Iosef

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Beta gently wiped Helen's memorial portrait with his sleeve and straightened the frame above the fireplace.

A dull shoveling sound came from the yard. John was on the lawn, digging a final resting place for the dead beagle.

Each "crunch" of the shovel echoed through the empty villa, passing in through the shattered French doors.

After the hasty funeral, John knelt on the living room floor and scrubbed the blood away inch by inch. The brush rasped against the wood with a "scritch, scritch."

Beta set the remaining half of the glass bowl in front of Helen's portrait and gazed at the photograph.

The "scritch, scritch" suddenly stopped.

John's voice came from behind him, trembling with restrained emotion. "Helen gave it to me."

Beta calmly turned around. "Who did this?"

--

Queens.

Charley's gaze fell on the Ford Mustang before him. His smile gradually faded, his expression turning serious, then anxious.

His throat bobbed. He set down his glass with a trembling hand.

"A '69 Ford Mustang?" Charley's voice tightened. "Where the hell did you get this car?"

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

Iosef was a typical mobster's son: lean, with Slavic features, flashy blond hair, and a scrawny build that exuded arrogant conceit.

He clearly hadn't noticed Charley's reaction, and continued to show off nonchalantly. "Nice, right? Got it from some poor schmuck, hahahaha!"

Charley's nostrils flared. He raised his voice. "I asked where the fuck you got it!"

Iosef shrugged, unconcerned. "Who the fuck cares? Get me a new set of papers. I'm keeping this car!"

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

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

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

Iosef swore. "Fuck! You're a goddamn car salesman! Don't talk to me like that!"

Charley strode up to Iosef until they were nearly nose to nose. "I'm your father's business partner, not your babysitter. I'm not obligated to clean up your mess."

He gritted his teeth and enunciated every word. "Now take this damn car and get the hell out. Immediately!"

Iosef snorted, tilting his head with scorn. "Are you fucking crazy? It's just some piece-of-junk car."

Charley took a deep breath, forcing down his anger. "Tell me, did you kill the owner? Did you take care of any loose ends?"

Iosef impatiently rolled his neck, his tone flippant. "No. What loose ends? We broke in, beat the poor bastard up, kicked his dog to death, then drove off. Murder? I'm not a fucking butcher!"

Charley laughed in disbelief. "A butcher? Ha! I really wish you were."

He looked at Iosef with an almost pitying mockery. "You should've killed the owner. Right there and then, quick and clean."

Iosef paused, then burst out laughing and even patted Charley on the shoulder. "Fuck! Charley, you sound more like a mobster than I do!"

Charley laughed too, his voice low. "Is that so?"

"Of course!" Iosef grinned, showing all his white teeth.

The next second—

Charley's fist slammed into Iosef's face. The blow was so hard it sent the scrawny mob prince sprawling to the floor.

"Crash!"

Iosef's men instantly drew their guns, their dark muzzles all trained on Charley.

The atmosphere in the workshop grew tense.

The workers stopped what they were doing and pulled guns of various sizes from toolboxes, beneath cars, and from behind shelves. The sharp clicks of weapons being cocked rang out one after another.

More than a dozen guns steadily aimed at the mobsters.

Charley glanced down at Iosef, who was sprawled on the floor. Blood trickled from the mob prince's mouth as he struggled to push himself up.

Charley casually raised a hand. The workers around them lowered their weapons in unison, but kept their eyes fixed on the armed mobsters.

He walked slowly up to one of the gunmen and pressed 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 a gun from one of his men, and pressed it against Charley's forehead. "You son of a—!"

Charley didn't even blink. "Either shoot, or get in that car and get the hell out of here. Decide now."

An older hanger-on stepped between them. "Listen, Charley, Viggo deserves an explanation for this. You can't just—"

"An explanation?" Charley sneered. "Fine. Here it is: get back to your den and hide this damn car. From now on, you'd better keep your heads down like rats in a hole. Stay away from the windows, don't strut around in the streets, and act like you're already dead."

His voice suddenly rose. "Now get the hell out of here!"

Iosef wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand and glared at Charley. "Old man, I'll remember you."

Charley straightened his collar. "Watch your tone, kid. I'm your father's friend, and his business partner."

In the glow of the setting sun, the '69 Ford Mustang rumbled low. With his hands in his pockets, Charley watched Iosef and his men drive away, until their red taillights vanished around the corner.

After a moment of silence, Charley turned and walked back into the workshop. He clapped his hands and called out, "Everyone, you're off early today. You'll still get paid."

The workers cheered as they packed up their tools, chatting and laughing as they left in small groups. The spacious workshop soon fell quiet, leaving only Charley and his six closest men.

Charley surveyed them. "You should go home too. All six of you together couldn't stop John Wick."

The men exchanged glances.

One of them stepped forward. "Boss, at least let us stay and pour you a drink or open the door for you."

The others nodded in agreement.

Charley chuckled. "All right. If John really does show up, make sure you bury me in a decent suit."

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

When the call connected, Viggo's voice came through the receiver, thick with a Russian accent. "Charley, what's wrong?"

Charley rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Your son Iosef got himself a '69 Mustang. The car isn't the problem. The problem is that he didn't take care of the owner."

"Who's the owner?" Viggo's voice was dismissive. "Some congressman? Or the police chief? A minor problem like that—"

"John Wick."

Silence fell on the other end.

Charley could clearly hear the heavy breathing through the phone.

Ten full seconds later, Viggo's voice sounded as though all the strength had been drained from him.

"...Oh."