Home Renovation

Viggo slowly put down his phone.

The laughter in the room suddenly became grating. He turned to face the night sky, letting the cold wind blow into his suit collar.

The neon lights of this city that never slept gradually faded in his eyes. All the extravagance was falling, finally shattering on the asphalt road a hundred meters below.

"Viggo?" the lawyer's voice pulled him back to reality. "The terms are all settled. They've accepted everything."

Viggo pressed his tongue against his cheek. "How many men do we have now?"

"You mean—"

"Anyone who can hold a gun," Viggo interrupted.

The lawyer pushed up his gold-rimmed glasses. "We have about a hundred and twenty reliable men."

Viggo said, "Tell that idiot, that fool, that bastard Iosef to get his ass to the Red Circle Club and send everyone to protect him."

"What's wrong, Viggo?" the lawyer asked.

Viggo looked at the lawyer, his expressionless face saying, "The Night Demon is coming."

"Night Demon?" the lawyer didn't react.

Viggo walked to the safe in the corner, the metal dial clicking crisply. He took out a leather-bound phone book. On the yellowed first page, a single number was written.

John Wick's number.

Viggo dialed the phone. After a long wait, it was finally answered.

"John, it's Viggo," he tried to sound sincere. "Regarding Helen, I'm very sorry. I heard your son is back from overseas? How is his business? Also, about last night..."

On the other end of the line, John Wick interrupted him directly. "Viggo, where is your son?"

Viggo tried to ease the atmosphere. "Listen, John, maybe we can sit down and talk, resolve this calmly."

Before Viggo could finish speaking, a sharp whistling sound tore through the office conversation.

A .50 caliber armor-piercing round whizzed through the air, instantly piercing the tempered glass floor-to-ceiling window connecting the top-floor conference room to the terrace. The moment the glass shattered, the bullet tore through the head of a New York mob associate sitting by the conference table.

BANG!

The head exploded like an overripe watermelon, bone fragments, brain matter, and blood spraying out radially.

The mob higher-ups sitting behind him hadn't even had time to react before they were drenched in thick blood mixed with white brain matter. The warm, sticky liquid dripped down their suit collars, pooling into a glaring crimson on the conference table.

Viggo flinched and ducked, rolling behind the solid wood conference table.

On the phone, John Wick's voice remained icy. "Don't move."

The conference room had already descended into chaos.

The mob higher-ups, usually so imposing, now scattered like frightened cockroaches. Some knocked over leather chairs, others overturned crystal ashtrays. Expensive Cuban cigars smoldered in the blood.

CRACK!

The second bullet penetrated the double-layered tempered glass, creating another perfect circular hole next to the original one.

This time, the victim was Carlo, who managed the Brooklyn casino business.

The .50 caliber bullet tore a small, inconspicuous hole in his waist, but as it exited, it took his entire lower body with it. His spine snapped, his upper torso still in a running posture, while his lower half twitched on the carpet.

"Nobody move, damn it!" Viggo roared, his voice hoarse.

But fear had consumed everyone's reason. Some drew their guns and fired blindly, some tried to crawl towards the elevator, and others directly smashed through the wine cabinet.

No one followed Viggo's command to stay still.

Of the original five mob higher-ups at the conference table, two had fallen in mere seconds. The remaining three were still trying to escape, which only hastened their deaths.

The third bullet tore through the air, precisely predicting the prey's movement.

Just as the short, stout Black executive dodged behind the wall next to the floor-to-ceiling window, the bullet, like death itself, whistled towards him.

With a muffled thud, the .50 caliber armor-piercing round easily tore through the aerated concrete block wall, blasting a huge bloody hole in the Black man's chest. His internal organs and blood spilled onto the carpet in front of him. He looked down at his suddenly empty chest cavity and knelt on the ground, his face full of disbelief.

Viggo curled up behind the oak conference table, roaring hoarsely, "Nobody move, damn it! Anyone who moves dies!"

Victor, in charge of the club's drug business, froze in place, his hands raised above his head, his legs trembling uncontrollably.

He was facing the closed door of the conference room, his back completely exposed to the incoming bullets. This usually arrogant mob boss was now like an insect pinned to a specimen board, even his breathing becoming cautious. Cold sweat trickled down his temples, soaking the collar of his custom-made suit.

When the first bullet shattered the glass, the lawyer had already scrambled to the corner of the conference room. He crouched behind a large potted tropical plant, nearly two meters tall. The Monstera's broad leaves perfectly concealed his trembling figure.

Viggo's angry roar came from under the oak table. He clutched his phone tightly. "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! John Wick! You're declaring war on the entire Tarasov family!"

John Wick's voice remained calm. "Viggo, where is your son?"

"Go fuck yourself!" Viggo roared hysterically into the phone.

Before he could finish, the fourth armor-piercing round hit the wall in front of the potted plant.

The aerated concrete block thudded as it exploded, scattering debris like shrapnel across the conference room. Viggo only had time to raise his hand to shield himself, but still got his face full of gravel and dust.

He rubbed his stinging eyes desperately. When his vision cleared, he saw the tropical plant. Its broad leaves swayed gently in the wind blowing through the bullet hole, the dusty edges still trembling slightly.

Viggo's gaze followed the radial spray of internal organ fragments on the carpet all the way to the blood-stained Picasso artwork on the opposite wall.

There was no need for confirmation; the fragments stuck to the famous painting said it all.

Viggo swallowed a mouthful of bloody saliva with difficulty, his voice softening, "John, listen, we can resolve this misunderstanding in a more civilized way. Your vintage car, I'll have someone fill it with gas immediately, deep clean it inside and out, and return it to your garage untouched. And all the damage to your house, I swear, including every broken piece of tableware."

"Bang!"

Victor, standing at the conference room door, was suddenly struck by an invisible giant palm, his entire back bent at a 90-degree angle. His chest was pressed tightly against the bulletproof door, his raised hands still in a surrender pose. Around the fist-sized bullet hole that had just appeared on the door panel, wood splinters were slowly dripping with blood mixed with bone marrow.

"Fuck! John Wick!" Viggo's roar was tinged with a tremor, his whole body shrinking into a fetal position. "I'm negotiating with you! You damn..."

His curse suddenly choked in his throat. The fifth bullet grazed his scalp, exploding a bowl-sized crater of wood chips on the mahogany conference table.

Some Reader Bosses commented on how all sorts of assassins were appearing in this book.

The genre of this book is "Infinite Worlds," so characters from any film or television work are bound to show up.