Fox and Wesley exchanged a glance.
The Assassin's League had already marked the High Table and its Continental Hotels as future targets. Now, seeing fractures within their enemy's ranks? It couldn't be better.
Hearing John Wick's words, Smith quickly pieced things together.
This must be the start of John Wick: Chapter 2, he thought.
Smith said calmly,
"After I get this Dragon Ball, I'll tell you where the third one is."
"As for your blood oath? Go ahead—consider it your personal business."
John Wick finished his whiskey in one clean motion, then stood up.
"I understand," he said simply.
Watching Wick leave, Wesley turned to Smith, curiosity burning in his eyes.
"What exactly is this Dragon Ball you're talking about?"
Smith smiled and looked at Fox.
"You explain it."
As Fox laid it out, Wesley's face shifted from disbelief to pure confusion. Dragon Balls? Wishes? Mystical items? It sounded insane—and yet, somehow, Wesley could tell they weren't joking.
Meanwhile —
At the New York Continental, Santino D'Antonio arrived and approached Winston at the front desk.
"Manager Winston," Santino said smoothly, "could you help me get in touch with Smith Doyle?"
Winston twisted the ring on his finger thoughtfully, then looked up.
"Mr. Smith is not a registered guest of the Continental," he said. "Contacting him isn't exactly straightforward."
"May I ask what this concerns?"
Santino smiled charmingly.
"He left a message through Eddie—the bartender. Said anyone who had something similar could reach out to him."
Winston's interest was piqued.
So, he thought, you found something... intriguing.
"Looks like you have something worth his attention," Winston said lightly.
Santino nodded, then leaned in a little closer.
"I'm more curious though—who exactly is this man? Not even a Continental member, yet he moves around like he owns the place."
"I heard he's killed quite a few African-American assassins too," Santino added casually.
"People seem pretty afraid of him."
Winston gave nothing away.
"If you inherit the Camorra and take a seat at the High Table," Winston said mildly, "you'll find out soon enough."
The hint that Smith's identity was tangled with the High Table left Santino visibly more cautious.
"Please," he said, flashing another smile, "help arrange a meeting."
Winston gave a polite nod, then dialed.
"This is Winston," he said when Smith answered.
"Manager Winston," Smith replied. "Something you need?"
"You posted a notice through Eddie," Winston said.
"Santino D'Antonio has found something similar and wishes to meet. He's waiting at the Continental."
Smith chuckled on the other end.
Santino D'Antonio. The so-called 'fortunate one.'
"Alright," Smith said. "Tell him to wait. I'm on my way."
After hanging up, Smith turned to the others.
"Fox, drive us to the Continental."
Wesley quickly piped up.
"What about me? Can I come?"
Smith glanced at him.
"You got a Continental coin?"
Wesley dug into his pocket and pulled out three gold coins.
"I'm good for the entrance fee."
Smith smiled faintly.
"Alright then. Let's go."
The trio soon arrived at the Continental Hotel.
Fox tossed the car keys to the valet, and they strode into the lobby together.
In the restaurant, it didn't take long to spot Santino D'Antonio, enjoying a leisurely steak and wine.
Smith led Fox and Wesley over and slid into a seat across from him.
Santino raised his wine glass with a smile.
"Care for a drink, Mr. Smith? The steak's excellent. My treat."
Smith snapped his fingers for a waiter.
"Three steaks, medium rare. And bring a bottle of your best red."
Santino chuckled lightly.
"Funny thing—" he said, looking around.
"The second you walked in, all the African assassins cleared out."
Smith shrugged, unconcerned.
"You chose the meeting spot."
Santino swirled his glass.
"I like the rules here. No killing on Continental grounds."
Smith met his eyes calmly.
"But I'm not a registered member."
For just a split second, Santino stiffened. But he quickly covered it up.
"Still, you haven't broken any rules," he said smoothly.
"And I'm not here to fight—just to talk."
"What I'm more interested in," Santino continued, pulling out his phone, "is this."
On the screen was a picture—a gleaming Four-Star Dragon Ball.
Smith's eyes narrowed slightly. In his mind, he traced the image:
A short-haired woman was shadowing John Wick, holding the ball.
Ares.
Santino's mute but deadly right hand. One of the few who could fight John Wick almost evenly.
Just then, the waiter returned with their food and wine.
Santino raised his glass.
"Let's enjoy our meal first. Business can wait."
They ate and chatted idly. It was almost easy to forget that death constantly lurked just under the surface here.
When the plates were finally cleared, Smith leaned back and said:
"So. What are you offering for this information?"
Santino tapped his finger on the table, considering.
"Four Continental coins," he finally said.
"Three for entry, one for the intel."
It was reasonable by normal standards.
But this wasn't a normal transaction.
Smith shook his head.
"Not enough."
Santino's expression hardened.
"What do you want, then?"
Smith reached into his jacket and pulled out something small:
John Wick's blood oath marker.
"If you want this information," Smith said evenly,
"you'll pay the same price John Wick did."
"A blood oath."
Santino's smile faltered.
A blood oath wasn't just payment. It was a noose around your own neck.
If information cost this much, then whatever it led to must be even more valuable.
And Santino had already bound John Wick to a blood oath—only to plan on betraying him afterward.
Now another oath?
He hesitated, weighing the danger.
"That price," Santino said slowly, "is... very high."
"Is there another way?"
He wasn't willing to gamble another blood oath—because once given, it could very well kill him.
---
—End of Chapter—
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