Chapter 3 – The Dog and the Devil
The first thing he tasted was blood.
Thick, metallic, heavy on his tongue. His lip was split, his jaw aching as if wired shut. Every breath dragged pain across his ribs. The floor beneath him was cold, hard, sticky with something he didn't want to name.
He opened his eyes.
The house was ruined furniture overturned, shattered glass glittering in the faint morning light creeping through the curtains. A chair lay on its side. The television screen cracked in a spiderweb. His world dismantled in a single night.
And then he heard it.
A whimper, faint. Strangled. Barely there.
John turned his head, his neck screaming. His body followed, dragging across the floor until he reached her. Daisy.
She was small against the hardwood, her fur matted dark where it shouldn't be. Her breaths came shallow, each one weaker than the last. Her eyes found his wet, wide, still trusting.
"No…" His voice broke, rough, a sound ripped from the core of him. His hands trembled as he scooped her up, pressing her against his chest. She was still warm, but fading.
"Stay… just stay with me."
Her tiny chest rose once more against his palm. Then fell.
And didn't rise again.
John sat there for a long time, his forehead pressed to her fur. His shoulders didn't shake, no sobs tore from his throat. Grief settled deeper than tears, into something harder, colder.
By the time he stood, the world had shifted.
He buried her in the yard, beneath the single tree Helen had loved in the summer, the earth still damp from last night's rain. He lowered the small bundle into the ground with hands that had once buried men. The sound of the soil covering her was softer than Helen's coffin, but it cut sharper.
When the last of the dirt was packed down, he sat back on his heels. His chest rose and fell slowly, as though his body hadn't yet agreed with what his mind knew: there was nothing left.
No Helen.
No Daisy.
Only silence.
John rose, went back inside.
The house was wreckage, but his steps carried him to a place untouched by violence: the basement door. His hand lingered on the knob.
Then he opened it.
The stairs groaned under his weight, each step descending into shadows. At the bottom, he crossed to the corner where the floor was unnaturally smooth, too neat compared to the rest. A slab of concrete different from the rest of the foundation.
He stared at it for a long time. His jaw tightened.
Then he took the sledgehammer from the wall.
The first swing cracked the silence like thunder. Dust rose, shards of concrete splitting, scattering. He swung again. Again. Each strike a roar from somewhere buried inside him, somewhere he had promised Helen he'd never go back to.
But promises were for men who still had something to lose.
When the slab finally broke open, the past stared back: a cache of black steel and cold precision. Pistols. Shotguns. Ammunition stacked in neat rows. A suit sealed in plastic. Tools of a life the world had prayed was finished.
John dropped the sledgehammer. His breath came hard, but steady.
The Baba Yaga had been buried.
Now he was free.
The Tarasov warehouse stank of oil and exhaust. Mechanics moved between rows of stolen cars, stripping them down for parts, tags and serials already erased. The sound of grinding metal and heavy tools clattered through the cavernous space.
Iosef strolled among them like a king without a crown, cigarette dangling from his lips, two of his friends trailing behind. He paused near the black Mustang, running his hand along the hood with smug satisfaction.
"Clean it up," he told one of the men. "New plates, new VIN. This beauty belongs to me now."
Before the mechanic could answer, the heavy doors at the far end slammed open. Viggo Tarasov entered.
The room seemed to contract around him. Tall, broad-shouldered, silver hair slicked back, his presence silenced even the tools. He carried authority the way other men carried guns effortlessly, dangerously.
His eyes locked on the Mustang. His stride quickened.
"Whose car is this?" Viggo's voice was low, edged with steel.
Iosef straightened, a cocky grin playing at his lips. "Mine now. Picked it up last night."
Viggo stopped, staring at his son. He didn't speak at first, only breathed, heavy and sharp, like he was holding something down.
"Where did you get it?"
Iosef shrugged. "From some nobody. Old guy, house in Jersey. Thought he was tough. He wasn't." He smirked, exhaling smoke. "We gave him a message."
Viggo's jaw worked. His eyes narrowed. "What message?"
Iosef laughed, careless. "That his car had a price. And his little dog? We"
The back of Viggo's hand cracked across his son's face. The sound echoed, cutting the silence in half. Iosef staggered, clutching his cheek, his grin gone.
"You idiot." Viggo's voice was a growl, deep with fury. He stepped closer, looming. "That was no 'nobody.'"
Iosef tried to protest, his pride louder than his sense. "He was just some"
"John Wick." Viggo's hand fisted in his son's collar, dragging him close, nose to nose. His voice dropped to a whisper, almost reverent. "The man you stole from… the man whose dog you killed… was John Wick."
The name hung heavy in the air. Mechanics froze. Even Iosef's friends went pale.
Viggo released him with a shove, pacing now, his composure cracking. His son's stupidity had lit a fuse that couldn't be extinguished.
"John Wick is not just a man," Viggo said, his accent thickening with every word. "He is a force. A storm. He is the one you send to kill the f***ing Boogeyman."
Iosef wiped at his cheek, still defiant though fear flickered in his eyes. "So what? He's just one man."
Viggo stopped, turned, and stared at his son. His laugh was humorless, sharp as a knife.
"'Just one man'?" He shook his head slowly. "He's the man I once saw kill three men in a bar… with a pencil. A f***ing pencil." His voice rose, anger breaking through. "You thought you could steal his car? Kill his dog? That dog… was a gift from his dead wife."
The words landed like blows. Iosef swallowed, the bravado bleeding out of him.
Viggo leaned in close, his eyes burning. "You have no idea what you've started."
Silence fell. The mechanics looked anywhere but at their boss.
For the first time, Iosef's smirk faltered.
Viggo sat alone in his office, a glass of vodka untouched at his elbow. The blinds were drawn, the room dim, but the weight in it was heavier than darkness. A phone rested on the desk, his hand hovering over it as though it might bite.
He wasn't a man who feared many things. But he feared this.
Finally, he dialed.
The line clicked alive.
On the other end, silence.
Viggo leaned forward, voice measured, trying for calm but frayed around the edges. "John."
The silence stretched. A breath, faint, just enough to remind him someone was there.
"I understand that my son… wronged you." Viggo's hand tightened on the receiver. "Iosef is young. Stupid. He did not know who he was dealing with."
Still nothing.
Viggo's jaw flexed. He tried again, shifting to reason, then to pleading, words spilling like coins thrown into a pit. "I am willing to make amends. Compensation. As much as you want. Money, cars, favors. Let us… settle this. Put the matter to rest."
The breath on the other end was steady. Slow.
Not a word came.
Viggo swallowed, his throat dry despite the untouched vodka. He pushed harder, his tone sharpening. "John, whatever this is… it won't bring her back. You know that. Don't do this."
The line hummed, quiet, relentless.
Then click.
Disconnected.
Viggo stared at the phone, the dial tone buzzing in his ear before he set it down, gently, as though it might explode.
For a long moment, he didn't move. Then he reached for the vodka, downing it in a single swallow.
When he stood, his face was carved from stone.
He barked orders into the next room. "Call every man we have. Every favor owed. A contract on Wick. Two million, open." His voice thundered now, fueled by dread disguised as fury. "I want him buried before he gets to my son."
But deep inside, Viggo knew.
Money would not save Iosef.
Nothing would.