Santino shook his head, his expression carefully neutral. "I don't know what it is, and frankly, I don't need to know. But I heard through certain channels that you were searching for something similar, so I checked some online marketplaces—secondhand sites, collector forums, that sort of thing. Found this one for sale." He smiled slightly. "Interesting coincidence, don't you think?"
John felt relief wash through him. Santino didn't know about the Dragon Balls' true power—he was just using it as leverage because he'd heard John was looking for them. That was manageable.
"John, would you mind telling me what this actually is?" Santino asked, genuine curiosity in his voice.
John's expression remained stone-cold. "Are you willing to trade the blood oath contract for information about it?"
Santino laughed—a genuine sound of surprise. "John, are you joking? Originally, I didn't want to bother you at all. I respect your retirement. But when you walked back into the Continental Hotel and gave out a new blood oath marker, I assumed you'd returned to the life."
"That was personal business," John said flatly. "A private debt."
Santino waved that away dismissively. He held up the marker between them like a judge presenting evidence. "There are two absolute rules at the Continental Hotel. First: no killing on Continental grounds. Second: blood oath contracts must be fulfilled."
John nodded slowly, knowing where this was going.
Santino's tone became formal, reciting the rules like scripture. "Those who give a marker cannot attack the holder. The mission bound by the marker must be completed. Refuse, and you die. Run, and you die. Kill the marker holder, and you die. Violators are excommunicated from the Continental and hunted by the entire High Table."
The weight of those words settled over the room like a death shroud.
John knew he was trapped. The rules were absolute. He'd lived by them for decades, and they wouldn't bend for him now.
"Tell me what you want," John said, his voice resigned. "And I want that four-star ball when I'm done."
Santino's face lit up with satisfaction. "Noted. You'll receive it when the task is complete, you have my word."
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his expression turning serious.
"I need you to kill my sister."
John's eyes narrowed. "Why?"
"The High Table has twelve seats," Santino explained, his voice taking on an edge of bitterness. "Camorra, Cosa Nostra, 'Ndrangheta, the Triads, the Russians—all the major organizations. When my father died, he passed our family's Camorra seat to Gianna. To her, not to me."
His hands clenched into fists. "She represents the Camorra now. Sits at the High Table. Makes decisions that affect millions. And I can't help but wonder—what could I have achieved with that power? What could I have built?"
"You want me to assassinate Gianna D'Antonio?" John clarified, making sure he understood correctly.
Santino nodded. "I can't do it myself. She's family. I still love her, despite everything." His voice carried genuine regret. "But I need her seat. Which means I need her dead. And I need it done by someone with no connection to me—a ghost."
John shook his head slowly. "This is impossible. You understand that, right?"
But Santino was ready for that objection. "She's being coronated as the official head of the Camorra in Rome. The ceremony is in three days. You'll enter through the catacombs beneath the—"
"It doesn't matter where she is," John interrupted. "That's not the problem."
John's mind was already calculating the angles. If he refused this task, the Continental and the High Table would execute him. He wouldn't survive a week. But if he completed it? If he assassinated a High Table Elder during their coronation? The result would probably be the same—death, just slower and more painful.
And Santino held the four-star ball. Without it, John couldn't gather all seven Dragon Balls. Without all seven, he couldn't wish Helen back.
He was trapped from every angle.
Santino studied John's face, reading the conflict there. "That's exactly why I need John Wick the ghost. The Baba Yaga. The man who does impossible things." He stood, straightening his jacket. "Help me with this, you fulfill your blood contract, and I give you the four-star ball as a gift. Everyone wins."
He extended his hand. "What do you say?"
John stood as well, ignoring the offered handshake. "I've accepted the mission. Make sure you hand over that four-star ball when I'm done."
Santino smiled, withdrew his hand without offense, and picked up his coffee for one last sip. "Pleasure doing business with you, Jonathan."
He turned and walked toward the door, pausing at the threshold. "Oh, and John? Don't disappoint me. I'd hate for something to happen to that little orange ball."
Then he was gone, leaving John alone with his thoughts and the frozen image of Helen on the television screen.
Somewhere in New York
Smith Doyle walked through the city with two companions flanking him. Wesley—Cross's son and one of the Fraternity's most promising young operatives—kept pace on his left. Fox walked on his right, still moving a bit carefully after yesterday's injuries but refusing to stay in the medical wing.
And on Smith's shoulder was Puar.
Wesley kept glancing at Puar, his expression a mix of curiosity and barely concealed fascination.
"GOD, what's our next move?" Wesley asked.
Smith considered for a moment. "Wesley, I need you to find John Wick and bring him to headquarters. Tell him I need to speak with him about our arrangement."
He handed Wesley a slip of paper with an address. "This is where he lives."
"Understood." Wesley immediately split off and headed for his car.
Fox watched him go, then turned to Smith. "Are you planning to tell Wesley about the Dragon Balls?"
"Not just Wesley," Smith replied. "The entire senior leadership will know. The Dragon Balls are going to become the Fraternity's new sacred artifacts—our new guiding purpose now that the Loom is gone."
Fox glanced up at Puar, who was currently drifting on an imaginary breeze above them. "What about him? There are surveillance cameras everywhere these days. If people see a talking flying cat, we'll have problems."
Puar immediately shifted forms, transforming into a simple blue balloon with a cat face printed on it—completely mundane, nothing that would attract a second glance.
"I won't talk outside and cause trouble for Master Smith," Puar said, his voice now barely a whisper that only they could hear.
Fox's eyes widened. "He can do that? Just... change forms at will?"
"Transformation technique," Smith explained. "Very useful ability."
Fox shook her head in wonder, still processing the impossibility of it all. "I suppose that solves the problem."
Smith shrugged. Puar's existence would eventually become public knowledge—especially after they used the Dragon Balls and his power increased dramatically. But he wasn't worried. The early Marvel universe wasn't particularly dangerous yet.
He could handle the attention when it came.
Fraternity Headquarters
Wesley returned within the hour, John Wick following him into the textile factory's main entrance. John looked around with professional interest, taking in the industrial equipment, the workers at their looms, the subtle security measures disguised as normal factory operations.
So this was where the Fraternity operated from. A textile factory in New York, hiding in plain sight.
"GOD, I've brought John Wick," Wesley announced as they entered the conference room.
Smith and Fox were already there, along with Puar—now in his natural form—floating near the ceiling.
John nodded in greeting to both of them.
"Whiskey?" Fox offered, already moving toward the small bar in the corner.
"Please."
Fox poured a glass and handed it to John. He took a sip, savoring the burn, then looked directly at Smith.
"I found the second Dragon Ball," John said without preamble.
Smith's attention sharpened immediately. "Which one?"
"The four-star ball. It's in the possession of Santino D'Antonio, but it'll be mine soon."
Wesley, who'd been standing quietly to the side, perked up at the unfamiliar term. Dragon Ball? He filed the question away for later—clearly this was important, and he'd learn about it when Smith was ready to explain.
Fox, who'd been studying the High Table intelligence files earlier, frowned. "D'Antonio? The man who runs the Camorra?"
"His sister runs it, actually," John corrected. "Gianna D'Antonio is about to inherit their family's seat at the High Table. Santino came to my house with the information about the Dragon Ball and a blood oath marker I gave him years ago."
He took another sip of whiskey. "He wants me to kill his sister so he can claim the Camorra seat for himself."