Chapter 6 – Contracts
The news reached Viggo Tarasov before dawn.
His phone vibrated, and the voice on the other end was breathless, ragged. "The club… it's ruined. He's killed… everyone."
Viggo closed his eyes, leaning back in his leather chair. For a long moment, he said nothing, the only sound the faint clink of ice in his half-finished drink. He had expected carnage but not this.
"And my son?"
"He got out. Barely."
Viggo exhaled through his nose, relief and fury tangled in one sharp breath. He set the glass down, rose from his chair, and paced to the window. Manhattan sprawled beneath him, glittering, indifferent.
Half his empire lay bleeding on a dance floor. All because of a dog.
No not a dog. Because of the man.
"Double it," Viggo said finally, his voice low but hard. "The contract. Two million, open to anyone who'll take it."
The voice hesitated. "…Even in New York?"
Viggo's hand tightened on the phone. "Especially in New York."
He ended the call and stood there, staring out at the city. Then he turned back toward the shadows of his office.
A figure stepped forward slender, dangerous, her movements sharp as glass. Miss Perkins. Dressed sleek in black, her smile thin and cruel.
"You wanted to see me, Viggo?" she purred.
Viggo studied her carefully. Perkins had always been ambitious, reckless in a way that unsettled even hardened men. She had no loyalty, no honor but she was effective.
"I have a job for you," Viggo said, his tone clipped. "John Wick. He's checked into the Continental."
At that, her smile widened, a glint of excitement flashing in her eyes. "The Continental? You want me to break the rules?"
Viggo leaned forward, pouring himself another drink. His hand was steady, though his stomach churned. "I want John Wick dead. Break whatever you must."
Perkins tilted her head, studying him. "That'll cost you."
"Two million on the table. Half up front."
Her eyes gleamed. "Then consider it done."
She turned, heels clicking against the marble, vanishing into the dark with a predator's grace.
Viggo raised his glass again, but the vodka tasted bitter on his tongue. He drained it anyway, as though it might drown the fear curling in his gut.
Because deep down, he knew.
Money couldn't stop John Wick.
But maybe betrayal could.
The elevator doors slid open with a muted chime.
John stepped out into the hushed corridors of the Continental, moving stiffly, one hand pressed against his side. His black suit was soaked dark, the wound burning hot beneath the fabric. The chaos of the Red Circle still clung to him the smell of smoke, blood, the phantom echo of gunfire.
But here, the world was silent. Carpets muffled his footsteps, chandeliers glowed with steady, indifferent light. This place was sacred ground untouched by the war outside.
Charon was waiting at the reception desk, as if he'd been expecting him. The concierge's face betrayed no surprise at the sight of the blood, only a small, measured nod.
"Rough evening, Mr. Wick?"
John said nothing, only set his keycard on the desk.
Charon glanced down at it, then back at him. His voice lowered, respectful. "Shall I make a call?"
John gave the smallest of nods.
"Of course." Charon pressed a button discreetly, his movements smooth, unhurried. "A professional will be up shortly. Your suite is ready."
John turned, forcing his legs to move. Each step felt heavier than the last, but he didn't let it show. The hallway stretched long and quiet, every door identical, every shadow harmless. It was the safest place in the city and still, John's instincts never let him relax.
He unlocked his room and pushed inside. The space was immaculate: plush bed, polished wood, city lights spilling in through tall windows. Too perfect. Too clean.
He set his pistol down on the nightstand, then unbuttoned his jacket slowly, hissing as the fabric tugged at the wound. His shirt stuck to his skin, crimson blooming across the white cotton. He peeled it off and tossed it aside, lowering himself onto the edge of the bed.
The door clicked again.
A man in a tailored suit entered, carrying a leather case. Not a concierge, not an assassin something in between. The Doctor. His demeanor was calm, detached, as though John were merely another late-night appointment.
"Evening," the man said briskly, setting the case on the table. "Let's see what you've done to yourself."
John said nothing, only shifted to expose his side. The bullet had torn through just above the hip, shallow but vicious.
The Doctor donned gloves, his tone conversational but precise. "Missed anything vital. You're lucky."
John's lips curled faintly, but he didn't answer.
The stitching began. The needle pierced skin, thread pulling tight. John gripped the bedframe, knuckles white, his breath harsh but controlled. He didn't flinch, didn't cry out, only endured.
The Doctor worked methodically, hands steady, expression neutral. "You'll be sore. Avoid strenuous activity." He paused, then gave John a dry look. "Though I doubt that's in your plans."
John's eyes flicked up at him, silent acknowledgment.
The thread bit again, and again, until finally the wound was sealed. The Doctor cleaned it, wrapped it, and snapped his gloves off.
"There. Serviceable," he said. "Try not to tear it open in the next forty-eight hours."
John finally spoke, his voice low, rough from silence. "No promises."
The Doctor allowed himself the faintest smirk before packing his tools away. He left as quickly as he had come, the door shutting softly behind him.
John sat alone in the quiet, bloodied shirt on the floor, pistol gleaming at his side. The pain still throbbed through him, sharp and constant, but his mind was elsewhere on Helen, on the puppy, on Iosef's face when he ran.
His chest rose and fell slowly. He was still alive. Still breathing.
And the job wasn't finished.
The city glittered beyond the glass, a thousand lights stabbing through the dark. John stood at the window, one hand pressed against his bandaged side. The pain had dulled, replaced by a low ache that pulsed with every heartbeat.
For a fleeting moment, the silence almost felt clean. Almost.
A soft knock at the door broke it.
John turned, brow furrowing. He hadn't asked for room service.
Another knock, gentler this time. A woman's voice followed, smooth, familiar. "John? It's me."
Perkins.
He hesitated, fingers brushing the pistol on the nightstand. Then he crossed the room and opened the door.
She leaned against the frame, framed by the hall's golden light. Dark hair, leather jacket, eyes glittering with something sharp. She smiled at him in a way that wasn't quite a smile.
"Can I come in?"
John studied her, his silence stretching. She tilted her head, waiting. At last, he stepped aside.
Perkins slipped past him, her heels soft against the carpet. She moved with the casual ease of someone who belonged, but her gaze swept the room too quickly, too deliberately.
"Word is you rattled Viggo's cage," she said, turning toward him. "Big mess at the Red Circle."
John said nothing. He shut the door, the lock clicking in place.
Perkins smirked. "I had to see for myself. You always did make an entrance."
She moved closer, her perfume faint but sharp. John's eyes tracked her every step, muscles tight despite the ache in his side.
Then it happened.
She pivoted fast, faster than most could follow, her hand flashing up with a silenced pistol. The muzzle was inches from his head.
John reacted on instinct. He slammed his arm up, knocking the barrel aside. The shot hissed past his ear, muffled but deadly.
They collided hard, crashing against the wall. The lamp toppled, shattering across the floor. Perkins fought with feral speed, her knee slamming into his side, right where the stitches pulled. White-hot pain lanced through him, but he didn't falter.
John twisted, grappling her wrist, slamming her arm against the wall until the gun clattered free. She struck back with an elbow, sharp against his jaw, then clawed for his throat.
They went down hard, rolling across the carpet. Furniture toppled glass breaking, wood splintering. Perkins was relentless, her fists quick, her movements cruel. She wasn't here to win clean. She was here to kill.
John caught her wrist again, shoved her face into the floor, his forearm pressing hard across the back of her neck.
"Rule number one," he growled into her ear, voice hoarse. "No business on Continental grounds."
Perkins spat against the carpet, straining under his weight. "Rules are meant to be broken."
John tightened his hold, his hand shifting to her jaw, ready to snap it. His breath came harsh, his wound screaming in protest.
Then the door creaked open.
"Everything alright in here?"
Harry stood in the doorway, another assassin, older, wiry, his expression both weary and amused. A pistol dangled loose in his hand. He looked between the two of them, sighing.
"Perkins," he said, shaking his head. "Always overreaching."
Perkins snarled, but John pressed her harder into the carpet.
Harry stepped closer, tone calm but edged with warning. "You know the rules. No blood, no business. You've already crossed a line."
John glanced at him, breathing hard. Harry met his gaze steadily. "You want her alive?"
John considered it, his hand still on her jaw. For a moment, he was tempted. But instead, he released her roughly, pushing himself to his feet.
Perkins sat up, hair wild, eyes burning. Humiliated.
Harry leveled his gun at her casually. "Come on. Let's take a walk."
She glared at John one last time, her lips curling into something like a promise. Then she rose and followed Harry out into the hall, her heels clicking sharp against the floor.
The door shut. Silence returned.
John stood among the wreckage of the room, chest heaving, his bandages damp with fresh blood. He picked up his pistol from where it had fallen, setting it back on the nightstand with a steady hand.
The rules of the Continental were supposed to mean something.
But tonight, he realized, even here, he wasn't safe.
The night was clear. Cold.
Marcus lay prone on the rooftop across from the Continental, the city sprawled beneath him in streaks of silver and neon. His rifle rested steady against his shoulder, scope glinting faintly under the moonlight.
Through the glass panes of John Wick's suite, he had a perfect view.
The room was chaos shadows shifting across overturned furniture, broken glass glittering in the carpet. Marcus had seen the fight, seen Perkins storm in and fail. Now, John stood alone again, moving slowly, one hand pressed to his side.
The crosshairs followed him.
John paused at the window, silhouetted by the skyline. For a long moment, he just stood there, breathing, framed perfectly in the circle of Marcus's sight.
All it would take was one squeeze. One breath. One bullet through the glass.
Marcus steadied the trigger, his finger brushing the curve of cold steel.
But he didn't pull.
Instead, he studied the man in the scope the way John's shoulders slumped just slightly, the weight pressing down invisible but real. The faint stiffness in his movements, pain stitched beneath his skin.
Marcus knew the contract. Two million dollars on John Wick's head. Enough to make any assassin lean forward, eyes hungry.
But money was nothing compared to what he owed.
His finger lingered, then slipped away from the trigger.
He exhaled, low and slow, the rifle steady in his hands. Through the glass, John turned from the window, walking deeper into the room, unaware of the eyes watching him from across the city.
Marcus adjusted the scope, following until John disappeared from view.
He lay there for a while longer, the rifle quiet against his shoulder, the night pressing close around him.
Then, finally, he lowered the weapon.
Not tonight.
Not John Wick.