After delivering his message to Abram Tarasov, John Wick got up and left without another word.
Through the office's glass window, Abram watched Wick drive away in his Mustang, then sank comfortably into his boss chair, lighting up a cigar as he leisurely waited for his brother, Viggo Tarasov, to call.
Abram knew his nephew well—after taking a beating, Iosef would definitely go running to daddy.
Sure enough, the phone rang not long after.
Straightening his thoughts, Abram answered in a low voice,
"Hello? Good morning, Viggo."
"I heard you gave my son a serious beating," Viggo's voice came through the line—stern but oddly calm, making Abram's skin crawl.
This was Viggo's only son. Under normal circumstances, even a scratch on Iosef would have triggered a furious outburst.
And yet... he sounds calm?
That sent warning bells ringing in Abram's mind. No wonder Viggo commanded absolute obedience among his men.
If Viggo had immediately launched into a rage, it would have meant he still had some familial feelings left.
But now? This was cold calculation.
Realizing this, Abram decided to tell half-truths and keep the rest hidden.
"Apologies, Viggo," he said smoothly. "Iosef ambushed John Wick, nearly killed him, stole his car, and killed his dog. You understand."
"Oh..."
The moment John Wick's name was mentioned, a wave of shock and unease hit Viggo—no less than what Abram had felt earlier.
John Wick, with Sunday's assistance, was like a ghost—appearing and disappearing without a trace.
Every clash between Viggo and Wick had left Viggo even more terrified.
If not for Wick's restraint—showing up, pressing a gun to his head, but never pulling the trigger—Viggo would've been dead long ago.
He had clung to the delusion that as long as he paid the yearly three hundred million dollars, Wick would leave him alone.
He never realized that, behind the scenes, William had long grown tired of micromanaging such small matters, leaving everything to Sunday, a machine incapable of adapting or showing mercy.
"I see," Viggo said finally. "You did well, Abram."
The call ended with the dull beep of a disconnect.
Abram, still smiling, hung up without mentioning John Wick's grim promise to kill Iosef.
"Good, let them fight. The more blood spilled, the less chance there'll be any clean ending," Abram thought gleefully.
Meanwhile, back at his penthouse, Viggo stood on the balcony, lost in thought, replaying all the times he had stared down the barrel of John Wick's gun.
Three times.
The first time had been seven years ago.
Back then, Viggo Tarasov was the head of the Russian mob in New York, but still under the thumb of the bigger boss—Puskin—and constantly harassed by competitors.
Then one day, John Wick stormed in alone—killing everyone in his path—because Puskin had somehow offended Wick's unseen backer.
Wick gave Viggo two choices:
Ally with the new power...
Or die.
Of course he had agreed.
Unexpectedly, the reward for switching sides had been even greater than he'd imagined.
Not only had Wick eliminated Viggo's rivals, but Puskin himself was quickly disposed of by the mysterious "big boss."
From that point on, Viggo ruled the East Coast Russian mob uncontested.
For over a year, things went well.
But as Viggo's wealth and ambition grew, resentment simmered.
Why should he keep paying this "ghost" three hundred million dollars annually for nothing?
The bloody power struggles started the moment John Wick called mid-year for the next payment.
With Sunday's help, Wick avoided every trap.
He stormed Viggo's private hideouts effortlessly—until one day, he cornered Viggo at a celebrity's mansion, pressed a gun to his skull... and simply took the money.
Viggo had been convinced he would die that night.
But Wick had taken the payment without a word and walked away.
From then on, Viggo mistakenly assumed that as long as he paid, he would survive.
For two years, he continued testing boundaries—hiding money, delaying payments.
Each time, Wick—and Sunday's Black Bee drones—swiftly punished the offenders.
Even though William knew about it, he hadn't intervened—leaving it all to automation and Wick.
The third time Wick held a gun to Viggo's head had been three years ago—during the fourth year of their five-year agreement.
That year, Viggo's world had truly crumbled.
First, another group—five figures as terrifying as Wick—stormed his operations.
They fought like demons, shrugging off bullets—because they weren't human.
They were vampires.
Once they revealed their fangs, Viggo realized he had no choice but to obey their demands:
Five hundred million dollars a year...
Plus over a hundred live humans as offerings.
That year, Viggo had thought he had his best chance yet to rid himself of John Wick.
But it had also been the year William personally unleashed hell upon the supernatural world.
William dispatched the Expendables, the Laura Trio, and even the Kingsman agents.
He fielded war robots against vampires and werewolves across Europe.
He issued global bounties to exterminate the beasts.
When Wick again called to collect, those vampires—terrified of losing a hidden fortune—plotted to kill Wick and the hidden hand behind him.
But they were fools.
They were nothing but dogs who had fled to America after being crushed in Europe.
Before they could even act, Laura, Eggsy, and Wesley, wearing third-generation Devonshire combat suits, raided their lair under Sunday's guidance.
Within days, they wiped out the last remnants of Marcus' ancient bloodline using UV weapons.
So, when Wick came to collect the final payment, gun in hand once more, Viggo had nearly collapsed from sheer terror.
Wick, once again, took the money and left without a word.
That was the moment Viggo realized:
The force behind Wick wasn't just strong—it was unimaginably strong.
Since then, Viggo had behaved—paying loyally, even trying to cozy up to Wick.
Unfortunately, John Wick himself was barely considered important by William.
So there was no way Viggo could ever reach the real boss through him.
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