**
Winston's face darkened. In all his forty years at New York's Continental Hotel, he'd never encountered a situation like this. A direct challenge to the hotel's authority? Unthinkable. But then, he couldn't help but wonder, would the man really show up?
"Notify Santino. Tell him to come here and gather some men. The Continental Hotel does not tolerate defiance." Winston's voice was cold as he picked up the phone, dialing a number, calling the elder Antonio.
"Mr. Antonio, your son posted a bounty at the New York Continental. The target has come forward, claiming he will attack tonight. Do you know who this man is?"
"..." The elder Antonio wasn't fully aware of his son's recent activities. He was gravely ill, with not much time left. Earlier in Las Vegas, he'd met with Sloan, the leader of the Assassin's League—a group with over a thousand years of history. Although the two organizations had not clashed in the past, recent years had seen increasing friction. The assassins of the League were more skilled than the hotel's killers, though they were fewer in number.
Their negotiations were primarily to ensure that the Assassin's League wouldn't encroach on Italy, the family's stronghold. Both sides had played their cards, and in the end, the result was a draw.
"I'm not aware of the specifics, but Lin is a professional gambler. If he's speaking so boldly now, he's not as simple as he seems," the elder Antonio mused. "Feel free to handle this however you see fit. If you need the council's assistance, I can help."
"For now, we'll manage, but I would appreciate it if Santino could come here tonight," Winston requested.
"Very well. Since he's the one who stirred up this mess, I'll send him," the elder Antonio agreed before hanging up.
...
Back at his place, Link opened his small armory, glanced at it, and frowned slightly before closing it again. He turned and left, driving to an industrial district where he found a small machine shop to commission a batch of throwing knives.
This fight would be indoors, so guns weren't a necessity. Handing over fifty thousand dollars, he asked the shop owner to craft blades modeled after leaf-shaped knives, sharp enough to pierce any bulletproof vest.
He had no intention of using the equipment he'd acquired from S.H.I.E.L.D. This wasn't a situation that warranted their involvement—it was just the New York Continental after all.
Besides, Link wanted something unique. After all, names like Hawkeye, Black Widow, and even the Ghost Rider were earned. He intended to earn his name as well.
He called Jessica and told her to stay at Trish's place for the night, offering no further explanation before hanging up. He knew Jessica would worry, but explaining would only make her more anxious. Link had realized he couldn't always afford to be so low-profile and soft.
The casinos had invited him to participate in games, but unruly patrons like Santino demanded a different approach. Santino wasn't concerned about money; it was his pride that had been wounded. He felt that Link had humiliated him, and for someone like him, that wasn't unusual.
Link recalled this Santino—he was the same character from *John Wick*, a villain with no moral compass. Santino had hired assassins to kill his own sister for a seat at the High Table, only to then place a bounty on the killer to cover his tracks, pretending it was all for vengeance.
He was someone who didn't shy away from crossing lines, and losing a game to Link was just another bruise to his ego.
...
By ten that evening, Link had his knives ready—hundreds of them, all carefully crafted to his specifications. The small shop had done well, especially considering they had to create molds first before production. Fifty thousand dollars had bought him an entire day of their dedicated effort.
Link packed up the knives, donned a pair of jeans, black Martin boots, and a simple black cotton T-shirt. He strapped a sports waist pack to his hips, filled it with the knives, and drove to the Continental Hotel, arriving an hour early.
He parked some distance away, leaning against his car with a cigar in one hand and a bottle of bourbon on the hood. He took his time, carefully preparing his cigar as he watched the minutes tick by.
Inside the hotel, Winston sat in the terrace garden sipping tea, while the lobby buzzed with the presence of dozens of killers—some seated, others standing. The hotel's security was tight tonight.
Winston hadn't mobilized the hotel's own forces. Instead, he'd summoned killers from outside, knowing the thirty-million-dollar bounty would attract plenty of them. Santino Antonio, too, was in the garden, dismissive of the threat. He didn't believe that anyone could breach the hotel. Had it not been for his father's insistence, he wouldn't have bothered coming.
"Winston, you're being overly cautious. Do you really think that man can fight his way in here?" Santino asked, sounding incredulous.
"No, I don't," Winston replied. "But he's the first to challenge the Continental, and we must take it seriously. He'll need to be made an example of."
Winston wasn't entirely truthful. He foresaw two outcomes: either Link would be killed, serving as a warning to others, or Link would make it through. In that case, Winston was prepared to hand Santino over and let the High Table deal with the aftermath.
Winston had no intention of using the hotel's resources. Santino's own men were guarding the garden entrance, ensuring no interruptions.
Link glanced at the time. He had five minutes left until midnight—just enough not to be late. He downed the last of his bourbon, flicked the cigar between his lips, and slowly began walking toward the hotel, both hands reaching into his waist pack to retrieve a pair of knives.
As he reached the entrance, he glanced at his watch—just a few seconds to go. He stepped through the door.
The moment he entered, every assassin in the lobby turned to face him. Link smirked around his cigar, "Hey..."
Without hesitation, they all reached for their guns.
*Whoosh!* Link's hands shot out, the knives slicing through the air.
*Thud! Thud!* Two hit their marks.
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