"Hello, Mr. Santino…"
Alex's voice carried through the phone.
There was no anger.
No arrogance.
Just a calm, steady tone, laced with that hateful confidence Santino couldn't stand.
"Alex, there's no need for us to fight to the death. You pull out of the hotel, I'll cancel the bounty, and we call it even. How about that?"
Santino furrowed his brow, barely holding back the surge of rage boiling inside.
He had nearly smashed his phone the instant he realized John Wick had been preemptively hired by Alex, and was sitting at his side right now.
Fortunately, Ares had signed quickly beside him:
Negotiate. Get Alex to retreat from New York. I'll convince Cassian to fly over, and with the branch killers, we'll wipe them out.
A desperate proposal, yes—but it gave Santino a sliver of hope.
He sat back at his desk, pulled a cigar from the drawer, struck a new lighter, and took a slow drag.
He felt certain—Alex would accept.
After all, the Camorra Family was one of the Twelve High Table syndicates.
Alex was just a nobody, barely on the map for a single day.
Even with a squad of decent killers, surely he wouldn't be foolish enough to dig his own grave.
But that fragile confidence lasted only a few seconds.
"Mr. Santino… latest intel says there are fifty-eight of your men left in the Sully Hotel. Oh, wait—sorry, make that fifty-seven."
Alex's mocking tone cut straight through.
BANG!
The sound of a fist slamming onto a desk rattled through the phone.
"Alex! Don't get cocky! The Camorra isn't so easily provoked!"
"Empty threats?"
Alex let out a sharp laugh. No wonder his plan had gone so smoothly—Santino was an idiot.
Dropping all pretense, Alex said plainly:
"Mr. Santino, relax. Not one of your killers will walk out of that hotel alive. And as for whether the Camorra will ever again take contracts in New York? Well, we'll just have to wait and see."
"Oh, and a friendly tip—don't bother calling Caine. When I hired Mr. Wick, I hired him too. Save yourself the long-distance bill. It's expensive."
Click.
Alex hung up.
"FUCK!!"
This time, Santino truly lost control, hurling his phone into the wall.
Bracing his hands on the desk, his face flushed crimson, he gasped for breath.
If he weren't so young and strong, he might have coughed up blood right there.
It took a long while before he slumped weakly into his chair.
Only one thought circled in his mind:
The New York branch was finished. And so was he.
Yes—he had no way out.
Two short exchanges with Alex, and he'd been reduced to a clown.
Just as Alex said—he had only thrown out empty threats to protect his pride.
But the truth was undeniable.
Two hundred Camorra killers—gone in less than twenty-four hours, wiped out by a complete unknown.
What would it cost to kill Alex now?
Five hundred men? A thousand?
And even if Alex died, how many of those sent would ever come back?
The Camorra was only one of twelve.
At the first sign of weakness, the other eleven would swarm like sharks, tearing flesh from bone.
His father would never allow it.
The family couldn't pay that price.
"…Ares."
After a long silence, Santino forced a bitter smile, lifting his head toward the woman who stood quietly by his side.
Ares signed:
If you need me to assassinate Alex, I will give my life.
Her words, though silent, gave him a strange comfort.
He shook his head, gazing out the window, his voice flat.
"When my father's punishment comes… what do you think, Ares? Will he send me to Siberia to plant potatoes, or to some African tribe to sow wheat?"
There was no reply.
Ares understood—this was self-mockery.
Sure enough, his voice carried on, detached, almost resigned:
"…No. Probably Mexico, or Southeast Asia. Somewhere chaotic. To rebuild a new cadre of killers… until we've patched over the loss of New York."