for brutality, risen in the ranks until they were on top. But then there were the thinkers. These were rarer; people who had wit and intellect and combined that with a perfect disregard for any ethical boundaries that inconvenienced them. John’s first impression of Santino D’Antonio was that he, unfortunately, fit the latter category. He wanted him cornered and he got what he wanted.
Honouring every Marker was one of the Underworld’s two unbreakable rules. If he refused to carry the mission, he would be declared Excommunicado; with hundreds of contracts on his head in no time.
He sighed.
He was really tired. All he wanted was a peaceful, action-free life preferably with a dog. Was that too much to ask? First, he had to deal with Viggo Tarasov’s brat and now the lunatic head of the Camorra? Maybe it was Karma. Maybe it was time for him to pay for his crimes. Either way, if he wanted to get his life—or what remained of it—back, he had to find a way to avoid being declared Excommunicado. Without killing Ginna D’Antonio, of course.
John schooled his face into a cool mask and nodded at the butler who opened the door for him.
Charon stared at him pointedly as he made his way toward the reception. “Mr Wick,” he offered him a faint smile. “I presume you received the Manager’s message.”
“Yeah,” John said briefly then produced a gold coin and waited for his key.
“He’s waiting for you in the bar,” Charon nodded. When he took the concierge his key, cleared his throat and asked mildly. “Forgive me, Mr Wick, but I do not perfectly understand your involvement in the Camorra’s business. Are you back?”
His expression, cold and composed, barely flickered. “People keep asking me if I'm back, and I haven't really had an answer. But now, yeah, I'm thinking I'm back.’’
‘’Then, I guess you will be interested in what the Manager wants to discuss with you,” Charon said. His voice was more amused than John had ever heard it. “If this is the path you choose, you will need more than your talent with guns and…pencils.” John’s lips twitched. Yeah, a couple of years ago, he killed three men with a pencil, so what?
There was a short, empty silence. Then he turned and left, leaving Charon staring after him.
It didn’t take him long to find Winston Scott.
He was nursing a glass of Martini. He looked up at him and smirked. “Jonathan.”
John nodded and took the seat facing him. “You wanted to see me.”
“I want to help you.” Winston took a long sip of his glass before he put it down. John braced himself and waited. He was a man of few words.
Winston sighed. “I didn’t want any of this for you. You don’t deserve all this. Not after you lost Helen.” He let out a long breath. “You narrowly avoided a tense situation with the Bratva after you jammed your knife into Viggo Tarasov’s neck. Thank God, no one wanted to avenge the sick bastard. But the Camorra is another story altogether.”
“Isn’t taking sides against the rules?” John shrugged. “As the manager of the Continental, the High Table expects you to be neutral.”
Winston scoffed. “Rules. Without them, we’d live like animals. I, however, will bend some of them for you. Someone wants to meet you. Someone that might provide a solution for your problem.” When he tensed, Winston lifted one eyebrow, a facsimile of amusement on his lips.
John knew he needed help before he went on another killing spree. However, the last thing he wanted was someone else throwing a Marker his way.
“Who?” he asked, when he had collected himself sufficiently.
“That would be me, Mr wick.” A low, silken drawl made the short hairs at the back of his neck stand.
John’s hand went instinctively to his Glock. How did this woman escape his notice? He could swear that other than the Yakuza members working on a deal three tables to his left, and the Russian Hitman sipping his Vodka leisurely, the bar was empty.
A woman came to stand next to Winston. At once, he raised, bowed and lifted her hand to his lips. Winston was a gentleman but he never treated a female guest this way unless…she was royalty: a member of the High Table.
The woman was dressed in black leather from head to toe except for the small design embroidered on her left pocket in gold thread. When he narrowed his gaze on it, his grip on his Glock grew stronger and his muscles rippled with tension, pulling at the seams of his suit ready for the fight. He experienced a moment of despair followed by resignation. It was a Triquetra; the insignia of the Irish Syndicate.
Did Santino make his second move already?
He wondered how old she was, she looked young enough to be in her mid twenties. When his gaze slid to her face, she regarded him with a twinkle in her eyes, slowly running her hand through her long hair. He revelled in the way the wild, dark curls twined around her fingers as if they had a mind of their own.
John breathed in sharply, closing his eyes for a moment. Something was going on. The woman oozed danger and made every instinct he possessed flare to life.
Her long coat billowed behind her as she took a seat and crossed her legs.
“Let me introduce you to Lady Ríona Potter-Black,” Winston cleared his throat. “She travelled all the way here from Limerick to meet you. I believe she has a proposition for you.”
Obsidian eyes slammed into green ones. Potter-Black? She wasn’t just royalty. She was the Irish Queen. Everyone heard about the Head of the Syndicate. She lost her parents when she was merely thirteen months old. It seemed that the Right Hand—and the late Head’s best friend—was designed her guardian in his will. He raised her since. Little to nothing was known of her whereabouts. Her life was shrouded in mystery. Every member of the Underworld, who tried to spy on the Syndicate or worse yet, attack, was delivered back to his boss in three days. In the form of a handful of ashes in a sealed golden urn.
Even the boldest, most reckless mobsters knew better than to aggravate the Syndicate. There was no excuse—no reason strong enough, no mercy for trespassing on Syndicate property.
“We do make exceptions. Occasionally." Her face was utterly serious, her eyes impossibly green as she gazed at him.
There were rumours pertaining the Head and her retinue. Rumours had it that she possessed some kind of superpower. John wasn’t a fool. He was raised by the Ruksha Roma in a small Padhorje village. He wasn’t foreign to whispers about people gifted with powers that defied nature and common sense.
They were referred to as volshebnik and ved'ma in his mother tongue…wizards and witches.
When he tilted his head, he saw a wicked glint in her eyes. As if she was privy to his inner thoughts.
“Let’s not drag this meeting, Mr Wick. I believe you are an exceptionally busy man,” she said slowly. “Santino wants you. I can help you.”
“What’s in it for you?” He wasn’t too desperate to cast aside all caution.
Her lips twitched. “Touché. I can’t imagine you want to owe anything to whoever helps you, even in your time of need, which is something I respect. The Syndicate applauds pride and honour. But worry not, I won’t ask for a Marker from you. I have plenty of those I doubt I can use them in a single lifetime,” she threw airily.
Winston blanched and averted his face.
“Let’s just say that Santino had aggravated me personally,” she supplied cryptically. “He’s a Kinslayer—which goes against the sacred rules of the Underworld. The Don of a minor organization like the Camorra should never cross his betters. I volunteered to put him down like the rabid dog he is.” The sentence, short, definitive, and shocking, stunned John into silence. Only his austere self-control prevented him from gaping at the woman and embarrassing himself. Few would use Santino and minor organization or rabid dog in the same sentence. The Head was either stronger than what everyone believed or utterly mad.
“I’m a bit of both,’’ she smirked. “More so, when it concerns the fate of people I care about. So, do we have a deal, Mr Wick? I admit I want to use your services to get to Santino and have….a lengthy talk with him.”
She offered him her hand and his gaze went inadvertently to her wrist. Something tugged at his heartstrings as he noticed her faint mark. For an uncanny reason, he didn’t want this woman—this stranger to live his pain. His heart broke at her tragic fate, for only someone who failed to find their Soulmate could feel the loss, the loneliness. Everyone presumed that Helen was his Soulmate but she wasn’t. She was simply the kindest soul he had encountered in this life. Like him, she failed to find her Soulmate. A chance encounter, followed by several platonic dates made the two broken people decide to make the best of a bad situation and find what little joy they could have in each other’s company. Helen was the one who showed him the way, who reminded him that there was more to Jordani Jovonovich than being the best Hitman in the Underworld—the Baba Yaga.
He stared at her pale hand before he engulfed it in his much larger one. The moment their skin made the first contact, his jaw clenched to contain his gasp. Hot. Impossibly hot. Hot like fire, like lava, like the sun itself. His head snapped up. Her eyes were locked on his, intense and unwavering.
“God help us,” he heard Winston exclaim but he couldn’t tear his gaze away from the woman looking at him with iridescent eyes swirling with untold secrets. His Soulmate.
“Do you understand now why I need to help you, John?” she whispered and his heart hammered.
“Yeah,” he breathed.
When he tried to yank her closer by the hand, he felt a huff of dog breath at his ear followed by the graze of a moist fang against his cheek.
“Oh, no,” Ríona winced, looking aghast.
He turned his head and immediately froze. John Wick loved dogs. He truly did. But could the huge, black creature of an unknown breed even be called a dog?