"This ain't no Holiday Inn or Hilton Hotel, ya understand?"

Aurelio warned Logan to exercise extreme caution. Its upscale location in New York made it respectable. Despite its exquisite opulence, the Continental was not ―no matter what ―a place to drop your guard. Vigilance behooved a stranger in an unknown city; within the Assassins' haven, it was imperative. There would be no quarter given, no second chance. First impressions were important, and Logan wanted to make a statement.

In the reflection of a dingy motel mirror, Logan combed her wet hair. Behind her, laid out across the bedding was a grey dress for tonight's events. A rather modest but sophisticated garment she collected on her return to the motel. With short, cap sleeves and scooped neckline made of delicate floral lace overlaying the fitted lining beneath, it complimented her figure. Nearby were the matching heels.

"Now―y'can't just walk in an' ask for the Manager," Aurelio had explained just hours before her return.

While her hair dried, she applied mascara to accentuate her long lashes, and swiped tinted gloss across her lips; a light dusting of blush gave a hint of color to her freckled cheekbones.

Hungry slate eyes looked herself over meticulously.

Ready or not… here she was...

"You'll need to set yourself apart from the rest. They can spot an outsider―a stray. Whaddya do for a livin'?"

Logan omitted several details, but he understood she was a part of the military. Thinking back to Marshall and the bloodstain her left upon her concrete, she wondered if Aurelio knew of his subordinate's fate. If he did, it didn't appear that he cared.

"Ah, yeah. That's cute," he snorted derisively, "These folks don't care 'bout none of that. Their lawless but they'll obey one thing and that's the Continental code. You're gonna obey it, too―you don't have a choice."

Hair down, lips glossy, eye lashes thickened and seductive, she slipped on nude stockings, shimmied into her lacy dress and smoothed the clinging material over her frame.

"At the Continental, ya pay for protection. It ain't cheap, and they don't take Visa, MasterCard―or regular money. It's worthless there. They have their own system: coins. I can give you a few."

Throwing a duffel bag onto her bed, she drew the zipper back and retrieved the large wooden box she stole from her father's hideout.

"Coins?" she interrupted, recalling the coins both John and Caldron possessed. She described them to Aurelio.

"Yeah," he replied, incredulous. "How'd you know?"

Removing the lid, she grabbed a handful and fit as many as she could into her small clutch purse. Eyeing the medallion, she opted to bring it. It's purpose still eluded her; perhaps the medallion and the coins were somehow related.

"I've seen them," Logan replied carefully, searching his eyes for a hint to what it all meant. "What do I need to do?"

"One coin―give that to the concierge. Tell 'im what you want."

"Okay," she rose to leave, but his words stopped her.

"And, one more thing."

She glanced back.

"No funny business. I don't know what your plans are, but don't getcha self too deep. Get in and get out."

Her eyes roamed over the firearms neatly arranged across the bed. She understood well what Aurelio referred to; the urge to pack a gun or two was strong. Logan fervently believed it best to have it and not need it, than need it, but not have it. Unfortunately, there was no room on her person, or in her clutch purse to stow a handgun, much less a foldable blade. There was one additional item that could fit―the picture of her family.

As Logan stared at her weaponry, the coming ordeal felt more risky than rewarding, but if the all-knowing hotel manager had the answers, then the Continental was her next destination.


Logan parked and walked the rest of the way. Dusk threw the city's skyline against a fiery backdrop while her lengthened shadow worked in tandem with the staccato report of her heels.

The wedge shaped hotel occupied an entire city block; from the curiously pointed entrance, its patrons exited onto the bustling street, seamlessly blending in with the populous like proverbial wolves amongst the sheep. Uniformed bellhops positioned themselves beneath the black awning; their friendly smiles were at odds with the searching, calculating look in their eyes as they watched Logan ascend the steps.

With a polite nod and a cheshire grin, the topmost bellhop silently drew open the wrought iron gate, allowing Logan Ryder unchallenged access to the Continental Hotel. The door closed quietly behind her, shutting out the harsh brick and industrial jungle that encompassed the city itself, and opened up to aforementioned affluence within. The interior was too smooth, soft, and clean.

As Logan composed herself, she admiringly noted the luxurious, beige carpeting beneath her feet, and how the rich fragrance of top grain leather and soothing chamomile gently caressed her senses. Soft, classical music further enhanced the refined ambiance and muted the hushed conversations around her. Careful to keep her expression placid, everywhere Logan glanced were well dressed patrons; seated in leather chairs, gathered together, or lounging at their leisure with electronic devices in hand; Logan was surrounded by assassins. That much she knew. She realized with great dismay, that any one of the professional killers resembled a business executive, a trendy hipster, a college professor, or … anyone they chose to be.

"These people kill for a living. Just try not t'draw attention to yourself…"

Shaken to her core and trembling inside, she sternly berated herself; there was no turning back now. Ready or not, here she was.

As she met curious gazes and returned polite nods of the well dressed assassins of the storied hotel, she proceeded forth. Their sharp, predatory gazes followed Logan as they sized her up, before returning to their dealings. Overhead, a daunting, black chandeliers' crystal prisms captured the evening rays and threw colorful rainbows across the high, vaulted ceiling. The carpets' geometric design led her quietly over a white marble floor, and directly to the concierge.

Dark eyes lifted from the computer screen as Logan approached, but gave no indication of the man's thoughts. A well-versed smile lifted his lips as he greeted her.

"Good evening; my name is Charon. How may I assist you, Miss …?" An accent unknown to Logan greeted her politely.

"Ryder" she answered; his finger tapped a crisp beat on the keyboard of his computer.

"I do not have you listed in my database. Do you have a reservation here, Miss Ryder?" he asked softly; his probing gaze made Logan freeze; blank was her mind―the script she practiced lost. She became painfully aware of the silent bellhops flanking the desk at either end.

"No," she admitted, careful to conceal her own accent, "I was hoping to speak to the Manager; is he in…?"

"The manager is always in. Is he expecting you?"

"No," she admitted again. "I just need some information regarding one of his business partners, shouldn't take long."

"Of course." The man's eyes narrowed slightly, as a tiny, knowing smirk appeared on his lips. "But the manager is a very busy man. Perhaps I can assist you with your concerns?"

That was unexpected. She needed to see the manager, not the concierge. Aurelio made no mention of delegation between owner and Charon. Logan wracked her brain for her next choice of words. They would either grant her access or revoke her very presence.

Glancing over her shoulder, she surveyed the patrons around her. Most paid her little mind, but a few caught her stare.

She wondered…

Whoever John was to these people, to this faction, the mention of Wick's name held much weight―fourteen million dollars' worth.

Bringing herself closer to the concierge's desk, she spoke barely above a whisper.

"I have information about John Wick I think the manager would like to hear."

Charon blinked twice, his dark eyes widened imperceptibly and he said no more; instead, he gazed at her expectantly. Logan remembered her part of the bargain: access and protection via coin, however that worked―who was she to judge their inner workings?

From her small purse, just in case, she placed two coins on the counter and slid them towards him.

With a minute tilt of his head, Charon completed their transaction; his dark, tapered fingers swept the gleaming coins toward him, and he deposited them into his till.

Charon picked up a phone and murmured quietly into the handset. After a brief conversation, he returned it to its cradle. With an unreadable expression on his face, he glanced at the bellhops, who discreetly made themselves inconspicuous; their maroon uniforms blended in with the decor's theme, and virtually hid them in plain sight. Charon exited from the desk area, beckoning Logan to follow.

Against her breastbone still rested John's ring; at once, she knew it resided within the very walls. Though surrounded by death dealers, a sense of comfort remained.


In silence, they rode a private elevator down and entered a dimly lit restaurant. Dark, polished wood covered the floor and heavy, vermilion drapery lined every wall. High above, subdued lighting basked the coffered ceilings with gentle warmth, creating a relaxing ambiance.

Situated in the furthest corner upon an elevated platform, a small jazz band played an ambling tune that swept across the open space. The voluptuous, lead vocalist crooned into the microphone, as she rhythmically swayed to each sultry riff delivered by the tenor sax player next to her. The drummer bobbed his head to the accompanying beat as the other musicians danced on stage. Behind them, a grand piano sat directly beneath a stage light. Beyond the silent instrument, more crimson curtains covered the backdrop, absorbing any harsh discord from the band.

Logan loved and hated the impressive instrument as she recalled her recently acquired photo. Though beautiful sounds could be elicited from the felt covered hammers and metal strings, Logan had a lingering disdain for the contraption, yet the glowing keyboard and unoccupied bench beckoned to her, inviting her to play. Charon led her past a bar that was tended by a slender redhead, who flashed Logan a polite smile as she wiped a towel across the polished surface.

Charon led her to the farthest corner, where an older gentleman was seated alone in a semi-circular booth. A scotch, neat, rested nearby; at their approach, pale, blue eyes peered over the reading glasses perched midway upon his nose. Standing aside, with a wide sweep of his hand, Charon gestured towards the older gentleman, whose bland gaze swept over Logan as he quietly closed the ledger before him.

"Good evening, Sir," the concierge respectfully addressed the older man with a slight bow.

"Miss Ryder is here to see you."

"Thank you." the manager drawled, dismissing the concierge with a nod. Charon turned and silently made his way back to the entrance without a backward glance.

Logan's stomach clenched; she began tallying up Aurelio's warnings in her head. Knowing the people surrounding her were killers made her very uncomfortable; however, what was more disconcerting, was the fact none of them looked the part. Even now, the man before her looked to be nothing more than a harmless, distinguished gentleman, perhaps a much loved husband, or even a doting grandfather.

"Miss Ryder," he greeted her; Logan detected a faint English accent in his smooth voice. Politely, he rose and extended his hand. "I don't believe we've met before. I am Winston, the manager." Aurelio was right. There was concision in his air and address, much like John.

"Nice to meet you," she took his hand into hers with gentle confidence. His hand was warmer than hers, for anxiety withdrew blood from her extremities and pumped it into her center mass, nourishing her vital organs.

"My pleasure. Please, do sit down."

Logan swallowed thickly, mindful of her location. Deep within the bowels of the deadly lair, already she'd counted twelve males and two females, not including herself. However, no funny business kept her from taking necessary precautions; she was unarmed and uncertain if the rules that applied to one, applied to all.

Logan sank down into the opposing bench, using the moment to study Winston. His pale eyes held her attention. Though kind, they were keen, observant and quite frankly, reminded her of her father's. Though his hair was a nest of dark, greying curls instead of shiny skin.

Winston sat furthest back, facing the only exit within the speakeasy; her father called it 'the gunfighter's seat,' for it enabled a body to keep a watchful eye on the comings and goings of all souls within the establishment. Danger or foul play could be predicted long before it transpired. Whether it was intentional or not, Logan was not sure. Perhaps she was overthinking the situation and giving the older gentleman too much credit? For all she knew, that could be his favorite seat and nothing else. However, Aurelio had specifically warned her of the Continental's Kingpin.

Whatever the case may be, Logan was before him now, whether she wanted to be or not. And, he was polite enough. Maybe Aurelio over exaggerated …?

"What brings you to my establishment this fair evening, Miss Ryder?"

There was no sense in drawing out the inevitable; she gathered her thoughts. Mustering her courage, Logan got down to business.

"I was hoping you could give me some information about John Wick."

Declaring her intentions bluntly seemed silly. Deliberately stirring the pot, intending to engage any proverbial riffraff was immature and a waste of time and resources. If she remained in Texas, what was she to do? Wait for the day she came home to another box of body parts? If they did manage to kill John, then what? Logan highly doubted life would return to normal.

A sardonic smirk appeared on Winston's lined face. Her words came as no surprise. "Ah, yes, Jonathan. If I'm not mistaken, Charon said you had the information."

"I was searching for the correct rhetoric," she admitted placidly.

"Sly girl," Winston muttered before polishing off his drink.

Jonathan …

Logan blinked, mentally tasting the name Jonathan on her tongue. Until now, she'd never thought of John's full name: Jonathan Wick. She liked it very much. As Logan's heart warmed at the discovery of what must be Wick's given name, Winston signaled to the barkeep. Previously Aurelio had painted Winston as a ruthless man; however, his fond reference to their subject pulled lightly at Logan's decrepit heartstrings. It was too intimate of a gesture which did not slip past Logan's notice.

The bartender came to their booth.

"A drink, on the house," he said to the slender redhead, "For our first time guest."

"Yes, Sir," She glanced at Logan before returning to the bar, where from there, Logan continuously felt the woman's stare. It made her uncomfortable and excluded―like a stray.

When their drinks appeared, Logan kept her focus on Winston. Another scotch, neat, for him and a fruity, bright blue cocktail for her. She grimaced; to avoid rudely slighting his hospitality, Logan tentatively sipped her beverage.

"What would you like to know?" He proceeded, carefully lacing his fingers together. "If it's his location, I'm afraid I cannot say; his whereabouts are a mystery, even to me."

Logan kept her voice low, whispering. "I'm not looking for him." She knew all too well where he was and where he'd had been. Beneath the table, out of the manager's sight, she pressed her thighs together.

Still maintaining vigilance, she glanced around, as if all responsible for the events up until now would present themselves. Maybe Winston was one of the men who put John out? If that were the case, why in the world would Aurelio send her here? She was a lamb in the lion's den.

Treading cautiously, she decided to utilize the information John shared, to see if it could elicit a more definitive response; right now, she was shooting in the dark.

Logan elaborated, "I'm looking for the people who did this to John."

Winston furrowed his brow, intrigued by her heading. "Go on," he said.

In truth, Logan didn't know where to begin with her inquiries. There was so much she didn't know, so much John refused to tell.

"Where did it all begin? Why is he running? Who are all these people after him?" The questions came flooding forward. "I understand he broke a code, and killed on Continental ground, is that what brought the contract?" She pressed an index finger against the table for emphasis. "Was it here? Did he kill a man here?"

The furrowed brows now rose with surprise, ignoring all of her questions. "My word, have you any idea what you've gotten yourself into?"

Sitting back, she dropped her hands into her lap.

"Not exactly," she stated flatly.

Winston chuckled humorlessly, "My dear, you are well in over your head."

Logan flexed her jaw. She already knew this and found this no laughing matter. But now she was second guessing herself. If what he said was true, if she was in over her head, then why was she doing it? This was not her battle. It was John's, it was Caldron's for being the man John turned to. It was never part of the agenda to involve herself this thoroughly. In fact, no one asked her to do anything, besides stand by in idle, pretending she wasn't seeking validation from yet another man. She could see it for what it was and it would be an exhausting effort to kill every man and woman who came for John. And what did she get in return besides uncovered lies, a box full of body parts, and a festering complex?

Despite herself, anger warmed and flushed her cheeks. Still, she was very upset with her father. To come to terms with her recent discovery would require some time.

But ultimately and up until this very moment, the decision was hers. It always was. Nothing Logan did or said was beyond her control. Certainly some outcomes yielded better results than others, but life was a choice, and she chose to come here.

Distracted by her thoughts, Logan gaze rested on the piano. Her mother played the piano. Her mother was also dead. The grisly image flashed before her mind's eye without resistance. Sadistically, Logan wanted to see it, to embrace the memory in all its literal guts and glory. It was why she'd come here in the first place; to get even. Wasn't it?

Respiring deeply, Logan turned her attention back to Winston, who thoughtfully studied her.

"Were you there when John killed that man?" Whoever that was.

A moment passed. Winston nodded.

"Normally it's not just their Continental membership that I revoke. But Jonathan, " he paused, drawing a deep breath as he sought the words. "In summary, I did what I could."

There, Logan saw it before it slipped behind an expressionless mask.

Despondency. Winston was regretful in his decision.

"We live by a code," Winston clarified. "If not for rules, we are no better than animals." The manager fixed Logan with another fatherly look that seemed oddly too comforting coming from a stranger.

Still and despite all of Aurelio's warning, she found herself agreeable towards Winston. Up until now, Logan had been selective with her information and intentions on all accounts. Even her father barely knew what she was up to―at least she thought so. Returning to earlier's exchanged with Charon, Logan wondered what rhetoric she could utilize to her advantage. Winston seemed to be the right man to indulge.

Unfortunately she was a terrible actress, and even more terrible liar.

But what could a little white lie do?

What he didn't know certainly wouldn't hurt him. From what she could tell, Winston was not happy with the turnabout either. However, he understood John's unfavorable odds. So did she, so they weren't all too different, Winston and Logan.

"Anything else?" Logan probed gently, before she changed her heading once again.

"All that I am able to share," he replied.

Looking thoughtful towards the piano again, she reflected. "I wish I could have learned a bit more about him." She met Winston's attentive gaze, heartfelt. "It's unfortunate what happened to him."

Winston knitted his brow, And that was? expressed across his face.

Logan blinked in disbelief, unable to comprehend that no one told him the news.

"Winston, John was killed."


We all know Winston favors the ever living shit out of John. I wonder what type of retribution is at hand.

I've changed up the summary because the initial one had a lot of nothing to do with the story in actuality. Yes, blackwater. Yes attachment issues, but it goes much deeper into that. So I fixed it, plot is still the same. Characters etc etc.

Initially, this chapter was supposed to go well over 4k and creep up to 5k. As a reader myself, I sometimes abhor such lengthy chapters because I've got other things to do, like write. Anywho, point being, would yall rather me submit one large chapter every week, or multiple chapters every several days? It's up to yall, really.

Of course, thank you for the time you shared with me reading this, the favorites/follows. Have a good weekend!