"Sir, the New York branch reports—we've already lost over fifty men…"
"Sir, the club has gone dark. It's completely fallen…"
"Sir, they've breached the underground training base beneath the club…"
…
Rome.
Camorra headquarters.
In Santino's study, one dire message after another hammered at his nerves.
His face was ashen, storm-dark, almost dripping with rage.
He lit a cigarette—one drag—then hurled it and the lighter violently across the room.
Dropping into his chair, his brows knitted tight.
Beneath the fury, a trace of regret gnawed at him.
If he could turn back time, he would never have provoked that female killer named Anna.
But now, all he could do was salvage this collapsing mess.
Ares stepped forward calmly, snuffing out the smoldering cigarette butt.
He turned and signed clearly:
Let me go. Even if New York is lost, I'll kill them all and rebuild the branch myself.
"…It's too dangerous. You can't go alone. I'll speak to Gianna—let Cassian go with you."
After a long silence, Santino forced the decision out.
Begging his sister was the last thing he ever wanted, but there was no other choice.
"I don't agree!"
The doors banged open.
Gianna, in her nightgown, stormed into the study.
Her face was grim, her eyes brimming with disappointment.
"I warned you this morning—send Cassian and Ares right away. And what did you say then?"
Her domineering tone left Santino speechless.
Back then, the branch was still intact.
If Cassian and Ares had gone together, with the branch's manpower, they could have crushed the problem quickly.
But the chance was gone.
No medicine for regret.
Seeing her brother mute, Gianna continued coldly:
"The New York branch is finished. There's no saving it. And I won't let Cassian risk his life now."
"Why not?"
Santino couldn't grasp her reasoning.
She agreed in the morning, refused now. Contradiction!
But the moment those words left his lips, her eyes filled with even deeper disappointment.
"I agreed before because the branch was unscathed. Now? It's suicide. Ares and Cassian are our family's finest. I won't throw them away."
Her words struck clarity into Santino's muddled mind.
Yes. Pointless.
By the time Ares and Cassian reached New York, the branch would already be ashes.
And with the armory's weapons—enough to outfit two hundred killers—fallen into enemy hands…
Too great a risk.
Too likely they'd die there.
Training two more assassins of that caliber… was not something that gold and time alone could buy.
Gianna shook her head at her brother's silence.
"My last advice: hire killers like John Wick, or Caine. The best under the High Table. Pay whatever it takes."
With that, she left.
Her midnight visit was only because Santino was her brother.
She didn't want their father to lose all hope in him.
Because in the Camorra, disappointment carried a deadly price.
Santino stared at the closing door, torn for a long while, before finally picking up his phone.
"The world's greatest assassin—the Baba Yaga, Mr. John Wick. And you're already in New York, aren't you?"
Santos Club.
Underground base.
The words had barely left Alex Cross's lips when John Wick's phone buzzed in his pocket.
He pulled it out, glanced at the screen, then answered—his expression complex.
"…Mr. Wick."
Santino's voice came faintly across the line.
"Yeah."
"I want you to kill two people. Alex Cross and Anna. When it's done, I'll personally bring you five million dollars in New York."
"…I'm sorry. I can't take the job."
"Why not?!" Santino's tone spiked in anger.
But Wick only lifted his gaze to Alex beside him.
Alex was smiling—expectant, unsurprised.
Wick thought for a moment, then answered evenly:
"Mr. Cross has just hired me. Under High Table rules, until the contract ends, I can't raise a hand against my employer."
Silence.
The line went dead quiet.
So long that Wick almost hung up—when finally Santino's voice rasped back:
"Wick… is Alex Cross standing right beside you?"
Wick slowly exhaled a single word:
"…Yeah."