Marcus's home had become a torture chamber.
They'd stripped him of his weapons first—every gun, every knife, every tool of his trade removed with methodical efficiency. Then Viggo's men had held him down while their boss worked out his rage with fists and boots.
Now Marcus lay crumpled on the floor, his face a mask of blood and swelling. Each breath came as a wet, rattling gasp. One eye was swollen completely shut. The other could barely focus. He was dying—he knew it, and so did everyone else in the room.
Viggo sat on the stairs a few feet away, breathing heavily from exertion. His knuckles were split and bloody. He pulled out his phone, found John Wick's number, and hit dial.
The phone rang twice before John answered.
"Hello, Jonathan." Viggo's voice was eerily calm, almost conversational. "I wanted to thank you. For letting my son die. I honestly don't know how to put this feeling into words."
John's hand tightened on the steering wheel of his Charger. He'd been driving aimlessly through the city, trying to clear his head, trying to convince himself that his retirement was still real. Viggo's voice shattered that illusion like glass.
"Marcus betrayed me," Viggo continued. "He broke faith for you. Violated his contract. So I'm dealing with him according to the rules of the Russian mob."
The line went dead.
John stared at his phone for a heartbeat, ice flooding through his veins. No. No, not Marcus.
Viggo stood up, setting his phone aside. He picked up a towel from the nearby table and began twisting it between his hands, wringing it tight like a rope. The fabric creaked under the pressure.
Marcus lifted his head slightly, blood dripping from his split lips. His voice was barely a whisper.
"You... canceled the contract."
Viggo's face twisted with fury. He kicked Marcus in the ribs, feeling bones crack under his boot.
"As long as the contract existed, you still had a chance!" Viggo roared. "A chance to kill John Wick! A chance to do your fucking job! If you'd just pulled the trigger, my son would still be alive!"
He dropped to one knee beside Marcus, wrapping the twisted towel around the old killer's throat.
"But you chose friendship over honor. Sentiment over duty."
Marcus tried to speak, tried to fight, but there was nothing left in him. Viggo pulled the towel tight and held it there, watching the light fade from Marcus's remaining eye.
"This is what betrayal earns you."
When it was finally over, Viggo released the towel and stood. He didn't look back at the body.
"Clean this up," he told his men. "And get everyone back to headquarters. Now."
John's Charger screamed through the streets, engine roaring as he pushed it well past the speed limit. His phone was already in his hand, calling Marcus's number.
No answer.
He tried again. Still nothing.
Fuck.
Fox's words echoed in his mind: "Good luck, and I hope Viggo doesn't mind you killing his son."
Winston's warning: "Your story won't end here."
They'd been right. Of course they'd been right. John had been a fool to think Viggo would just accept Iosef's death and move on. The man was a mob boss—sentiment and family loyalty were his currency. And John had killed his only son.
Marcus had paid the price for John's shortsightedness.
But if Viggo could track down Marcus, if he knew about Marcus helping John...
Smith.
John grabbed his phone again and pulled up Smith Doyle's number. It rang three times before connecting.
"Smith, this is John."
"John? What's wrong?"
John's throat felt tight. "I shouldn't have let Viggo go. I thought—" He cut himself off, grinding his teeth. "Marcus helped me. Saved my life. So Viggo killed him for it."
There was a pause on the other end.
"Smith, you also saved my life. You ruined Viggo's plans. I'm worried he might come after you too. Please watch yourself."
Smith's voice came through calm and measured. "Viggo already sent people. Fox and I handled it."
The words hit John like a physical blow. They'd already been attacked. Because of him. Because he'd been too soft, too naive to think the rules of their world would protect them.
"I'll take care of this," John said, his voice hard with resolve. "I won't let him bother you again. That's a promise."
He ended the call before Smith could respond.
John's hands shook slightly on the wheel—not from fear, but from cold, building rage. Marcus was dead. Smith and Fox had nearly been killed. All because John had shown mercy.
There wouldn't be any mercy left when he found Viggo.
Smith lowered his phone and sighed, glancing at Fox in the passenger seat. She had her eyes closed, one hand pressed gently against her ribs where the worst of the bruising was forming.
"John?" she asked without opening her eyes.
"He found out about Marcus. Viggo killed him." Smith's voice was neutral, but his grip on the steering wheel was white-knuckled. "John's worried Viggo might come after us next."
Fox's eyes opened, and despite the pain, she managed a bitter laugh. "Might? John really is oblivious sometimes."
"He's taking it personally. Says he'll handle Viggo."
"Good for him." Fox shifted, wincing at the movement. "But Viggo's still ours. He tried to kill you—the future leader of the Assassin's League. That's not something we forgive."
Smith nodded. The Assassin's League had very simple rules about threats to its leadership. Viggo Tarasov was already a dead man; he just didn't know it yet.
The textile factory came into view ahead—its weathered brick facade hiding one of the most sophisticated and deadly organizations in the world.
Smith helped Fox out of the SUV and escorted her directly to the medical wing. The Fraternity's recovery room was state-of-the-art, staffed by doctors who'd treated everything from bullet wounds to chemical burns without ever asking questions.
"I'll be fine," Fox insisted, though her labored breathing said otherwise. "Go. They're waiting for you."
Smith squeezed her hand once, then headed for the conference room.
When he entered, the Fraternity's senior members were already assembled around the long table. Cross sat at the head, his weathered face unreadable. The Gunsmith was cleaning his glasses with methodical precision. The Butcher leaned back in his chair with arms crossed. Mr. X, the Fraternity's intelligence chief, had files spread out before him.
They all looked up as Smith entered.
"GOD," Cross said, using Smith's designated title. "Your mission have been finalized. Please review your options."
He slid a thick folder across the table.
Smith opened it, and his eyebrows rose slightly at the first page.
Target: Russian Mob - New York Branch
The document was thorough. Senior members, complete organizational structure, headquarters location, secondary bases, safe houses. Their criminal portfolio was laid out in clinical detail: drug trafficking, human trafficking, contract killing, extortion, money laundering. A comprehensive dossier on a cancer that needed cutting out.
Viggo Tarasov's name was prominently featured.
Smith flipped to the second page.
Target: Wilson Fisk (The Kingpin) - Hell's Kitchen
Now that was a heavyweight target. Fisk was no ordinary crime boss. He had his fingers in everything—legitimate business, illegal enterprise, political corruption. He was smart, ruthless, and commanded an empire that made the Russian mob look like street thugs.
Third page: The High Table - the governing body of the Continental Hotel system and the world's organized criminal underworld.
Fourth page: The Hand - an ancient organization of mystical assassins, and the Assassin's League's oldest enemy.
Smith looked up from the documents. "The Hand?"
Cross nodded. "Our predecessors fought them for generations. Former leader Sloan's greatest achievement was negotiating a ceasefire. But peace is temporary. Eventually, we'll have to finish what our ancestors started."
"There are four listed here," Cross continued, "but you only need to complete one of the first two for your final assessment. The Russian mob is straightforward—dismantling a criminal organization. Kingpin is significantly more complex—he's protected by layers of legal and political insulation."
He leaned forward. "The last two—the High Table and the Hand—those aren't assessment targets. Those are your future responsibilities once you become the Fraternity's leader."
Smith closed the folder and looked around the table at the gathered assassins—legends, all of them. Men and women who'd trained him, tested him, prepared him for this moment.
"I'll take all four," Smith said.
Mr. X blinked. "Smith, you only need to complete one—"
"I understand. But these are all threats that need eliminating." Smith's voice was calm but absolute. "First, the Russian mob—they've already made their move against me, so they're immediate priority. Then we'll handle the others, one by one."
Cross studied him for a long moment, then a slow smile crossed his weathered face. "Very well. The Russian mob is your solo operation. You'll handle them alone—no support, no backup. Consider it the final test of your abilities."
He stood, and the others followed suit.
"For the remaining three organizations, you'll have the full resources of the Assassin's League at your command. Plan them carefully. Execute them perfectly."
Cross extended his hand. "Show us why we've been waiting eighteen years for you, Smith Doyle."
Smith shook it firmly. "I won't disappoint you."
Across the city, John Wick's Charger pulled up outside Marcus's house. He killed the engine and sat there for a moment in the silence, gathering himself.
Then he drew his Glock, checked the chamber, and approached the house with the practiced stealth of his old life.
The front door was unlocked. Bad sign.
John moved through the entryway, weapon raised, clearing corners and checking sightlines. The house was silent. Empty. But there was a smell in the air—copper and iron. Blood.
He found Marcus in the living room.
The scene made John's stomach twist. Marcus lay in a pool of blood, his face beaten beyond recognition. His legs had been stabbed repeatedly—torture, not combat wounds. The towel was still wrapped around his throat.
John knelt beside his old friend, his chest tight. Marcus's eyes were still open, staring sightlessly at the ceiling. John reached out with a shaking hand and closed them gently.
"I'm sorry," John whispered. "I should have been smarter. Should have known."
He stayed there for a moment, head bowed.
Then he stood, his grief hardening into something cold and sharp.
John pulled out his phone and called Winston.
"John," Winston answered. "I was expecting your call."
"I need information on Viggo. Where is he?"
"John, the Continental has rules about sharing intelligence—"
"Winston."
There was a pause. Then Winston's voice came back, carefully neutral.
"I wouldn't want you to know that someone is currently holed up in his headquarters. Or that he's called in every single one of his men for some reason. That would be inappropriate for me to share."
John understood immediately. Viggo was fortified, dug in, waiting.
"Thank you," John said, and ended the call.
He looked down at Marcus one last time. "I'll make this right."
Then John Wick left the house and headed for his car. He'd need more weapons for this. More ammunition. More tools. Viggo's headquarters would be a fortress, and John would be walking in alone.
But that was fine.
John Wick had stormed fortresses before.
This time, he'd leave no survivors.