Alcohol

John Wick's arrival was faster than Charley had anticipated.

A black Cadillac Escalade drove into the workshop, its tires making a faint scraping sound as they rolled over the concrete floor.

The car door opened, and John Wick stepped out. He wore a simple white t-shirt under a suit jacket, dark jeans, and a pair of brown sneakers.

Charley cleared his throat and stepped forward. "Hey, John. I heard about Helen. I'm sorry."

He paused, trying to lighten the mood. "Did your son come back recently? How's business out there?"

John didn't reply. He walked towards Charley's "office" and sat down in the slightly worn chair.

He picked up the glass on the table and asked, "Where's the car? Who did it?"

Charley pursed his lips and sat opposite John. "It was Viggo's son, Iosef."

He swallowed. "That kid drove over here. I told him it was your car, and he freaked out. He drove off and I don't know where he is now."

John's gaze darkened, his voice low and clear. "Iosef? Viggo's son?"

Charley nodded in confirmation. "Yes, Viggo's son, Iosef."

He picked up the bottle and poured wine into John's empty glass. The amber liquid sloshed gently. "What are you going to do?"

John picked up the glass and took a sip. His Adam's apple bobbed. He then gently placed the glass on the hood of the Lincoln Continental, the metal and glass clinking crisply.

"Good liquor," he said blandly, then stood up, ready to leave.

Charley watched his retreating back and couldn't help but ask, "Is there anything I can do to help?"

John pulled open the door of the Escalade, paused, and turned his head slightly. "Tell Viggo I stopped by."

With that, he slid into the driver's seat, and the door slammed shut with a bang.

The engine growled, and the massive black SUV slowly backed out of the garage. Its tires rolled over the ground, kicking up fine dust. In a flash, the car disappeared into the night, leaving Charley standing alone, silently gazing at the empty workshop door.

Charley held the wine bottle, and after a long moment, he gritted out, "Fuck."

Silence fell in the workshop, broken only by the occasional whisper of wind against the metal ceiling. Charley's men closed the open workshop doors and then dispersed silently, awaiting their boss's next command.

Charley placed the wine bottle on the hood, pulled out his phone, and swiped rapidly a few times before dialing Viggo.

A few seconds later, the call connected, and Viggo's deep voice came through. "What is it?"

"John Wick stopped by."

"Uh-huh?" Viggo's response was unreadable.

Charley took a deep breath. "He knows who did it, and he knows who has the car. He came here to find the car, but Iosef already drove it away. He told me to tell you he stopped by."

There was a two-second silence on the other end. Viggo's voice remained steady. "Uh-huh. Understood."

The call ended. Charley stared at the screen as it darkened, a helpless smile tugging at his lips. He shook his head, put his phone back in his pocket, and his gaze swept across the empty workshop.

The wine bottle on the hood reflected the overhead lights, condensation slowly trickling down its sides. Charley reached for the bottle, tilted his head back, and took a swig, the strong liquor burning his throat.

He knew the storm was coming.

A sleek black Audi A8 slowly pulled up in front of the Continental Hotel in New York, its tires making a soft friction sound against the asphalt.

The car door opened, and Beta stepped out. He had undergone a complete transformation, his meticulously crafted disguise making him look like any wealthy businessman frequenting high-end establishments.

The valet respectfully took the car keys he offered.

In everyone's eyes, John's son was still the man who refused to inherit his father's assassin legacy, choosing instead to run a high-end collectibles business in Europe—an ordinary businessman. This carefully constructed identity was his most crucial camouflage, a respectable facade completely detached from the underworld.

Except for a select few he could trust with his life, no one in the world knew his true name or background. Every time he appeared in public, he had to ensure this identity was unbreakable; it was the foundation of his survival.

Beta walked into the Continental Hotel lobby, his polished leather shoes making a steady sound on the marble floor.

The bald, Black concierge looked up, his gaze lingering briefly on the man who appeared to be in his early thirties. A professional smile graced his face. "Welcome to the New York Continental."

His words trailed off as a gold coin appeared on the black marble countertop.

The concierge looked up again, re-examining the guest before him. The exquisite custom suit, the impeccably styled hair, and the effortless elegance in his demeanor were all hallmarks of high society, showing no trace of the underworld.

"How may I help you, sir?" the concierge asked smoothly, tucking the gold coin into the counter.

Beta produced another gold coin and gently pushed it towards the concierge. "Arrange a car for me, and book a sommelier."

"My pleasure," the concierge said with a slight bow.

The elevator descended smoothly to the sub-basement. With a soft ding, the metal doors slid open.

Beta's eyes widened. This was no ordinary wine cellar but a visually stunning domed space.

Beneath the classical stone arches, the walls that should have held wine bottles were transformed into rows of glowing display cases. On crimson velvet lining, an array of exquisite firearms lay displayed, their cold metallic sheen catching the soft spotlight.

Behind the transparent glass bar in the center, a man in a crisp sommelier uniform bowed slightly. A silver pin adorned his crisp white shirt collar, and a black vest outlined his trim figure. His long fingers rested lightly on the edge of the bar.

"Good evening, sir," the sommelier's voice was clear and resonant. "What can I get for you?"

His gaze was calm and professional, as if he were looking at nothing more than a typical wine cellar, not an underground arms depot.

Beta's gaze slowly swept across the weapon display shelves. "I need a big one. Something that can penetrate concrete walls."

The sommelier nodded in understanding. "It seems you prefer high-impact options."

He turned elegantly, as if selecting a bottle of aged wine. "Allow me to recommend a newly arrived special blend, a treasure from the Far East."

As the velvet curtain was gently pulled aside, the bartender retrieved a gleaming black anti-materiel rifle from a custom display case. He placed it carefully on the glass countertop, just as he would a top-tier red wine.

"M99 Semi-Automatic, a masterpiece from Eastern Military Industry." His voice was like that of someone savoring fine liquor. "It uses a gas-operated automatic principle, bringing an unprecedented shooting experience. Chambered in 12.7×108mm Russian rounds, fed by a 10-round magazine, with an 800mm cold-forged barrel and a rotating bolt locking mechanism."

The bartender leaned forward slightly. "It's particularly suited for multi-target engagements. The entire unit weighs only 12 kilograms, containing an intoxicating destructive power."

======

Thank you to all the Reader Bosses who have given me Recommendation Tickets and Monthly Tickets. I am very grateful.

To all the bosses who have favorited and are reading this book, remember to check in daily and leave your comments and feedback.

======