Carmine almost smiled. “You’re a bastard, Enzo.”
Carmine hung up. He poured himself two fingers of the bourbon and drank it standing up. Then he walked to the weapons locker behind the front desk—a false panel of walnut that opened to a small arsenal. He selected a Benelli M4 shotgun, loaded it with slugs, and leaned it against the wall beside his stool.
Another pause. This one longer. When she spoke again, her voice was quiet, almost curious. “Rules are agreements between people who fear the same consequences. What if I no longer fear yours?” the continental: from the world of john wick libvpx
At 6:15 AM, the Sommelier arrived. His name was Percival. He wore a bespoke three-piece suit and carried a violin case. Inside was not a violin but a customized AR-15 with a carbon-fiber barrel and a trigger pull measured in grams.
Enzo grinned through broken teeth. “Empty. I swapped it for a paperweight three days ago. The real one is with the Ruska Roma already.” Carmine almost smiled
She sighed, genuinely sad. “Then you have chosen.”
“Then you have a dispute,” Carmine said. “Take it to the Adjudicator.” Then he walked to the weapons locker behind
He picked up the phone again.