Orange evening light filtered through the slats of the hospital blinds. Anthony reclined against the headboard, his fingers idly tracing the thick bandages on his chest, his gaze fixed on the muted television mounted on the wall.
Outside the door, Winnie took a deep, steadying breath.
In her left hand, she carried a woven wicker carrier containing a black-and-white beagle puppy.
In her right hand, she held another high-end thermal food container.
"We were just high school classmates. Besides, he doesn't remember anything," she whispered to herself like a mantra. "What do I have to be embarrassed about?"
Winnie deliberately raised her chin, donned her polished executive mask, and pushed the door open.
Anthony was still hooked up to an IV, casually watching TV.
"Morning, Winnie," he said. A smile played on his lips as he looked up. His eyes quickly swept past her meticulously composed face and locked onto the small dog in the carrier.
A little black head poked out of the wicker basket, its wet nose nuzzling against Winnie's expensive watch.
It had a large domed skull, soulful hazel eyes, long drooping ears, and a pristine black-and-white coat. It was well-muscled with a short back and broad loins.
Aside from the black-and-white coloring, it looked nearly identical to Daisy, the beagle puppy John Wick received in the canon timeline.
"Seems the Honor Council Chair is more efficient than a 911 dispatch," Anthony said, smoothly suppressing his genuine surprise. "You found one that fast?"
"I keep my promises," Winnie replied with a strained smile, carefully avoiding his eyes as she set the softly whimpering puppy on the bed.
Anthony clicked his tongue. The beagle tilted its head, sniffed the air a few times, and then immediately scrambled toward Anthony's outstretched hand, its little tail wagging like a propeller.
"Female, six months old, fully vaccinated. The AKC pedigree paperwork is in the bag," she said, setting the carrier on the nightstand. Her gaze remained deliberately fixed on the wall, refusing to look at his bare, bandaged chest.
"The breeder assured me she has a very gentle temperament. She won't make a fuss, which makes her suitable to keep you company while you recover," Winnie added, finally glancing at his face. "But you have to name her."
"Helen," Anthony said without a second of hesitation. Seeing Winnie raise an elegant eyebrow, he chuckled softly. "Just a random thought."
He certainly wasn't going to tell Winnie that Helen was the name of John Wick's deceased wife.
Acquiring this specific breed of dog and giving it that specific name was a calculated psychological weapon to bypass John's defenses.
Otherwise, given John's legendary paranoia and hyper-vigilance as a retired master assassin, he would never allow a stranger like Anthony within a hundred yards of his life.
"The doctor said the wound isn't critical," Anthony noted, gently scratching behind Helen's floppy ears. "A puncture like this is nothing compared to the shrapnel on a battlefield."
Helen closed her eyes in pure contentment, a soft, satisfied rumble vibrating in her throat as she curled into a tight ball against his hip.
The dying sunlight danced across her smooth coat, filling the sterile room with a strange, warm tranquility.
Watching him gently play with the puppy, Winnie's gaze grew distant.
The fragmented memories from last night, which she had spent all day forcibly suppressing, surged to the surface again.
Just how much of this man's story about "mutual amnesia" did she actually believe?
"You've changed so much, I almost didn't recognize you at the precinct," she admitted, sitting tentatively on the edge of the mattress and unlatching the food container.
Anthony looked up at her. "I didn't recognize you last night either. I just thought you looked familiar. Honestly, I thought I was hallucinating."
Winnie looked up, a wry smile touching her lips. "Don't tell me you hallucinated about me while deployed."
"You know what? I actually did think about you quite a bit," Anthony said, keeping one hand resting protectively over the puppy. "Things got pretty intense over there. Remembering how you used to bully me in the hallways was a nice, grounding memory."
Winnie's gaze dropped back to the food, clearly not buying his smooth talk.
In her position at the top of the corporate ladder, what kind of lies, sycophancy, empty pleasantries, and hypocritical flattery hadn't she heard?
But beneath the skepticism, she was genuinely grateful to Anthony.
If he hadn't immediately covered for her and fabricated that domestic dispute story, the NYPD would have launched a full homicide investigation. The resulting media circus would have given her corporate rivals and hostile family members all the ammunition they needed to tear her down.
She also never imagined she would reunite with the lanky teenage troublemaker under such bizarre circumstances.
Perhaps recalling a specific high school memory, she paused, lost in thought, before the corner of her mouth twitched into a genuine, fond smile.
Winnie efficiently cut the filet mignon into bite-sized pieces and handed him the plate and a silver fork.
"Your arms have been working perfectly fine since I walked in, haven't they?"
Anthony took the plate without an ounce of shame. "I hold grudges. Who told you to be so mean to me back then?"
"If I hadn't intercepted the campus security guard that one time, you would have been expelled, not just given demerits," Winnie laughed lightly, continuing to unpack the gourmet fried chicken, seared fish, and artisan fruit tarts.
Anthony speared a piece of steak and casually tossed it into Helen's waiting mouth. "Honestly, I've always missed those days."
Winnie laughed, a clear, musical sound. "You missed the days of dragging the entire school's average GPA down with your sheer lack of effort?"
"No." Anthony speared another piece of steak, his eyes holding a complex, unreadable emotion. "I missed the days of being managed by you."
The playful atmosphere instantly vanished.
"I'm very sorry, but from now on, you'll have to manage yourself," Winnie said, standing up abruptly, her corporate armor snapping back into place. "I have to get back to the office. I'll arrange for a courier to bring your meals starting tomorrow."
She opened her designer handbag, extracted a sleek black credit card, and placed it precisely on the bedside table, her eyes darting away from his chest.
"You can't work while you recover. I've calculated an appropriate sum for lost wages and hardship. The limit is ten thousand dollars a month, pre-authorized for six months."
Seeing Anthony staring blankly at the card, Winnie averted her eyes entirely. "If your physical therapy requires an extension, I can authorize it for twelve months."
"But I don't want you to develop a... dependency. Once you're medically cleared, if you want a legitimate job, I can make some calls."
Anthony's gaze lingered on the black card before slowly rising to meet her eyes. "Fine. Consider it a severance package. After this, we go our separate ways."
"That's not—" For some reason, Winnie suddenly felt a spike of anxious panic. "I just wanted to make sure you were—"
Before she could finish her sentence, the hospital room door was violently kicked open.
Iosef Tarasov swaggered into the doorway.
Two heavily armed Russian thugs loomed in the hallway behind him.
Iosef wore a garish silk shirt, the collar unbuttoned halfway down his chest to show off a crude bratva tattoo. Several strands of meticulously greased hair fell loosely across his forehead.
When his eyes landed on Anthony—sitting upright in bed, very much alive, his chest wrapped in bandages—a cruel, mocking smirk began to form.
Then, he noticed Winnie standing by the bed.
Undisguised shock paralyzed Iosef's features. A second later, that shock warped into ugly, venomous anger.
He couldn't comprehend it. How the hell was this bastard half-brother still breathing? The botulinum toxin should have turned him into a cold corpse hours ago.
And why the fuck was the Pritzker bitch in his hospital room?!
Sensing the sudden aggression, Helen's floppy ears pinned back. The little beagle let out a low, warning growl.
Iosef's gaze swept viciously over Winnie's elegant face before locking onto the man and the dog on the bed.
"Ha—"
A sharp, grating laugh scraped its way out of Iosef's throat.
"Well, look who it is! Our glorious Afghan war hero. The Marine Corps coward himself. Oh, what's wrong, Tony? You got a little scratch? Still haven't met your maker? I gotta admit, you're a hard cockroach to crush!"
He swaggered fully into the room, the hard heels of his expensive snakeskin shoes clacking sharply against the linoleum.
A suffocating wave of cheap cologne and stale vodka rolled off him, instantly overpowering the sterile scent of the hospital and the delicate notes of Winnie's perfume.
He stopped a few feet from the bed, shoving his hands into his tailored trouser pockets. He leaned forward aggressively, staring down at Anthony like he was examining a squashed bug. A malicious, predatory grin spread across his face.
"What's this? Playing dead dog in a hospital bed, and you even got the little Pritzker princess to hand-feed you?"
Winnie instantly went rigid, her eyes narrowing as she glared at Iosef. "How do you know who I am?"
Iosef slowly turned his head. He looked at her flawless, pale face, his eyes roaming down her body with undisguised, leering intent.
"Oh, sweetheart. I don't just know who you are. I also—"
He stopped abruptly. He choked back whatever he was about to say, clearly remembering that openly confessing to setting up a billionaire heiress in a room full of witnesses was a bad idea.
He scoffed, turning his attention back to his half-brother.
"Anthony, you absolute piece of trash. You spent three years hiding in trenches, didn't learn a damn thing about fighting, but you sure mastered the art of hiding behind a woman's skirt, didn't you?"
Iosef leaned closer, his breath reeking of alcohol. "What's the matter? You got used to being a dog for the military in the desert, and now you want to be a lapdog for the Pritzkers?"
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