Balance was an important factor in Yuji's life, be it what he eats, whom he associates with, how he sleeps, even how he fights. Assassins almost always pick the most strategically advantageous tactics, and Yuji does as well, but this was not a hit. It was more a warm up.
The first place that he knew he could hit was the Mela D'oro, a fancy members-only club with a strict dress-code. Every entrance was covered with at least four armed guards. Scanning the surrounding area as he drove around at a distance, Yuji took note of their shifts, quickly committing them to memory.
Now the only question was this: where would the point of entry be? Pulling out a gold coin, he tossed it. Lion, full frontal assault. Man would be the back door.
"Mi scusi, signori," Yuji called out to the guards in Italian. "Have you seen a cat around here? She's a tuxedo and has a red collar. She slipped out of my car when I was getting gas." He held out an image on his phone.
Upon inspecting the picture, all of them shook their head in silence but as soon as they blinked, their bodies collapsed to the floor as they felt a searing white-hot pain from their torso and a sudden chill seeping in. It was only after it was too late that they realized their impending deaths. They knew not where it came from or how it was concealed, but there was a trench knife in the man's hand, the blade blackened from its recently claimed victim's blood. Their vision soon turned black as the blade delivered the killing stroke, tearing their throats open.
While he had nothing against the Italian culture, Yuji was absolutely disgusted with the majority of the décor. The color choice of the carpet floor made his eyes hurt, and the ceiling and most of the walls were painted as if it were the Sistine Chapel. The line between classy and gaudy is very fine, and this establishment crossed it by a mile.
Knife in hand, he immediately gutted a guard with an earpiece. Commandeering his Glock, Yuji emptied the magazine into the ceiling as well as some other men that pushed past the crowd to dispatch him. The attendants all screamed and fled in terror, pushing past and trampling each other to get out of the line of fire, making a mess of themselves with stains from food, wine, and whatever else there was. As the crowd cleared out, Yuji switched to the MP7A1 and tilted the gun sideways, employing the Center Axis Relock system that John favors. He fired as he swiveled around, bullet casings flying all over the floor and painting over the walls with fresh blood.
Continuing to saunter through the club, more guards showed, only to be mowed down by Yuji's superior reflexes. Letting the MP7A1 hang from the sling, Yuji reached for his favored weapon: a wakizashi that was 24-inches in length. In a single fluid draw and slash, the man closest to him fell as his head rolled off his shoulders.
They all froze. And this was precisely why Yuji favored blades. The medieval style of death-dealing was more grisly, more graphic. It instilled and fanned the fear of death by mutilation. Even now, the stump where the head used to be was spouting blood like a sprinkler, dying everything it touched crimson.
Once the carnage had died down, Yuji promptly wiped the blade down on a guard's shirt, leaving a large reddish black stain on his collar. Slicking his short black hair back now caked in blood, he walked upstairs in search for a "staff only" sign. Sadly, there were none, and he had no time to lose. The dignitaries that fled with ties to the Camorra surely had called this in by now. "Should have gotten blueprints from the Architect."
Walking back downstairs, he painted his mark on the wall with blood in Japanese. Shuten Dōji, The Drunkard Demon. As he was about to walk out, two particular bottles behind the bar counter caught his eye. One was Blanton's Single Barrel Bourbon, a favorite of John's. The other was a twelve-year Angostura 1824, Yuji's personal favorite. Vaulting over the bar counter, he helped himself to both. He then emptied a fresh magazine of the MP7A1 into every bar counter in sight, shattering every bottle on the shelf. "Wick-san, here I go." He struck and tossed them as he walked around to each counter, setting the place aflame, leaving with a satisfied smirk.
He then drove away in his Skyline GTR from a parking lot, heading towards a container yard. Flooring the gas pedal, the engine roared as the chain link fence grew larger by the second. With a deafening crash, the gates were torn off by the generated force. Even then Yuji did not let up. He tore through the container yard, making hairpin curves, driving in reverse, and running the occasional unfortunate henchman over. The swearing, cursing and screams in Italian were drowned by Miles Davis' trumpet on the radio.
Once the car had run out of gas, Yuji stepped out of the car. Over a dozen men were standing twenty meters away from him, all toting weapons of some kind, but many of them injured. They all stared at him with a look of hatred and confusion, and Yuji returned nothing more than a blank stare.
"Che cazzo sei!?" One of them yelled as he spat out what appeared to be a broken tooth.
"Shuten Dōji." Yuji answered. "I am here to file a complaint about what was done to John Wick by your late leader Santino D'Antonio. If these wrongs remain unaddressed, I will guarantee that none of you will be receiving the next shipment in the morning. And I just came from razing the Golden Apple." As if to prove his point further, he opened the trunk and produced a severed head of one of the guards, and tossed it at their feet.
That caught their attention. Everyone that worked for the Camorra in America knew that place was a fortress, nigh-impregnable. But this diminished every possibility of tricks or bluffs.
"I want you all to go back to your employer. Tell them to cancel the price on John Wick's head lest they keep losing their soldiers. Losing you, your fathers, uncles, brothers, cousins." With a quick bow of the head, Yuji drove away, leaving the men talking amongst themselves rapidly in Italian.
Whistling along as the jazz station played on the radio, Yuji drove back to the Continental. For a warm-up, things went a lot better than he anticipated. He actually half expected the men to start firing at him as soon as he turned his back. Handing the keys to the valet, he walked through the lobby to the front desk. Charon's suit was immaculately pressed as ever. "Good evening, sir."
"Hi. How good's your laundry?"
With a quick scan, Charon shook his head slowly. "I'm sorry to say sir, but….no one's that good."
Yuji shrugged. "Eh. Worth a try. I'd like to order some room service, my usual course meal in about an hour if that's alright."
"Of course, sir. Will you be needing a mechanic as well for repairing your transportation?"
"That would be fabulous. Thank you." Leaving the car keys with him, Yuji slung the bag of weapons and booze over his shoulder and ascended to his room on the elevator. Luckily, he suffered no injuries. All he needed was a shower to wash the blood off.
Tossing the blood soaked clothing into the trashcan in the corner, he turned the handle on the shower. The steamy hot water melted the blood caked on his head like wax, falling into the drain as it got watered down. Once the blood was gone, he slowly turned the handle back, dropping the temperature of the water. Yuji let out a sigh of relief. Walking out of the bathroom soaking wet with nothing but a towel covering his modesty, he opened the bottle of bourbon, poured it in a glass, and took a sip. The slow, deep burn that coursed from the tip of his tongue through his body felt amazing as it settled in his stomach, smooth as a polished blade. "No wonder you like it neat." Finishing one glass, he helped himself to another as he put some clothes on. After a while, the phone on the bedside table rang. "Yes?"
"Yuji, it's Aurelio."
"Good evening. Is the Mustang fixed yet? Or do you still need a decade to finish it up?"
"Nah, it's thirty percent done, last time I checked. Taking it slow and careful, you know? For when…..he comes back?"
"When? You're that certain he's coming back?"
"Well, uh….I've seen the car in worse condition, believe it or not, so yeah. Yours will be ready in about three days. Want anything as a replacement while it's getting fixed? Motorcycle, maybe?"
"Ducati Monster 821." Yuji answered without missing a beat.
"Alright. I'll have that down there for you by tomorrow."
"Thank you. Say hi to your niece for me."
"Fuck you, man." The two men chuckled briefly.
As they hung up, there was a knock at the door and a woman walked in pushing a trolley with platters of food. "Your course meal, sir."
"Thank you very much." Yuji handed her two coins and gave her a knowing smile. She raised a brow in surprise, but understanding what he was implying, she gave a small nod before exiting.
"Welcome back, sir," Charon greeted Winston as he approached the front desk. "Crossings were smooth, I hope?"
"The crossings, yes. What happened in between….not so much, I'm afraid." Winston had hoped whoever replaced Santino at the High Table would be of a more understanding nature, but it was for naught. The Camorra obviously still wanted John's head and now the emergence of a third party, Yuji, had rubbed them the wrong way even further. They refrained from demanding the revocation of his membership at the Continental though, at the very least, saving time to issue a well-thought out threat.
What they especially took exception to, however, was the butchering of the men and the venue being destroyed quite thoroughly. Winston quietly chuckled upon seeing the High Table's reaction when they got the report. Yuji always was a man who had a flare for the dramatic and presentation in terms of proving his being there. In fact, Winston had the pleasure of watching his handiwork in the past. He was quite interested in how fine of a line he was going to walk, how far he was going to damage the Camorra, and who might be interested in siding with him in this one-man war.