Iosef

This book is still in the intelligent recommendation slot. The recommendation slot ends on June 29th. Before then, the author is asking all Reader Bosses for Monthly Tickets, Recommendation Tickets, and to keep reading! Thank you very much!

Beta gently wiped Helen's memorial photo with his cuff, placing the frame squarely above the fireplace.

A dull thudding sound of digging came from the yard. John was on the lawn, digging the final resting place for the deceased Beagle.

Each "clack" of the shovel echoed through the empty villa, passing through the shattered floor-to-ceiling windows.

After completing the hasty funeral, John knelt on the living room floor, scrubbing the bloodstains inch by inch with a brush. The bristles scraped against the wooden floor with a "swish-swish" sound.

Beta placed the half-remaining glass bowl in front of Helen's memorial photo and gazed at the picture.

The "swish-swish" sound suddenly stopped.

John's voice rang out from behind him, trembling with suppressed emotion, "Helen gave it to me."

Beta calmly turned around. "Who did it?"

--

Queens.

Charley's gaze fell on the Ford Mustang before him, his smile freezing on his face, then turning serious, and finally into panic.

His Adam's apple bobbed as he tremblingly set down the wine glass in his hand.

"A '69 Ford Mustang?" Charley's voice was strained. "Where did you get this car?"

He stared at Iosef Tarasov, the Crown Prince of the New York Russian mob, Viggo Tarasov's only son.

Iosef was a typical second-generation mobster, with a lean Slavic face, flamboyant blonde hair, and a lanky build that exuded arrogance.

He clearly hadn't noticed Charley's abnormality and continued to brag nonchalantly, "Pretty neat, right? Got it from some unlucky bastard, hahaha!"

Charley's nostrils flared, and his voice rose. "I asked you where the hell you got it from!"

Iosef shrugged carelessly. "Who the hell cares? Get me the paperwork, I want this car!"

"Get this car out of here immediately!" Charley turned to leave.

"Are you fucking crazy?" Iosef's expression changed.

Charley spun back around. "I said, get this car out of here, right now!"

Iosef cursed, "Fuck! You're a car dealer! Don't talk to me like that!"

Charley strode towards Iosef, their noses almost touching. "I'm your father's partner, not your nanny. I don't have to clean up your messes."

He gritted his teeth and spoke word by word, "Now, get this damned car out of here, immediately!"

Iosef let out a scoff, tilting his head with a look of disdain. "Are you fucking crazy? It's just a damn car."

Charley took a deep breath, suppressing his anger. "Tell me, did you kill the owner? Did you clean up any loose ends?"

Iosef impatiently twisted his neck, his tone flippant. "No, what loose ends? We broke in, beat up that unlucky bastard, kicked his dog to death, and drove off. Murder? I'm not a butcher!"

Charley laughed, angered. "A butcher? Ha! I wish you were."

He stared at Iosef, his eyes filled with almost pitying sarcasm. "You should have killed the owner, right then and there. Clean and neat."

Iosef paused for a moment, then burst into laughter, even patting Charley's shoulder. "Fuck! Charley, you sound more like a mobster than I do!"

Charley also smiled, his voice low. "Really?"

"Of course!" Iosef grinned, revealing a mouthful of white teeth.

The next second.

Charley's fist slammed into Iosef's face with such force that it sent the lanky mob prince sprawling to the ground.

"Crash!"

Iosef's henchmen instantly drew their guns, their dark muzzles all aimed at Charley.

The atmosphere in the factory grew tense.

The workers stopped what they were doing, pulling out firearms of various lengths from toolboxes, from under cars, and from behind shelves. The "clack" of charging bolts echoed one after another.

A dozen guns were steadily aimed at the mob members.

Charley glanced down at Iosef, who was sprawled on the ground. Blood trickled from the corner of the mob prince's mouth as he struggled to get up.

Charley casually waved his hand, and the workers around him simultaneously lowered their weapons, but their eyes remained fixed on the armed mobsters.

He slowly walked up to a henchman holding a gun, pressing his chest against the muzzle. His voice was low and dangerous. "Want to shoot? Then pull the trigger. You idiots have no idea what kind of trouble you've gotten yourselves into."

"Fuck!" Iosef staggered to his feet, snatched the gun from his subordinate, and pressed it against Charley's forehead. "You motherfucker!"

Charley didn't even blink. "Either shoot, or get out of here with this car, right now."

An older henchman stepped between them. "Listen, Charley, this needs to be explained to Viggo. You can't just..."

"Explanation?" Charley sneered. "Fine, this is the explanation: Get back to your den and hide this damned car. From today on, you should live like rats in a hole, keeping your heads down. Don't hang around windows, don't show off on the streets. Act like you're already dead."

His voice suddenly rose. "Now, get lost, immediately!"

Iosef wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, staring at Charley with a sinister gaze. "Old man, I'll remember you."

Charley straightened his collar. "Watch your tone, kid. Your father and I are friends, and more than that, partners."

In the afterglow of the sunset, the '69 Ford Mustang let out a low rumble. Charley, hands in his pockets, watched Iosef and his men drive away until the red glow of their taillights disappeared completely around the street corner.

Charley was silent for a moment, then turned and walked back into the factory, clapping his hands and calling out, "Everyone, off work early. You'll still get paid."

The workers cheered as they packed up their tools, leaving in small groups, chatting and laughing. The vast factory quickly quieted down, leaving only Charley and his six close subordinates.

Charley scanned them. "You guys go home too. All six of you together wouldn't be able to stop John Wick."

The subordinates exchanged glances.

One of them stepped forward. "Boss, at least let us stay, pour you a drink, open the door, something like that."

The others nodded in agreement.

Charley chuckled softly. "Fine. If John really shows up, make sure to pick out a decent suit for me when you're collecting my corpse."

He walked towards the "office" in the corner, sat down, took out his phone, and hovered his thumb over the name "Viggo" in his contacts. Taking a deep breath, he pressed the call button.

When the call connected, Viggo's voice, with a heavy Russian accent, came through the receiver. "Zar, what is it?"

Charley pinched his brow. "Your son Iosef got a '69 Mustang. The car isn't the problem; the problem is he didn't take care of the owner."

"Who's the owner?" Viggo's voice dripped with disdain. "Some councilman? Or the police chief? Such a small problem."

"John Wick."

Silence fell on the other end of the line.

Charley could clearly hear the heavy breathing from the other end of the phone.

A full ten seconds later, Viggo's voice sounded as if all his strength had been drained.

"...Oh."