John Wick - Chapter 28: The Goal (Patreon)

Nate pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Henry was leaning against the headboard with two pillows propped behind him and a hot water bottle tucked against his lower back. He had changed into a clean set of gray pajamas, and his hair was still slightly damp. He had probably just taken a shower. His natural white roots showed beneath his hair, looking like a thin layer of frost under the warm yellow light.

He looked like an ordinary old man.

Lily sat on the edge of the bed peeling an apple. Her head was lowered as she worked the knife around it, the peel hanging down in one long, thin spiral.

When Nate entered, Lily handed the peeled apple to her father and stood up.

“I barely ate tonight. I'm going to check out the restaurant downstairs and get something to eat. You two talk.”

She looked at Nate, then at her father on the bed.

Henry gave her a small nod.

As Lily passed Nate on her way out, she reached over and patted him on the shoulder.

She didn't say anything.

The door clicked shut.

Only the two of them remained in the room.

Every so often, headlights from passing cars swept across the curtains, casting brief flashes of light and shadow before disappearing.

Nate sat down in the chair beside the bed. It was where Lily had been sitting moments ago, and the seat still held a trace of warmth.

The silence lasted for about thirty seconds.

“How much did Winston tell you?” Henry spoke first.

His voice was the same as always, slow and relaxed, with a slight rasp to it.

“A lot,” Nate said. “But not enough.”

“What else do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

Henry looked at him for a long time.

Then he turned his gaze toward the half-peeled apple on the nightstand. The exposed flesh had already begun to oxidize, taking on a faint yellow tint.

“Your father was rarely home, and your mother was British,” Henry began quietly. “The year I first took you in, I taught you how to write, Nate.”

The moment Henry mentioned his father, Nate's back tensed slightly.

“I held your hand and guided you stroke by stroke. Your hand was so small you could barely hold the pen properly. Everything you wrote came out crooked.”

A faint smile touched Henry's lips.

“When you finished, you looked up at me and asked, ‘Did I do it right?’ I still remember your smile.”

Nate remembered.

It was so long ago that most of the memory had faded into vague patches of color and scent. What remained most clearly was the feeling of Henry's hand guiding his.

That hand had been large and rough, with thick calluses between the thumb and index finger.

Yet when Henry held his hand, he had been incredibly careful, as though handling something fragile.

“You were only eight when your mother entrusted you to me,” Henry continued. “Your father ran into trouble during an investigation and could barely look after himself. Your mother was dragged into it too.”

“Before she left, she asked me to take care of you.”

“And from then on, you stayed with me.”

The old man looked away from the apple and met Nate's eyes again.

“I promised her that no matter what happened, I would protect you and raise you.”

Nate took a deep breath.

Then he finally asked the question that had been circling in his mind all night.

“So the journalist Winston said you rescued in Paraguay... that was my father?”

“Yes.”

“Then why...”

“Why did he start pursuing that seat?” Henry finished for him.

He straightened slightly.

The hot water bottle slipped from behind his lower back and landed with a soft thump.

Henry ignored it.

He stared directly at Nate.

For an instant, the lazy look normally present in his eyes vanished, revealing something sharp underneath.

“Because of power. And strength.”

There was no anger or contempt in Henry's voice when he said it.

Only exhaustion.

A deep, profound exhaustion.

“Do you know what the High Table really is?” he asked.

“An organization that controls the global underworld.”

“It's more than that.”

Henry shook his head.

“The High Table is ancient. Its influence reaches both the underworld and legitimate society. At its core, it's about power.”

“There are two sets of rules in this world.”

“One is written into law.”

“The other is written into the High Table's records.”

“The first set governs ninety-nine percent of people. The second governs the remaining one percent.”

“And the people who control that second set of rules can move freely between both worlds.”

“They can have afternoon tea at the White House, then watch an entire city disappear from the map that same night.”

“That freedom is power.”

Henry paused.

“Your father was a journalist. One of the best.”

“He saw too many things that the first set of rules couldn't deal with. So he wanted to change the rules in his own way.”

“He believed that if he dragged those hidden rules out into the open for everyone to see, he could change something.”

Henry's voice grew quieter.

“But he failed.”

“Maybe the rules changed him instead.”

Nate's throat felt dry.

“When did he...”

“Become a crime boss?”

Henry answered before he could finish.

“When you were twelve.”

“Truthfully, he had already started changing after he came back from Paraguay.”

“He spent nearly a month locked in a dungeon. Every day, they gave him one ladle of water and a small piece of moldy bread.”

“The Álvaro family tortured him, but he never broke.”

“By the time I found him, seven of his bones were broken.”

Henry paused briefly.

“After I rescued him, he learned what had happened to your mother and to you.”

“He looked at me, furious and devastated, and asked me something.”

“‘Is having power the only way to keep the rules from crushing you?’”

“‘Is sitting in the chair the only way to stop yourself from becoming something other people step on to reach it?’”

“After that, he went to Zurich.”

“That's where the High Table holds its annual council.”

“I don't know what happened to him there.”

Henry looked at Nate.

“But when he returned a few years later, he wasn't a journalist anymore.”

“He was the head of Everrise Group.”

Nate's hands tightened into fists.

“So that's when you two fell out.”

“No.”

Henry shook his head.

“He changed.”

“The way he looked at people. The way he spoke.”

“He stopped seeing the world like an observer and started looking at it like someone who made the rules.”

“When he came back, he had signed an agreement.”

“What agreement?” Nate asked immediately.

“A plan authorizing the complete elimination of the South American Journalists' Federation.”

Henry's voice remained disturbingly calm.

“The very organization he'd spent years protecting as its leader.”

“That was the price of proving his loyalty to The Elder.”

“For the sake of power, he betrayed the ideals he'd once lived by.”

Henry looked away.

“Power always costs you something.”

“That's why I kept my daughter and you hidden under new identities all these years.”

“I wanted both of you to grow up free.”

“To choose your own lives.”

“Not become pieces on someone else's board.”

“What about the bounty?” Nate asked, his voice hoarse. “He put a bounty on his own son. Was that another so-called test of loyalty?”

Henry was silent for a long time.

The clock on the wall ticked steadily.

Another car passed outside. Its headlights traced an arc across the ceiling before disappearing.

“Maybe,” Henry finally said.

“Think about it.”

“He's trying to reach that position.”

“A high-ranking figure in the underworld has a son who could become a weakness.”

“When he's sitting with those cold-blooded old foxes of the High Table, could someone use that against him?”

“Could they threaten him through his son?”

Henry's expression darkened.

“Or perhaps he intends to cut that weakness out himself.”

“To prove his loyalty and ruthlessness to the people above him.”

“The High Table is pretty fucked up, isn't it?”

Henry looked at Nate.

There was too much in his eyes to easily identify. Bitterness, perhaps, or something deeper.

Nate gave a bitter smile.

“Yeah.”

He looked down at his hands.

“So what am I supposed to do, Henry? It's only been a few days, and I've already nearly died three times.”

“Kill him?”

“Or spend the rest of my life hiding inside this hotel?”

Henry turned toward the window.

His voice remained calm.

“I won't interfere with your decision.”

“What happens between you and your father is for the two of you to decide.”

“But if you choose the second option, given my relationship with Winston, staying here shouldn't be a problem.”

Nate's hands were trembling.

Partly from anger.

Partly from grief.

And partly from something he couldn't quite put into words.

The room remained silent for a long time.

Then Nate broke it.

“What if I don't choose the second option?”

There was anger beneath his voice.

“Winston said you'd teach me what you know.”

“I can.”

Henry turned and looked directly into Nate's eyes.

“You've made your decision?”

“Of course.”

“To kill him?”

“No.”

Nate's expression hardened.

“It's the fucking High Table.”

“It's about time someone shook things up.”

Henry smiled.

This time, it was a genuine smile of approval.

“You've got guts.”