Alex Ray asked Pietro to stay in the restaurant and took the apartment elevator alone with Marcus.
Marcus's room was on the fifth floor. Each floor had around ten units, a mix of one- and two-bedroom apartments.
Marcus lived in a one-bedroom, roughly 50 square meters. Alex had thoughtfully provided them with a washing machine and dryer—quite a luxury in the U.S., where many apartments lack in-unit laundry and instead have communal coin-operated facilities.
As soon as they walked in, a heavy mix of alcohol and blood hit Alex's nose.
Alerted by the sound of the door, a man wrapped in bandages and dressed in a suit abruptly sat up from the couch. He looked tense, gun in hand, ready to fire.
"Relax! This is my landlord. I asked him to help you. How are you feeling?" Marcus stepped forward quickly, concern in his voice.
The man finally relaxed upon hearing Marcus's explanation. "Sorry. I thought the High Table had found me."
Alex confirmed it—this was really John Wick, the man who'd killed an entire crime family over a dog.
"You shouldn't be here. You realize Marcus saved you—he's in danger now too." Alex waved it off as if it were nothing.
"Marcus almost died for you once already. Have you forgotten that?" he added.
John looked ashamed.
"It's fine," Marcus said. "We're friends. But what happened? Why is the High Table hunting you?"
John glanced at Alex warily.
"It's fine. We're all family here. He won't betray you," Marcus reassured him, seeing John's hesitation.
"If Marcus weren't my tenant, I wouldn't care about you at all," Alex added with a sneer. "But my tenants are my people."
Reassured, John finally began recounting what had happened over the past few months.
Ten minutes later…
"So the New York branch of the High Table bombed your house, and you killed those two siblings?" Marcus gasped in disbelief.
"And then you broke Continental rules by killing someone on hotel grounds? Winston let you go?" Marcus shook his head. "Man, your life should be a movie."
Alex said nothing. He sat motionless on the couch, expression unreadable. He was calculating the best way to capitalize on this situation.
The New York seat on the High Table was now empty. Could Wilson Fisk—Uncle Kingpin—take it?
The High Table, a clandestine organization formed by the world's most powerful crime syndicates, had twelve seats and was headquartered in the desert near Casablanca. Members included the Mafia, the 'Ndrangheta, and the now-deceased D'Antonio siblings.
It was a legacy-driven organization, steeped in ritual and rules, but power had a funny way of rewriting rules.
And Wilson Fisk wasn't just strong—he was strategic, ruthless, and already running half of New York's underworld. He'd be perfect for the seat.
After all, the Continental had some remarkable assets: a cleanup crew, unmatched intelligence, and that iconic bulletproof tailoring.
And considering how much internal strife there already was, Fisk wouldn't be the worst candidate.
John, watching Alex's deep thought, mistook his silence for fear.
"I'm really sorry. I'll leave now. I don't want to bring the High Table down on you," John said, rising quickly.
Alex stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. "Relax. I'm not scared of them. I was thinking—now that you've taken out the New York elders, how do we move up?"
John stared at him like he was crazy. "Marcus, your landlord's a quite a joke. I'll head to the Osaka Continental. Find someone else."
At that moment, Alex's phone rang.
He raised a finger to his lips, signaling them to be silent as he answered.
Marcus and John exchanged glances, waiting quietly as Alex spoke.
"It's me. Yeah, someone's sniffing around? Who sent them?"
"The New York Continental was bombed?"
"The High Table elder in New York is dead? See if there's any opening left."
Three minutes later, Alex hung up.
He turned to Marcus and John. "The New York Continental just got bombed. And because of you, Winston's concierge, Charon, is dead."
John's hand slammed the sofa. "Who did it?!"
"Marquis Vincent de Gramont," Alex answered. "He's one of the twelve seats. And now he knows you're here. He's sent assassins."
"I'll leave. I'll draw them away. You're innocent," John said grimly, preparing to go.
Marcus looked pleadingly at Alex, silently asking him to help.
"Why would leaving matter? You think Gramont's people will let us off the hook? Don't worry. This is Hell's Kitchen. If they come, they're never leaving."
Just then, Alex felt it—a killing intent.
A gunshot rang out.
A bullet blasted through the window. The three men dove to the ground as shards of glass rained down.
Alex's expression darkened.
A searing red light burst from his right hand and flew out the broken window like a laser.
Seconds later, a scream.
The light pierced the sniper's chest. Dead instantly.
"Who the hell told you to mess with my place?!" Alex growled to himself.
John and Marcus stared at him in shock.
"You—are you a sorcerer or something?" Marcus asked, pointing with a trembling hand.
Alex snorted. "Great. Another broken window. That's coming out of your deposit. If it's not enough, pay the rest in cash."
He turned toward the door. "You two stay here. I'll handle the rest. Damn it—wrecking my apartment like that…"
John stepped forward, ready to assist. He didn't believe Alex could handle it alone.
"Sit down and heal. I'm not dragging an injured man into battle, even if you are the goddamn Baba Yaga. Just watch. I'll make it quick."
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