Chapter 751: Liu Liu Jinhu Dirtied the House

John Wick saw the situation outside the door on the surveillance monitor at the entrance hall.

He looked at the man in the monitor—dressed in a suit, tie fastened, hair slicked back, eyes full of darkness—and even he, in his coldness, couldn't help but fuck.

Because of that damn Oriental's cursed mouth, the one who'd been drinking with his dog inside the house, his prophecy had come true: this man really had come with a blood pact to claim his life.

He exhaled slowly, opened the door, and faced the dark-eyed man forcing a friendly smile: "Santino."

"John, may I come in?" Santino Antonio asked with polite formality.

"Of course."

John Wick stepped aside, glanced at the dozen men guarding three cars outside, then closed the door and entered.

"John, I'm deeply sorry about your wife," said the Italian mobster, rarely one to cozy up to others—yet his first words went straight to the wound.

"Thank you. Coffee or drink?"

"Caf… a guest? An Oriental?" Santino, about to answer, spotted the man sitting inside drinking and playing with the dog, turned back to John Wick, "I think we need a private space, John."

Seeing Wang Yan's mocking gaze, John shook his head: "He's my friend—and a registered killer at the Continental. Santino, I know why you're here, but believe me—don't take it out. Sit, have a coffee, talk about the past, then leave."

Santino frowned, voice sharp with venom: "Listen, John—I didn't want to come. But I have no choice. Only you can help me."

"Don't do this," John replied coldly. As if it weren't enough, he intensified his tone: "Don't do this."

"Sorry, John."

Santino spoke, pulled from his suit's inner pocket a simple, ancient circular object carved with mysterious patterns, gave Wang Yan a cold glance, and placed it on the table.

"No one can leave and return without bearing the consequences. I'm in a difficult position too, John. Don't make it harder for me. You know the rules. Don't forget—if I hadn't helped you that night with the impossible task, you wouldn't be sitting here now, refusing me. Everything you have, I gave you. Without me, do you think you could've lived five peaceful years with your wife in this remote place? No, John. You were already dead that night five years ago."

Santino used threats and reason—but what he said was true. All operated under the rules; he had indeed helped John, and now seeking repayment was not wrong.

The problem lay with John Wick—he had accepted help, yet now wished to renege.

John looked at the damn Oriental, at that infuriating grin that made him want to blow his head off, clenched his teeth, and stared at Santino with icy eyes: "Take it back."

"Take it back? How simple. But a blood pact isn't a joke, John. I think I need to remind you: when one gives a blood pact, they swear with their soul. Do you intend to break your oath?"

"Find someone else," John struggled, still clinging to a chance—for himself, and for Santino.

But Santino's fury was plain—he was a powerful mob boss, he had reason, and John's refusal felt like a slap across his face.

He opened the blood pact's cover, revealed the fingerprint inside, lifted it before John's eyes: "John, look closely—this is your blood. You came to me, I helped you. Now I ask for repayment, and you want to refuse. If you truly refuse, you know the consequences."

John shook his head: "I'm not the man I was."

"You've always been that man. That will never change."

"Sorry." John pushed the blood pact back across the table.

Santino's eyes now glinted with murder. He angrily shoved the pact back into his pocket: "We'll meet again soon."

Saying this, he rose to leave.

At that moment, Wang Yan, seated nearby, spoke: "Excuse me, I must interject. Mr. Santino, you seem furious—would you really want to burn this place down with a grenade launcher when you leave? Remember, I'm just an outsider. Are you trying to drag me into danger?"

Santino froze, surprised, looking at Wang Yan: "Oriental kid, you've made a good suggestion. I did consider that. You understand the anger of being rejected by a friend, right? If you know that, why are you still inside? Come out with us."

As he spoke, he glanced at silent John Wick, smirking triumphantly.

Wang Yan smiled warmly at John Wick: "John, it seems the unfortunate thing I warned you about has happened—but believe me, it wasn't my cursed mouth. After all, many things are secrets; how could I possibly know so much? Now, it's your turn to choose."

Santino was utterly confused—he heard the Oriental implied he knew Santino would come today, and had told John something bad.

Watching John sit in silent thought, for some reason, Santino felt a terrible unease.

John Wick was never indecisive—but now, facing a decision that weighed the burden of life, he couldn't help hesitating.

He knew Wang Yan had strength—he was aware of Li Zhenkun, had heard of the incident, even obtained photos of the scene. The man acted swiftly, decisively, powerfully. John was confident he could kill them the same way—but whether he could do it as cleanly as Wang Yan was another question. In this regard, he believed Wang Yan might be stronger, or at least equal.

He knew Wang Yan wanted the gene project data, and had been working hard toward it. That meant confronting the High Table. Wang Yan pulling him in was clearly seeking a strong ally to increase leverage.

He actually agreed with Wang Yan's view: the High Table couldn't be opposed unless you had sufficient leverage—he himself believed in the power of the gun.

As for Santino, who now arrived with the blood pact, every scenario Wang Yan had described was possible. Santino wanted to burn his home with a grenade launcher, use the High Table's rules to force him to fulfill the pact. John knew himself—he would kill Santino afterward. But Wang Yan said Santino had power, had fled to the Continental, and sent men to hunt him down. What could he do? Kill Santino inside the hotel? Then he broke the rules—and still couldn't escape pursuit.

John Wick realized: perhaps seeking death outright was the best choice.

He met Wang Yan's smiling gaze: "You owe me two favors."

"John, face reality. Stop being naive. You know it's unequal," Wang Yan said, giving John an approving look and clapping his hands. "Looks like you've made the right choice. Then, esteemed Mr. Santino, don't rush to burn down Wick's home and his wife's sanctuary. Let's talk—what exactly is the problem you need John to solve?"

As he spoke, Wang Yan politely poured Santino a glass of vodka.

Santino frowned, took a sip, glanced approvingly at John Wick, then said to Wang Yan: "I'm glad John has a friend like you. Your persuasion saved us both a lot of trouble."

Only John Wick knew what Wang Yan wanted—and only he knew that Santino might become a corpse in the next second, possibly with his head blown off.

Wang Yan said nothing, only smiled warmly at Santino, urging him to continue.

"Alright, you killers are so boring," Santino, completely unaware of what was unfolding, shrugged and began slowly: "I need John to kill my sister."

"Gianna Antonio," John murmured the name—his old acquaintance. "Why?"

"The High Table has twelve seats. When my father died, he passed the seat to her, making her the representative of the Camorra. I've often wondered—if I replaced her, what could I achieve?"

John frowned: "You want me to kill your sister?"

"Precisely why I came to you, John. I can't do it myself—I still love her. But I must. And her protection is strong; it's not an easy task. Only you, the Ghost John Wick, can accomplish it—and only then will I feel at ease. Once done, you'll get the freedom you want. You'll retire completely."

"But you just wanted to burn down John and his wife's home with a grenade launcher," Wang Yan said, grinning as he took a large gulp of alcohol, turning to John. "Don't say I'm not a friend, or that I forced you, John. I give you one last chance—still time to back out."

John shook his head: "Thanks, no need."

Wang Yan nodded, turned again to the bewildered Santino, and said: "Mr. Antonio, you must have a communication device to contact your men outside?"

Santino shrugged: "Who knows if the pampered John Wick might suddenly go mad?"

"Your caution is wise, John. Discuss the details of this mission with Mr. Antonio. I'll step out. We'll meet again, Mr. Antonio."

John nodded, poured Santino another drink, watched Wang Yan open the door and leave—and began discussing with Santino exactly how to kill his sister…

Wang Yan stepped out of John's house and faced thirteen pairs of assessing eyes. All wore black suits, hair slicked back more than the next, some with arms crossed, some hands clasped in front, some behind—none held guns.

Leading them was a woman—Santino's deaf-mute personal bodyguard.

Ignoring them, Wang Yan returned to his nearby home, sat at his computer, and rapidly operated it, taking control of several security cameras around his house.

This is a residential area; when John Wick avenged his dog, neighbors called the police—now that he's causing trouble again, he should be careful.

As I said before, John Wick can evade manhunt and slaughter freely, but that doesn't mean Wang Mou can do the same here. This place still has a powerful government organization; he still lacks the personal strength to challenge the state's will. He's only challenging a part of the government—and that's a crucial point. If he fails to understand this, if he doesn't obey this rule, what awaits him is the military, missiles—things he cannot resist with brute force alone.

After finishing this, he picked up his laptop and left, arriving once again at John Wick's front door. Without wasting words, he approached the deaf-mute woman and, as she frowned in confusion, a group of men shattered her neck. Then, while others were still stunned, he swung a high roundhouse kick, sending one man flying; he stepped forward, gathered momentum, and delivered a devastating uppercut to the third man's chest, killing him instantly.

At that moment, the remaining men snapped to attention and began drawing guns. Wang Yan's hands flashed silver—two silenced Desert Eagles appeared in his grip—and he fired rapid, precise shots: bang, bang, bang, bang. Of the remaining nine, even the fastest to raise their weapons had barely lifted their guns—everything happened in the blink of an eye.

Let me reiterate: suppressors aren't as powerful as in the movies—they still produce considerable noise. But compared to the original gunshot, a suppressor is better. And here, residential density is low enough for the sound to dissipate. Even if someone hears it, they won't care.

Many parts of America are desolate and quiet at night, especially this suburban neighborhood—few people are out after dark. After all, no matter how powerful America is, it has only one New York, only one Manhattan.

After finishing the fight, Wang Yan opened the car door and acted as a mover, stuffing the corpses into three vehicles. Only then did he clap his hands, pick up his laptop, and walk over to ring the doorbell.

John Wick saw only Wang Yan at the door, nothing else—just a few pools of blood on the ground—and updated his evaluation of this Eastern man: "You're strong."

"Thank you." Wang Yan nodded with a smile and followed him inside.

Inside, they saw Santino, beaten into a horrific state, lying on the floor like a dead dog. John's stolen puppy, meanwhile, lay curled beside him, panting and watching. The dog had drunk too much…

Wang Yan raised an eyebrow and turned to John: "Feel better?"

"Not at all," John Wick shook his head. "Now I've completely burned my bridges. And honestly, I broke the agreement first."

"But so what? As long as you keep your promise to me, that's all that matters."

"Sorry, I don't recall making any promise to you."

"You just did." Wang Yan smiled. "John, I want you to promise me that, no matter what happens, you'll never betray me. You know—we're a terrifying team. When the High Table realizes they can't solve a problem, they offer tempting deals to recruit allies. So when they promise you the freedom you crave, don't betray me. Because internal traitors are more hateful than external enemies. You understand what I mean, right?"

"Of course."

"Good. Then let's entertain the honorable Mr. Santino Antonio."

As he spoke, Wang Yan casually placed his foot on Santino's hand.

Santino had been knocked unconscious by John, but as the saying goes, the fingers are connected to the heart—the pain from his hand jolted him awake with a scream, and he thrashed violently, trying to yank his hand free.

The drunken puppy beside him was roused by Santino's cries, growled at him once in annoyance, then flopped back down to sleep.

The dog could sleep, but Santino couldn't. He tried to pry Wang Yan's leg off, but was kicked away, and the pressure increased. Santino began cursing—calling John a traitor, calling Wang Yan a Chinese monkey, hurling every vile word he knew.

Wang Yan smiled, ignoring him, until Santino finally understood, clamped his teeth shut, and fell silent, veins bulging in his neck—only then did Wang Yan lift his foot.

"Honorable Mr. Antonio, show the spirit of a gang leader. You should know by now—your words mean nothing. Sit down. Let's talk properly."

Santino wanted to curse Wang Yan's ancestors for eighteen generations—the man's refined, aristocratic demeanor made him want to spit—but circumstances were stronger than him. He knew his dozen men were all dead—including his most trusted deaf-mute woman. He felt no sorrow, had no time for sorrow—he had to be strong…

He struggled to his feet and sat down. Wang Yan gave him a approving glance, then sat across from him and poured him the remaining vodka himself.

"Santino, I think you need this very much."

"Thank you." Santino truly did.

Wang Yan calmly pulled out a pack of Huazhi cigarettes, offered one to Santino, and nodded toward John, who stood nearby.

John refused, of course. He had one question he couldn't figure out: why was Wang Yan sitting there as if it were his own home, while he—the real owner—stood helplessly to the side, as if his actions were now dictated by Wang Yan?

Why was this happening? He silently reflected…

Wang Yan didn't care what John thought. He exhaled smoke, watching Santino grimacing and wiggling his fingers as he smoked, and said: "Santino, how's this cigarette?"

"Of course. Excellent. It helps me a lot." Santino forced calmness. "What's your goal? Say it outright."

"Good. I like your directness." Wang Yan nodded with a smile. Not all gang bosses have backbone—or retain their intimidating aura when facing death. Take Santino here: a weakling.

He took a sip of wine and asked: "John was injected with a drug during training—it greatly enhanced his bone density and muscle strength, earning him the name 'John Wick.' John says this was part of the High Table's Superhuman Project. So, Mr. Antonio, tell me: what do you know about this gene project? Its progress, funding sources, personnel structure, actual controller—even the lab's location."

Santino frowned, glancing at the smiling, damned Eastern man, then at John's unreadable expression. He remembered their earlier strange conversation—and understood.

So these two were plotting something. John had refused—but Wang Yan's arrival forced John onto this suicidal path, and now he wanted to take Santino out before he went. Oh, this was terrible…

He exhaled deeply, gulped down more vodka, and inhaled deeply from the Eastern cigarette. "Sir, allow me to remind you—pursuing this matter is more terrifying than John failing his blood oath."

"So you finally realize what a stupid thing you've done." Wang Yan nodded with satisfaction, smiling. "Still, thank you for the warning, Mr. Antonio. But we both know there's no turning back now. Don't be so tense—I haven't decided yet whether you'll die. But if you don't cooperate, you will die—and suffer before it. That's ungentlemanly. I dislike it. I think you do too. Speak. Tell me everything you know."

Santino sighed, resigned: "About this project, I know very little. I only know it began after WWII, initially funded only by the Rockefeller family. Later, other conglomerates joined—possibly even European royalty. They established multiple life science labs, all aiming for immortality.

They ran many projects: youth preservation, gene cloning—each handled a different area, sharing results. You understand: this is the best method. The world has seven billion people, but talent is limited. Elsewhere, they fight fiercely—but on this vague, elusive goal, they're united. From the end of WWII until today, they've poured relentless resources into it. But results have been minimal—perhaps there are breakthroughs, but I lack the rank to know.

These conglomerates formed the High Table. The twelve seats of the Elder Council sound noble—even made me want to kill my own sister—but we all know we're just their servants. The world works this way: if you're not strong enough, you obey. But though they're powerful, we're not pigs or dogs—we're not their playthings. We still have some voice.

Sorry, I went off track. Back to the point: the drug John was injected with came from the Rockefeller family's lab. But I'm truly sorry—I don't know more. I haven't become an Elder yet. If I were an Elder, I'd know more."

"Perhaps." Wang Yan raised an eyebrow, noncommittal. "But what you said is useful—it gives us direction. So, Mr. Antonio, how much money do you have? Or, how much do you think your life is worth?"

"Give me three days. I can raise three hundred million. That's all I can access right now. You know—business isn't simple. We need money to buy goods, to…"

It was a clever answer. The amount didn't matter—it was the three days he wanted. He was exploiting greed, and also betting on Wang Yan and John Wick's confidence.

"I need it now. How much can you give me?"

"Twenty million?" Santino watched Wang Yan's face carefully.

"Twenty million? Honorable Mr. Antonio, perhaps you should learn about Eastern interrogation methods." As he spoke, Santino's eyes widened in terror as Wang Yan rose, stepped forward, and swiftly pressed several points on his body.

John Wick watched in surprise as Santino writhed in agony on the floor. He walked over to calm the agitated puppy and asked: "What technique is this?"

"Acupoint suppression. Not difficult. I can teach you sometime. Compared to this pain, actual torture tools would work better. Do you know lingchi? It's slicing a man with a sharp blade—thirty-six thousand cuts, each one removing a thin sliver of flesh, keeping him conscious so he doesn't die mid-process. Go find a sharp knife—I'll show you."

Seeing John Wick actually move toward the knife, Santino's screams cut off abruptly. He shouted loudly: "Sixty million! That's all I have—I swear!"

After speaking, he stopped crying out. He bit his lips, rolling violently side to side. He feared his screams might anger Wang Yan into actually cutting him.

John Wick nodded: "Good. Liu Liu Jinhu dirtied my house."

But his gaze at Wang Yan was strange—he wasn't sure whether what Wang Yan had just said was true, or whether he'd really intended to demonstrate lingchi on Santino.

Wang Yan still smiled, pulled out his laptop, placed it on the table, and opened it—waiting for Santino to transfer the money.