In the dark and relentless world of assassins bound by codes, hidden allegiances, and unbreakable oaths, Blood Oaths and Shadows offers a thrilling collection of interconnected short stories set within the legendary universe of John Wick. These stor...
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The leather-bound ledger felt heavy in Benedict Slater's hands as he made his final entry of the evening. His fountain pen scratched across the page with practiced precision, documenting the latest blood oath between two prominent members of the High Table. The sound echoed through the vast underground archive beneath the Continental Hotel in New York, where centuries of such promises were kept.
*May 15th, 2021 Blood Oath registered between Madame Zhao and Signor Romano Terms: Lifetime protection in exchange for controlling interest in Asian operations Witnesses: The Director, The Archivist Status: Binding*
Benedict closed the ledger with a gentle thud and adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses. At fifty-three, his salt-and-pepper hair and lean build gave him an aristocratic air that suited his position. Few knew that beneath his impeccable suits lay the body of a trained killer, or that his seemingly delicate hands had ended more lives than most active assassins.
The Archive was his sanctuary—a vast underground complex of climate-controlled rooms filled with floor-to-ceiling shelves of books, documents, and scrolls. Each contained secrets that could start wars or end dynasties. The air was always cool and dry, perfect for preservation. The only sounds were the soft hum of the environmental controls and the occasional turning of pages.
His phone buzzed, breaking the silence. A text from Winston: *Urgent meeting. My office. Now.*
Benedict frowned. The manager of the Continental rarely summoned him at this hour—10:47 PM according to the antique clock on his desk. He secured the ledger in its vault, activated the security systems, and made his way to the elevator.
The familiar weight of his modified Beretta M9 pressed against his ribs as he ascended. In his line of work, paranoia was a survival trait. The elevator doors opened to the elegant lobby of the Continental, where even at this hour, assassins and criminals conducted their business with rehearsed civility.
Charon, the concierge, nodded as Benedict passed. "Good evening, Mr. Slater."
"Charon." Benedict returned the nod, noting the slight tension in the man's usually unflappable demeanor.
Winston's office carried the same old-world charm as always—dark wood, leather furniture, and the perpetual smell of expensive scotch. But something was wrong. The Manager of the Continental stood at his window, hands clasped behind his back, staring out at the city lights.
"Benedict," Winston said without turning. "We have a problem."
"What kind of problem?"
Winston finally faced him, his expression grave. "The Eldridge documents are missing."
Benedict felt his blood run cold. The Eldridge documents contained details of every major player's connections to legitimate businesses and government officials—the foundation of the High Table's global influence.
