Early morning.
At the Lighthouse Hotel, Alex stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows,
a glass of whiskey in hand,
watching the glittering nightscape of New York.
An unreadable smile tugged at his lips.
The Night Demon Organization…
the Tarasov Syndicate…
the Vietnamese crew…
the Giselle family…
The constant power struggle among them—
Alex had never directly interfered,
but he paid attention nonetheless.
After all,
he had given Irene one month.
And now—
this was only the second night.
On reflection, their skirmishes looked almost like a miniature historical drama.
Clearly, Irene had studied hard,
brushing up on stories and strategies from the past to impress "the big man."
What the ancients had once perfected,
she managed to imitate—though only a fraction of the true essence.
Still, even that much was enough to make foreigners gape in awe.
As his thoughts drifted,
Nikita's voice cut in from behind.
"Mr. Alex, for your safety,
until Susie replaces these windows with bulletproof glass,
I suggest you don't stand so close."
On the other side, Anna was already drawing the curtains shut.
The two women approached, one from either side.
One plucked the whiskey from his hand.
The other—
pushed Alex back onto the bed,
long legs straddling his waist.
The night dissolved into indulgence.
The next day.
When Alex woke again,
it was already close to 11 a.m.
Anna was gone—
no doubt at the underground training base,
immersed in her rigorous routine.
Nikita, freshly showered,
was in the living room, eating breakfast.
Alex rose,
washed quickly,
then joined her at the table.
He leaned down, kissed her forehead naturally,
took the breakfast she handed him,
and asked casually:
"Tell me. What's the current situation?"
Nikita sipped her milk,
set down her fork, and reported:
"Mr. Caine and his daughter have arrived in New York.
The hotel dispatched a convoy to retrieve them—they should be back soon.
We still haven't established contact with Mr. Wick.
But our people checked his flight—he should land around 2 p.m.
This morning, Miss Irene reported her results to Miss Susie.
Last night, they seized a third of the Vietnamese gang's territory.
It won't be long before they link up with the Tarasov Syndicate."
Alex nodded, unsurprised.
Everything was unfolding exactly as he had foreseen.
He cut into a fried egg,
chewed slowly,
swallowed,
then wiped his mouth.
"When Caine arrives, notify me immediately.
As for John Wick…"
He paused, hesitating for several seconds before continuing:
"Send Anna with ten elite killers.
Station them at the terminal.
No matter what—bring him to me the moment he lands."
"Yes, Mr. Alex," Nikita answered promptly.
Then she added carefully:
"And… Irene? Do we need to make any arrangements?"
Alex shook his head.
"No need. The 30 days I gave her are more than enough."
Meanwhile. At the Saint Dion Strip Club.
The Night Demon, betrayed and furious,
was venting his wrath.
Each punch slammed into a heavy sandbag.
Screams echoed from inside it.
Two corpses already lay sprawled on the floor.
Another Tarasov foot soldier, bound and trembling, waited his turn.
Clearly, two had already died under his fists.
Seven or eight Vietnamese enforcers shrank back in a corner,
heads lowered,
silent.
The Night Demon had originally ordered them to capture Viggo himself—
but the man had gone into hiding,
impossible to track.
In desperation,
these Vietnamese soldiers had dragged in Tarasov lackeys instead,
hoping to lessen their punishment.
They weren't wrong.
If not for these offerings,
they would likely have been stuffed into the sandbag themselves.
But the Night Demon's brutal catharsis ended abruptly.
A High Table Adjudicator entered with three killers at his back.
As protocol demanded,
he withdrew a black coin from his chest—
Clink!
It landed on the table.
Instantly, the Night Demon froze mid-punch.
"Night Demon… forever loyal to the High Table."
The words came low and steady.
The Adjudicator's lips curved into a rare smile.
Pocketing the coin,
he swept his gaze across the room,
shook his head,
and gave the order:
"Enough of these meaningless tantrums.
The High Table requires you at the airport at 2 p.m.
You will escort John Wick safely to the Continental."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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