The Continental Hotel - Dining Area
Fox watched Santino start eating his meal, his movements mechanical and tense despite the forced casualness. She leaned toward Smith and spoke quietly.
"He wants to buy John Wick's blood oath? The same John Wick he just put a massive bounty on?"
Smith's expression turned sardonic. "The kill order was issued by that very man sitting across from us."
"He's only now realizing that all his power and authority can't protect him from one angry assassin with a personal vendetta."
Fox widened her eyes in mock surprise. "So that's why he wanted Winston to revoke John's membership? Remove John's protection so he's easier to hunt?"
"Exactly," Smith said, not bothering to lower his voice. "Some people use a blood oath to force someone to complete an impossible task, then immediately issue a kill order on that same person. When they realize they can't win, they run to neutral ground and try to strip away their target's protections."
He shook his head in disgust. "It's cowardice dressed up as strategy."
Smith's voice carried clearly through the dining area. Several assassins at nearby tables looked up from their meals, their gazes swiveling to Santino with undisguised contempt.
These were killers, people who lived and died by codes of honor that the outside world would never understand. Betraying a blood oath contract, attacking someone immediately after they fulfilled their obligation, hiding behind the Continental's rules while trying to strip away someone else's protection, it was the worst kind of behavior in their world.
Santino's face flushed red. His humiliation was complete, rejected by Winston, mocked by Smith, and now judged by his peers. His hand tightened around his dinner knife until his knuckles went white.
After inheriting his sister's seat, Santino had immediately used his new High Table authority to investigate Smith Doyle. What he'd found had terrified him: the Fraternity, an organization so powerful that even the High Table treated them with cautious respect. An entity that existed outside their control.
Santino couldn't afford to antagonize Smith. He needed to stay alive long enough to consolidate power, and he still needed information about the Dragon Balls before he acquired the second one.
So he sat there, eating his steak, and swallowed his rage along with the beef.
Outside the Continental Hotel
John Wick had tracked Santino through the city like a bloodhound following a scent trail. Every safe house, every loyal associate, every possible refuge, John had methodically eliminated them all.
The trail ended here, at the Continental Hotel.
Of course it did. Where else would Santino run? The Continental was the one place in the world where John couldn't touch him. The rules were absolute: no business on Continental grounds. No killing. No violence. Complete sanctuary.
John pushed through the front doors, his suit still bearing the marks of combat, tears in the fabric, dried blood on his collar, the slight limp from a knife wound in his thigh that had reopened during the last fight.
He walked directly to the concierge desk, gun still visible in his hand, murder written across his face.
"I'm here to see Santino D'Antonio," John said flatly.
Charon looked at him and swallowed hard. The concierge had seen a lot in his years at the Continental, assassins, mob bosses, international terrorists, but the aura of violence radiating from John Wick in this moment was something primal and terrifying.
"He's waiting for you in the dining area, sir," Charon said carefully.
John didn't respond. He simply walked past the desk toward the stairs leading down to the lower level.
The Dining Area
The sound of footsteps on the stairs drew everyone's attention. John Wick descended into view, and the atmosphere in the room shifted immediately, like predators recognizing an apex hunter entering their territory.
Santino saw John and took a deep, steadying breath. He was safe here. The Continental's rules were absolute. John wouldn't dare, couldn't, take action here.
Santino straightened in his chair, adjusted his suit jacket, and affected an air of complete confidence. He picked up his fork, speared a piece of beef, and deliberately dipped it in the sauce.
"Duck fat," Santino said conversationally as John approached. "Such an important component. Really makes the dish."
He chewed slowly, maintaining eye contact with John. "Have you seen the menu here, John? Extensive selection. You should stay. Have dinner."
Winston immediately recognized the danger. He set down his newspaper. "Jonathan, "
But Santino couldn't resist pushing. "Really, John. Pick anything you'd like. My treat."
"Jonathan, listen to me," Winston said, his voice taking on an edge of command.
John stopped directly in front of Santino's table. He stood motionless, his gun hanging at his side, his face an expressionless mask.
Fox leaned toward Smith, her voice barely a whisper. "Do you think he'll actually break the rules? Here, in front of everyone?"
Smith's voice was calm, certain. "If you don't have the courage to break rules when necessary, you'll never achieve anything truly important."
He watched John with interest. "Santino just inherited his seat. Gianna died before her coronation ceremony even finished. Neither of them has had time to consolidate real power. But if Santino escapes this moment, if he reaches his own coronation and solidifies his control over the Camorra, he'll have resources John can't match."
Smith took a sip of wine. "Remote kill orders. Continental-wide bounties. Political pressure. Santino will crush John through institutional power. John understands this. He knows this is his only chance."
Santino continued his taunting, oblivious to how close to death he was. "The menu really is quite extensive. One could come here for weeks and never try everything."
Winston tried one more time. "Jonathan. Turn around. Walk out of here. Right now."
"Yes, John," Santino agreed, his smile vicious. "Listen to the manager. Be a good dog."
That was the moment John decided.
He could live as a fugitive, hunted forever by every assassin in the world, unable to search for the Dragon Balls, unable to bring Helen back.
Or he could end it here, accept the consequences, and trust that Smith Doyle had a plan.
John raised his gun and fired.
The shot echoed through the dining area like thunder in a cathedral. Santino's head snapped back, a neat hole in his forehead, and he slumped in his chair. Dead before his brain could process what had happened.
Silence fell over the room, absolute, stunned silence.
Smith smiled slightly. "Rules are made to be broken. If Perkins had the courage to kill here, why shouldn't John?"
Winston stared at Santino's corpse, then at John, his expression a mixture of shock and something that might have been respect. His voice, when it came, was measured but heavy with implication.
"What have you done, Jonathan?"
John placed his pistol on the table, a gesture of surrender, of acknowledgment. His voice was cold and final. "I finished it."
He turned and met Smith's eyes.
Smith nodded once. "Your journey continues. Come find us when you survive what's coming next. You know where we are."