Fraternity Headquarters
Fox and Wesley exchanged aningful glances. The Fraternity's primary target was the High Table and its Continental Hotel network. Having internal conflict within the organization—brother trying to kill sister for a seat at the table—was a gift they hadn't expected.
Smith leaned back in his chair, processing the information. So the John Wick 2 plotline was beginning. That ant Gianna's assassination, the chaos in Ro, and eventually Santino's betrayal. All of it was set in motion now.
"After you obtain this Dragon Ball," Smith said, "I'll tell you the location of a third one. As for the blood oath with Santino—that's your personal business. Complete it however you see fit. I won't interfere."
John finished his whiskey in one swallow and stood. "Understood."
As John left the conference room, Wesley's curiosity finally got the better of him. "What exactly are these Dragon Balls you keep ntioning?"
Smith glanced at Fox. "Explain it to him."
Fox launched into the explanation—seven magical balls scattered across the world, capable of granting any wish when gathered together, the potential to resurrect the dead. Wesley listened with growing amazent, his expression shifting from skepticism to wonder to barely contained excitent.
The Continental Hotel
Santino D'Antonio walked through the elegant lobby of the Continental, nodding politely to familiar faces, until he reached the front desk where Winston stood examining a ledger.
"Manager Winston," Santino said with his most charming smile. "I wonder if you might arrange a eting for with Smith Doyle?"
Winston looked up from his ledger, his expression neutral but his eyes sharp. He slowly turned the ring on his finger—a habitual gesture when he was thinking.
"Mr. Doyle is not a registered mber of the Continental Hotel," Winston said carefully. "Contacting him isn't as simple as making a phone call. May I ask what this concerns?"
Santino's smile widened. "He put out word through the bartender that anyone who found items similar to a certain object should contact him. I happen to have found sothing matching that description."
Winston's interest visibly sharpened. "I see. You found sothing similar."
He studied Santino for a mont, clearly calculating angles.
Santino leaned against the desk casually. "I'm quite curious about this Mr. Doyle, actually. He's not even a registered mber here, yet he walks through these doors without any issues. And I heard he eliminated quite a few individuals recently—enough to make people nervous."
Winston didn't reveal Smith's identity or his connection to the Fraternity. Instead, he said diplomatically, "If you ever inherit the Camorra and claim one of the twelve seats at the High Table, you'll have access to intelligence that will answer your questions about Mr. Doyle's background."
Santino's eyes narrowed slightly. So Smith's identity was connected to High Table-level politics. That made him significantly more dangerous—and more valuable—than Santino had assud.
"Please arrange the eting," Santino said, his tone more respectful now.
Winston pulled out his phone and dialed. It rang twice before connecting.
"I'm Winston, Mr. Doyle."
"Manager Winston. What can I do for you?"
"You issued a request through the Bartender regarding certain items. Santino D'Antonio has acquired sothing matching your description and wishes to et with you at the Continental to discuss it."
There was a brief pause. "Tell him I'll be there shortly."
Winston ended the call and looked at Santino. "Mr. Doyle will arrive within the hour. Please make yourself comfortable in the dining room. I'll have him directed to you when he arrives."
"Thank you, Manager Winston."
Smith smiled after ending Winston's call.
"Fox, we're going to the Continental Hotel."
Wesley imdiately perked up. "What about ?"
Smith glanced at him. "Do you have Continental gold coins?"
Wesley quickly patted his pockets and pulled out exactly three coins, holding them up hopefully. "I can pay the entrance fee."
Smith nodded, amused. "Then co along. This will be educational."
The Continental Hotel
The three of them arrived within forty minutes. Fox handed the car keys to the valet, and they walked through the lobby together—Smith in the lead, Fox and Wesley flanking him.
As they entered the dining area, Smith imdiately spotted Santino at a corner table, cutting into a perfectly prepared steak and sipping red wine.
They approached, and Santino looked up with a welcoming smile, gesturing to the empty seats. "Mr. Doyle! Please, join ."
Smith, Fox, and Wesley sat down. Santino raised his wine glass in a toast.
"Would you care for so wine? The steak here is excellent. My treat, of course."
Smith snapped his fingers, catching a waiter's attention. "Three steaks, dium-rare. And bring us a bottle of your best red."
As the waiter departed, Santino glanced around the dining room with an amused expression. "Mr. Doyle, did you notice? Several people left rather quickly when you arrived. You've developed quite a reputation."
Smith shrugged carelessly. "You're the one who requested this eting location."
Santino swirled his wine, his smile never wavering. "I like the rules here. No killing on Continental grounds. It makes negotiations so much more civilized."
"But I'm not a registered mber," Smith said lightly, the implied threat hanging in the air.
Santino's smile froze for just a fraction of a second before he recovered. "No, but you've never broken the rules here, have you? You respect the institution, even if you're not part of it."
He set down his wine glass and leaned forward slightly. "I'm very curious about your identity, Mr. Doyle. But that's not what I wanted to discuss today. I'm more interested in this."
Santino pulled out his phone and displayed a photo of an orange ball with four red stars.
Smith looked at the image, and imdiately his system pinged with location data. His senses locked onto the ball's position—currently in the possession of a short-haired woman following John Wick. The four-star ball had already been promised to John as paynt.
Smith recognized the woman from the John Wick 2 plot: Ares, Santino's mute bodyguard and enforcer. One of the few fighters who could go toe-to-toe with John Wick in hand-to-hand combat.
The waiter returned with their steaks and wine, setting everything out with practiced efficiency.
Santino gestured to the food. "Please, let's eat first. Business can wait until after we've enjoyed our al."
Smith had no objection. The Continental's kitchen was genuinely excellent, and there was no need to rush. They ate in relative silence, making small talk about inconsequential things—the weather, New York traffic, the quality of the wine.
When the plates were cleared and fresh glasses poured, Smith finally spoke. "So. What are you willing to pay for information about that object?"
Santino had clearly been thinking about this. "How about four gold coins? Three for the entrance fees we're all paying, and one for the information itself."
It wasn't a bad offer by Continental standards. Four gold coins could buy significant services. But for information about the Dragon Balls? It was laughably insufficient.
Smith shook his head. "Not enough."
"What would you consider adequate?"
Smith reached into his jacket and withdrew John Wick's marker—the blood oath contract John had given him. He placed it on the table between them.
"John Wick paid with a blood oath for information about these objects. If you want the sa information, I'll require the sa price."
Santino stared at the marker, his mind clearly racing. If the information alone was worth a blood oath from John Wick—one of the most valuable contracts in their entire world—then what was the object itself worth?
And Santino had already promised to give the four-star ball to John as paynt for the assassination. Which ant he'd just traded away sothing potentially priceless for a single favor.
He'd been outplayed, and he was only now realizing it.
"That price is too high," Santino said carefully. "Surely there's another arrangent we can make?"
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