Rat-tat-tat!
Crack!
Bang-bang!
Inside Santos Club, bullets tore through the air.
Thirty killers had stormed the building, immediately splitting into six squads.
Methodical, disciplined, they swept the premises floor by floor.
The first and second floors didn't hold many enemies—barely more than a dozen.
These weren't elites, just security muscle tasked with maintaining order.
Their weapons were basic handguns at best.
And with Duggan's top-tier sniping covering them from outside, the mop-up was brutal.
In less than two minutes, the club was cleared—
save for two or three terrified stragglers hiding in blind spots, shivering, clinging to their pistols in pointless defiance.
One squad stayed behind to finish them off.
The remaining five split by plan:
Two squads swept into the kitchen, neutralizing the chefs, taking cover, and aiming at the alley door. The second that Sully Hotel's kitchen door opened, they'd unleash hell.
Two more squads locked down the stairwell to the basement, positioning in a crossfire formation. The instant anyone showed their head—dead.
The last squad secured the club's main entrance.
First floor, right-side lounge.
Alex Cross, John Wick, Susie Glass, and Margarita sat at a window-side table.
Wick, ever nonchalant, reached across the table, picked up a bottle, and poured himself a glass of liquor.
He sipped leisurely—
as if he were simply enjoying the night.
Bang!
Rat-tat!
Occasional shots echoed from the second floor—
the last futile resistance of Camorra survivors.
The only reply they received was more gunfire.
Susie reported quickly:
"As of now, the Camorra's New York branch should still have around 120 to 180 men active. Expect the first counterattack from the kitchen and basement in about one minute."
Her timing was precise.
Across the street at Sully Hotel, the front desk had already begun waking every Camorra operative via room phones.
Meanwhile, on the basement training level, duty squads had armed up and were on their way toward the club.
Alex remained calm, doing the math in his head.
Then he turned to John Wick:
"Mr. Wick, in about one minute your phone will buzz with two open contracts. One for Anna… and one for me."
Wick finally spoke something other than "yeah."
"Is that so?"
Alex smiled faintly.
"The good news is… right now, I'm your employer. And until our contract ends, you can't lay a hand on me or my people."
Meanwhile, Rome.
Camorra Family Headquarters.
Because of the time difference, it was already 1:00 a.m.
Santino lay sprawled across a velvet bed, two women in his arms, lost in sweet dreams.
In his dream—
his father was dead, his sister pushed aside, and he had claimed a seat among the High Table's Twelve.
As he imagined himself climbing even further, to the title of Marquis—
Ring-ring-ring!
The shrill phone shattered his fantasy.
Santino shoved the women aside, sat up, and answered.
"You bastard! What the hell have you done?! Why is our New York branch under attack?!"
The voice on the other end thundered with fury, making Santino's skull ring.
He dared not protest.
Because the voice belonged to his father.
"Father…"
"Shut up!"
Just a single bark silenced him.
Santino froze, lips sealed tight, not daring to breathe wrong.
"This mess is yours to clean. I don't care what you have to do, but you will secure the New York branch. And remember this—do not violate the High Table's rules."
The line cut off before Santino could respond.
Click.
Bang-bang-bang!
Knocks at the door jolted him.
He rushed over and pulled it open.
Ares stood there.
Silent.
She shoved a tablet into his hands.
Two clips played.
In the first, a swarm of suited killers stormed Santos Club. Seconds later, the feed went dark as cameras were shot out.
In the second, four cars rolled into Sully Hotel's underground garage. Their occupants exited, and again—cameras cut almost immediately.
Ares signed swiftly:
[This is surveillance from New York. Reliable intel says the attack was led by that female assassin Anna. She has a boss—Alex Cross.]
Santino's face darkened.
Rage overtook him.
He hurled the tablet to the floor, his complexion flushing dark red.
He stormed to the nightstand, yanked out a pistol.
Bang!
Bang!
Two shots.
The women in bed slumped lifelessly.
Breathing hard, Santino forced his anger into words:
"I want an open contract placed. On Anna. And on Alex Cross. I'll have every killer in New York hunting them down!"