The office was quiet in the way only powerful rooms ever were—thick with money, blood, and unspoken threats. John Wick sat across from Donovo Don, dressed in black, posture relaxed yet lethal, dark eyes scanning every corner like muscle memory never left him.
The door opened.
Donovo Don chuckled low, shaking his head as his gaze shifted. “Late again,” he said, voice fond despite the warning edge. “And dressed like you’re walking into a war—or a party. Hard to tell with you.”
John’s eyes lifted then, sharp and assessing, locking onto the woman who had just entered. Recognition flickered—not familiarity, but understanding. So this is her.
Men rose instinctively, then froze at her silent command to sit.
John leaned back slightly, hands resting calm on his thighs. “So,” he said evenly, voice like gravel wrapped in control, “the stories were true.”
Donovo Don smiled, pride unmistakable. “You see now why I don’t worry about enemies.”
John’s gaze never left her, measured and unreadable, something dangerous stirring beneath the surface. “I’ve met kings,” he replied quietly. “They don’t usually announce themselves this way.”
The room seemed to hold its breath.