Chapter 4 – The Continental
The basement was lit only by a single hanging bulb, its glow catching on steel and brass. Weapons lay neatly in rows across the table: pistols polished, shotguns oiled, magazines stacked like soldiers waiting for command.
John moved among them with quiet precision. His face was unreadable now, his grief carved into something harder, cleaner. He slid magazines into holsters, checked slides, tightened suppressors with steady fingers. Every motion was ritual, muscle memory awakened.
When he opened the garment bag, the faint scent of mothballs and starch drifted up. Inside, a black suit, perfectly tailored, pressed and untouched since Helen. He ran his hand across the fabric once before slipping it on. The jacket settled across his shoulders as if it had been waiting.
By the time he looked into the mirror at the far end of the room, the man staring back wasn't the widower anymore. It was the man Viggo Tarasov feared.
The Baba Yaga.
John drove into the city under cover of night. The Mustang was gone, stolen. Instead he took a nondescript sedan, something that drew no eyes. The streets blurred by neon streaks across rain-slicked pavement.
He parked outside a hotel that looked, from the street, like any other relic of old New York. Modest awning, brass doors dulled with age. Only those who knew saw it for what it was.
The Continental.
Inside, the lobby was hushed, elegant, timeless. Dark wood gleamed under low chandeliers. Oil paintings lined the walls, their gilded frames catching the light. No clocks ticked here. No music played. The air itself seemed to obey the rules.
At the reception desk, a tall man in a crisp suit looked up as John approached. His expression was calm, professional, but a flicker of recognition sparked in his eyes.
"Good evening, Mr. Wick." His voice was warm, precise. "It's been… quite some time."
John slid a single gold coin across the counter. Heavy, engraved, unmistakable. The man accepted it with reverence.
"Always a pleasure, sir. Room 818. Shall I arrange for dinner?"
"Just the room," John said, voice quiet, clipped.
"As you wish."
A key card changed hands. John turned without another word, Daisy's absence like a ghost trailing him even here.
As he crossed the lobby, a few figures lifted their eyes from armchairs and drinks. Men and women in tailored clothes, watching him with curiosity, some with recognition, some with fear. Whispers passed like smoke.
John Wick was back.
He ignored them all, riding the elevator in silence.
The doors opened to a corridor lined in thick carpet, the kind that swallowed footsteps. His room was immaculate: bed made tight, whiskey waiting on a polished tray, curtains drawn.
He didn't touch the whiskey. He sat on the edge of the bed, hands clasped, head bowed. For a moment, the silence pressed again, and Helen's voice whispered in memory.
But his eyes opened colder.
Tomorrow, the work would begin.
The Continental's lounge breathed wealth and secrecy. Deep red leather chairs, mahogany tables polished to a sheen, shelves of liquor that caught the low firelight in crystal glints. A jazz record spun somewhere, muted, the kind of music that seemed older than the hotel itself.
John stepped inside, his presence drawing glances that quickly slipped away. Here, every guest was dangerous. But even among wolves, one name carried more weight.
Behind the bar stood Winston. Impeccably dressed, his silvered beard trimmed sharp, his eyes shrewd and watchful. He looked like a gentleman hosting a private club, but every gesture hinted at control, at ownership of this delicate balance.
He lifted his gaze as John approached, a smile touching his lips part amusement, part warning.
"Well, well. Jonathan." His voice was smooth, cultivated, as though tasting the name like an old wine. "If it isn't the ghost who swore he'd never haunt us again."
John stopped at the bar. "Winston."
"Still a man of few words." Winston poured two drinks of fine bourbon, sliding one across the polished wood. "But then, you never needed many."
John didn't drink immediately. He studied Winston, the man who was more than just the owner of this place. He was its guardian, its arbiter. And beneath his charm, the message was always clear: rules kept the wolves from tearing each other apart.
"You know why I'm here," John said finally.
Winston's smile widened, but his eyes sharpened. "I've heard whispers. The Tarasov boy. The car. The dog." He swirled his glass, watching the amber liquid catch the light. "They say you've decided to come back."
John's jaw tightened. He didn't answer.
Winston leaned closer, lowering his voice, though no one in the lounge would dare to eavesdrop. "You remember the rules, Jonathan. No blood on Continental grounds. Business is conducted outside, always. Break that rule, and even you…" He lifted his glass, "…wouldn't be untouchable."
The pause that followed wasn't a threat. It was a reminder.
John finally lifted his drink, swallowing it in one smooth motion. The burn was sharp, welcome. He set the glass down gently.
"I'm not here for business," he said. "Not tonight."
"Good." Winston's tone softened, though his eyes never left John's. "Because the moment you step back into that world, Jonathan… there is no half-measure. They'll come for you. And you'll have to decide are you the man Helen thought you were? Or the man everyone else knows you to be?"
John stood, sliding the empty glass back across the bar. His silence was answer enough.
Winston chuckled softly, almost with admiration. "Very well. Then God help them all."
As John turned to leave, eyes followed him again cautious, reverent, fearful. Even here, among killers bound by the same laws, John Wick was something more.
He was the storm they all remembered.
The rooftop was quiet, the city sprawled below in lights and shadows. Steam hissed from grates, the hum of traffic rising faintly from the avenues. John leaned against the cold stone railing, his collar turned up against the wind.
A voice came from behind him, smooth, tinged with gravel and age.
"You still know how to disappear into a city, John. But you never could disappear from me."
John turned.
Marcus stood there, broad-shouldered, a long coat draped around him like a cloak. His hair had thinned with time, his face carved with lines, but his eyes were sharp, steady, and dangerous as ever. A rifle case rested against the ledge at his side, unmistakable.
John's lips curved, the closest thing to a smile he'd given anyone in years. "Marcus."
The older man stepped forward, clapped John's shoulder once, firm and familiar. "Heard the whispers. Didn't believe it. But here you are."
"Here I am."
They stood together in silence for a moment, watching the skyline, as if the years between them had folded into nothing.
Marcus finally broke it. "Word is, you're going after Viggo's boy." His tone was neutral, but there was weight in it not disapproval, not support, just fact.
John didn't answer right away. He let the city fill the pause, lights flickering in windows far below.
"He took the last thing she left me," John said at last, his voice low, steady. "He has to pay."
Marcus studied him, his eyes narrowing slightly. "You sure this is about the dog?"
John glanced at him. Marcus's look wasn't mocking it was searching, almost protective.
John's silence was his answer.
Marcus sighed, but a faint smile tugged at his lips. "You were always stubborn. When you decide a man has to go, the world may as well start digging the grave." He leaned on the railing, his hands folding together. "I should tell you to walk away. That you've done enough killing for ten men's lifetimes."
"You're not going to," John said quietly.
Marcus chuckled, deep and dry. "No. I'm not. Because I know better." He tapped the rifle case. "If you need an extra set of eyes… I'll be there."
Their gazes met, steady. Old trust lay between them but also the knowledge that trust in this world was never absolute.
John nodded once. "Thank you."
Marcus stepped back, lifting the rifle case. "Careful, John. Viggo's not a fool. He'll throw an army between you and that boy."
"I know."
Marcus studied him a final time, as though committing the man to memory. Then he turned, his footsteps fading into the night.
John stayed at the railing, the city before him vast, indifferent, waiting.
The hallway beneath the Continental smelled faintly of cedar and old wine. Soft lighting spilled across racks of bottles, labels written in French and Italian script. The air was hushed, reverent, like stepping into a chapel.
At the far end, a man in a dark apron looked up from polishing a glass. Tall, lean, with the air of a priest or curator, he smiled warmly as John approached.
"Mr. Wick," the man said, his voice calm, measured. "It's been too long."
"Sommelier," John returned, giving the faintest nod.
"Indeed." The man gestured toward the endless shelves. "Shall we pair something exquisite to your palate tonight?"
John followed as the sommelier led him deeper, past rows of Bordeaux and Champagne. At a heavy oak table, the man produced a case, setting it down as though it held priceless vintages. When he opened it, there was no wine inside but pistols, gleaming under the light.
"May I suggest a robust red?" The sommelier's hands hovered over a Glock fitted with a custom suppressor. "Bold, versatile, pairs well with almost anything."
John picked it up, weighed it, checked the slide. Silent approval.
The sommelier's eyes twinkled. "And for desert courses… something refined?" He produced a compact P30L. "Elegant. Precise."
John loaded the magazine with a click. His silence was enough.
"Excellent." The sommelier's voice dropped, as if savoring the ritual. "And for the main course?"
He opened another drawer. Shotguns, matte-black, immaculate. He ran his hand across a Benelli M4. "Something strong-bodied, with a smooth finish. I believe you'll find it… satisfying."
John chambered a round. The sound echoed in the room like punctuation.
By the time the session was over, a tailored case was filled with handguns, a shotgun, knives an arsenal disguised as a collection. The sommelier bowed slightly.
"Do enjoy your party, Mr. Wick."
From there, John crossed into another wing of the Continental one that smelled of starch, fabric, and chalk dust. The tailor's shop was lined with bolts of Italian wool and silk.
A plump man in spectacles looked up as John entered, his tape measure draped around his neck. His face lit up with recognition.
"Ah! Mr. Wick. A pleasure."
John removed his jacket, standing still as the tailor circled him, measuring with meticulous care.
"And what occasion shall we be dressing for?" the tailor asked, marking notes on his pad.
"Formal," John replied.
The tailor nodded knowingly. "Tactical, then."
From beneath the table, he produced swatches of cloth lined with Kevlar weave, the fabric smooth but impenetrable. He held them up against John's shoulder. "Stylish, but bullet-resistant. A classic cut, single-breasted. And of course… room for movement."
He ran his fingers down the fabric, muttering, "Sharp, deadly, understated. Just like the man who wears it."
John gave the faintest smirk.
When the tailor was finished, the suit was set aside, packaged with care. He patted the garment bag with a fondness, as though it were a work of art.
"There. A suit as strong as the man inside it. May it keep you alive, Mr. Wick."
John accepted it without a word, only a nod.
By the time he returned upstairs, his arsenal secured and his new suit in hand, the transformation was complete. The man who once buried his past was gone.
The Baba Yaga was dressed for war.