Chapter 1: He strikes again!

Mark Olsen stared at the spreadsheet on his monitor, numbers blurring together as he reached hour twelve of his workday. The data analysis firm had landed a major client, which meant another week of late nights for the entire team. He rubbed his eyes, saved his work, and glanced at his watch—11:47 PM.

"Shit," he muttered, grabbing his jacket. He'd promised to meet his sister for her birthday dinner tomorrow, and he still needed to pick up her gift.

The office building was nearly empty as he made his way to the parking garage. Chicago's winter air bit through his thin jacket when he stepped outside, and a light snow had begun to fall. Mark climbed into his sedan, cranked the heat, and pulled onto the deserted street.

His phone buzzed. A text from his sister: Don't forget my present, workaholic!

Mark smiled and reached for his phone. Just a quick reply and—

Headlights flooded his vision. The blaring horn of a semi-truck. The terrifying realization he'd drifted into the wrong lane.

No time to swerve.

No time to brake.

No time for anything but—

Impact.

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Darkness.

Then, a voice. "Mark Olsen."

Mark opened his eyes to find himself standing in a void. No light source, yet he could see himself perfectly. Before him stood a figure in an immaculate black suit, its face a blur of constantly shifting features.

"Am I dead?" Mark asked, though he already knew the answer.

"Yes." The figure's voice echoed strangely, as if coming from everywhere and nowhere. "But that doesn't have to be the end."

"What are you?"

"Some call me R.O.B.—Random Omnipotent Being. Others, the Wheel. I facilitate... transitions." The figure circled him. "I find souls with potential and offer them another chance. In another world."

Mark's mind raced. "Like reincarnation?"

"Similar, but with my own rules. You died before your time, Mark. I'm offering you a new life in a world you're familiar with—one you've seen through fiction."

"What world?"

The figure smiled, its features briefly settling into something almost human. "The world of Continental hotels. Of gold coins and blood oaths. The world where the Baba Yaga hunts."

Mark's breath caught. "John Wick? That's... that's fictional."

"To you. But I assure you, it exists. And you can exist there too." The figure extended its hand. "As Luca Bellini, son of Don Vittorio Bellini, head of the Cosa Nostra."

"Why me?"

"Well, you can be sure that is not because your special.. Even I am tired of this charade, that truck-kun just likes to run people and then I need to deal with it. I want to strugg.. Ahem, well yeah that's it so are you ready?" The figure paused.

"What the actual fuck?? So I am just another one of his victim's and now I need to go to the world of John Wick, and I will be the son of one of the seats in the high table?"

"Yes, that's right, any more questions? No? Great, so now spin this wheel to get a random ability." R.O.B. said already tired of the conversation.

As Mark was about to register what the entity said a floating wheel just appeared in front of him with a bunch of abilities, some he recognize and other he didn't. "Motherf... alright it seems I have no choice, let's spin this shit.."

The wheel start spinning for a few seconds till it stopped at — Adaptive Body.

"Ohh.. I would say that was pretty damn lucky, for your information — Adaptive body is an ability to learn physical skills at an accelerated rate. Combat, weapons, movement."

Mark grinned at the ability he got but now knowing what his new reality was about to change he atleast wanted to have one mora advantage, and that was his memories. "What now? Do I get to have my memories too?"

The figure's features shifted into something resembling amusement. "Smart. Yes, you will retain your memories. The world is dangerous. Your memories can be consider a boon but it can also be a double edge sword if you use it incorrectly so that's for you to discover how to utilize it and not die. And the ability I grant you will take time to settle in your body, I would say when your body matured. Probably when your memories awaken too or do you want to start as a baby?"

"Baby? Hell no! No diapers please!"

"Then it's settle." The figure extended its hand. "Ready?"

Mark stared at the offered hand. Death or a second chance in a world of assassins.

"Godspeed"

The moment their hands touched, pain exploded through Mark's consciousness. Memories flooded in—a childhood in Sicily, moving to America, a stern father, an older brother who protected him, years of growing up in the shadow of the Cosa Nostra—merging with his own memories of spreadsheets, college, and a sister he'd never see again.

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Luca Bellini woke with a gasp, sitting bolt upright in bed.

His head pounded as two sets of memories battled for dominance. He was Mark Olsen, 27, data analyst from Chicago. He was also Luca Bellini, 16, younger son of Don Vittorio Bellini, still finding his place in his father's criminal empire.

He was both. He was one.

Luca clutched his head, trying to orient himself. The bedroom came into focus—expensive furniture, heavy drapes, a half-finished math textbook on the desk. Through the window, he could see the Manhattan skyline.

I'm in New York. 2005. Before the first John Wick movie.

The thought came with absolute certainty. This was the world of the Continental, of the High Table, of rigid rules and consequences. A world where John Wick still worked for the Russians, where he hadn't yet met his wife, where the elaborate hierarchy of the assassin underworld remained intact.

Luca slid out of bed, his body feeling simultaneously familiar and foreign. He caught his reflection in a mirror—striking silver-white hair, sharp angular features, and a lean, still-developing build. At sixteen, his height had yet to match his older brother's, and his shoulders had only begun to broaden. His unusual appearance had always set him apart from the rest of the Bellini family—a fact his father seemed to resent.

A sharp knock interrupted his thoughts.

"Sei sveglio, fratellino?" A familiar voice called.

"Sì, entra," Luca replied, drawing on his memories of Italian.

The door opened to reveal Alessandro Bellini, Luca's older brother by seven years. At twenty-three, Alessandro was already a made man and a rising force in the family business—tall and broad-shouldered with their father's commanding presence, though he'd inherited their mother's warm brown eyes rather than Vittorio's icy stare. Unlike Luca's striking silver-white hair, Alessandro's was dark as midnight, making the contrast between the brothers immediately apparent.

"You have school today, Luca," Alessandro said, using his nickname for his pale, unusual-looking younger brother.

Luca blinked, sorting through his conflicting memories. "It's Saturday, Alex."

Alessandro raised an eyebrow. "And? Father called. You're coming with me to observe the meeting with the Camorra."

Luca felt a jolt of anxiety. "Me? Why not just you?"

"Because," Alessandro said, moving to Luca's closet and selecting a suit, "Father thinks it's time you started learning more about the business. Not doing—just watching." He tossed the suit onto Luca's bed. "Your tutors say you're a natural with numbers. Father wants to see if that extends to people."

Luca processed this. In his memories as the original Luca, he'd been largely sheltered from the darker aspects of the family business. Alessandro had been groomed as the heir, while Luca focused on school and occasionally helped with legitimate business accounting. This would be his first time at a high-level meeting.

"The Camorra," Luca said carefully. "D'Antonio's people?"

Alessandro nodded, looking impressed. "You've been paying attention to my lessons. Yes, old man Massimo himself will be there, with his son Santino." His expression darkened slightly. "Watch out for Santino. He's... ambitious."

As Luca dressed, Alessandro continued briefing him. "This is just observation for you, capisce? Speak only if spoken to. The meeting is about shipping rights at Red Hook. The Camorra wants access, but Father won't give it up."

"Why am I really coming?" Luca asked, suspecting there was more to it.

Alessandro paused, then admitted, "Father thinks having his young son there sends a message about the future. That the Bellini family is looking ahead, planning generations in advance." He adjusted Luca's tie with brotherly care. "It's politics, nothing more."

Luca nodded, understanding. He was a chess piece being moved into position—not for any skill he possessed, but for what he represented.

"One more thing," Alessandro said, opening his jacket to reveal a shoulder holster. From it, he removed a custom Kimber 1911 pistol with a polished stainless steel frame. "You remember how to use this?"

Luca hesitated. Mark had never fired a gun outside of a range visit with college friends. The original Luca had basic training but rarely carried.

"Point and shoot?" Luca offered weakly.

Alessandro rolled his eyes. "Dio mio, what have they been teaching you?" He checked the weapon efficiently, then handed it to Luca. "Extended magazine. Ten rounds, plus one in the chamber. Safety here. Don't use it unless I tell you to. It's just precaution."

Luca took the gun gingerly, muscle memory from his Luca side taking over as he examined it. "I probably won't need this, right?"

"Right," Alessandro confirmed, though his eyes said otherwise. "Just insurance. Now come on, Uncle Marco is waiting with the car."

Luca tucked the weapon into his jacket, feeling its unfamiliar weight. As they left the bedroom, he asked, "Does Father know you're giving me this?"

Alessandro flashed a conspiratorial smile. "What Father doesn't know won't hurt him. Or us."

The elevator ride to the lobby felt surreal. As the doors opened, they were greeted by the building's head doorman, an older Italian man with a neatly trimmed mustache.

"Buongiorno, Signor Bellini," he said to Alessandro with a respectful nod, then glanced at Luca with surprise. "E buongiorno, Signorino Luca. Rare to see you out so early on a weekend."

"Affari di famiglia, Paolo," Alessandro replied smoothly. "Family business."

The doorman's eyes widened slightly as he looked at Luca again, understanding the significance. "Of course, of course. Your father's business never sleeps." He lowered his voice. "C'è un pacco per te at the desk, Signor Alessandro. Arrived this morning—checked by security, as always."

"Grazie, Paolo. We'll collect it later."

As they moved toward the exit, another staff member hurried to open the door.

"Careful out there, Signori," the younger doorman said with genuine concern. "Weather report says rain later."

Alessandro nodded, understanding the coded warning. "We'll keep umbrellas close."

Outside, a black Cadillac idled at the curb. The driver, a stone-faced man, opened the rear door without a word.

Inside sat Marco Bellini—fifty-something, silver-haired, with cold eyes that assessed the brothers as they entered.

"Alessandro," he acknowledged with a nod, then raised an eyebrow at Luca. "And the youngest Bellini. Your father's idea?"

"Si, Uncle," Alessandro confirmed, placing a protective hand on Luca's shoulder. "Luca's just observing today."

Marco grunted. "First time for everything. Your father's counting on you both. The Camorra respects family presence. Shows strength."

The car pulled into traffic. Luca stared out the window, watching New York slide past. This was Luca's New York, a city of hidden dangers and criminal enterprises operating in plain sight. With Mark's knowledge layered atop it, the city took on new dimensions—threats and opportunities the original Luca would never have recognized.

"What's our strategy today?" Luca asked, wanting to be prepared.

Alessandro answered before Marco could, clearly used to tutoring his younger brother. "Firm but respectful. The terminals are non-negotiable, but we offer alternative arrangements for their shipments. We listen more than we speak."

"The meeting is at Vittorio's?" Luca confirmed, recalling the restaurant from his Luca memories.

Marco nodded. "Neutral ground, technically, but on our turf. Your father arranged it carefully."

Alessandro spent the rest of the ride quizzing Luca on Camorra hierarchy and the significance of the Red Hook terminals, quietly correcting him when he made mistakes. By the time they arrived at the unassuming restaurant in Little Italy, Luca felt marginally more prepared.

"Remember," Alessandro murmured as they exited the car, "stay behind me. Say nothing unless directly asked. And watch everyone's hands, not their mouths."

"Hands, not mouths," Luca repeated, a familiar lesson from his brother.

The restaurant appeared empty except for one table near the back, where five men sat. Luca recognized his father instantly—Vittorio Bellini, sixty, powerfully built despite his age, his face a map of hard lines and cold authority.

Vittorio's eyes found his sons, a flicker of surprise crossing his features when he saw Luca before he schooled them into neutrality.

"Ah, arrivano i miei figli" Vittorio announced. He stood, extending an arm. "Vieni, Alessandro, Luca. Meet our guests."

Alessandro led the way, his posture confident but respectful. Luca followed a step behind. The men at the table assessed them both—approving nods for Alessandro, curious glances at Luca's unusual appearance and obvious youth.

"Massimo, you remember my eldest, Alessandro. And this is my younger son, Luca."

The elder D'Antonio, a dignified man in his sixties with silver hair and cold eyes, regarded them with calculating interest. "Certamente. Both growing into fine men." His accent was refined Neapolitan, his tone measured and deliberate.

Beside him sat a younger man, perhaps thirty, with immaculate style and a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Santino D'Antonio," he introduced himself, shaking Alessandro's hand firmly before turning to Luca. "We've not had the pleasure before, I believe." His eyes lingered on Luca's silver hair with obvious curiosity.

"An honor, Signor D'Antonio," Luca replied quietly, remembering Alessandro's coaching.

The other men were introduced as Camorra lieutenants and their lawyer, Rossetti. Alessandro took the empty seat beside their father, while Luca was positioned slightly behind them—present but not part of the central negotiations.

Vittorio placed a hand on Alessandro's shoulder. "My son has been overseeing our shipping interests. He understands their value intimately."

The message was clear: the terminals weren't negotiable. Alessandro nodded, taking his cue to explain why the Red Hook operations were essential to Bellini business.

As the meeting progressed, Luca observed silently, analyzing the dynamics with his dual perspective. Mark's analytical mind identified patterns the original Luca might have missed—the way Santino subtly undermined his father's positions, the lawyer's careful documentation of verbal agreements, the tense body language of the lieutenants.

The discussion grew heated when Massimo proposed a "partnership" that would effectively give the Camorra access to Bellini shipping routes.

"With respect," Alessandro interjected smoothly, "those routes require relationships we've spent decades building. Customs officials, union representatives, shipping companies. These relationships are... personal. They don't transfer easily to partners."

Santino scoffed. "Relationships can be rebuilt. At a price."

"A prohibitive price," Alessandro countered. "And attention. The wrong kind of attention."

"We're not afraid of attention," Santino said dismissively.

Alessandro's expression hardened slightly. "You should be. The Red Hook operation stays quiet because we've spent years ensuring it stays quiet. New management means new people, new procedures. The risk of exposure increases significantly."

The lawyer, Rossetti, spoke for the first time. "So you're concerned about police attention? We have judges and officials on payroll just as you do."

Alessandro shook his head. "I'm concerned about balance. The current arrangement works because everyone knows their place. Change that balance, and..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "Well, High Table politics are complicated enough without adding territorial disputes that attract unnecessary attention."

Throughout the exchange, Luca remained silent as instructed, but his mind raced with analysis. Mark's knowledge of the John Wick universe gave him insights the original Luca would never have had. He noted how Alessandro had skillfully reminded everyone of the larger political landscape without making explicit threats, how Santino's body language betrayed his frustration, how the elder D'Antonio seemed to weigh the potential consequences carefully.

"My son speaks wisely," Vittorio said, placing a hand on Alessandro's shoulder. "The terminals remain under Bellini management. However, we can discuss preferential rates for Camorra shipments."

Massimo D'Antonio studied Alessandro for a moment, then nodded. "Perhaps there is an arrangement that would benefit us both without disturbing... established balances."

The meeting continued, tension easing slightly as they moved to specifics. Luca observed silently, occasionally catching Alessandro's subtle glances—checking to ensure his younger brother was paying attention, learning from the negotiation.

As they wrapped up, handshakes were exchanged. When Santino reached Luca, his grip lingered.

"Your brother is quite the diplomat," Santino said, his voice low. "I hope you're learning well from him. Though some lessons require... esperienza diretta."

The threat was subtle but unmistakable. Alessandro stepped closer, not quite between them but making his protective presence felt.

"My brother learns quickly," Alessandro replied with a tight smile. "In all matters."

Outside, as they walked to their car, Alessandro put an arm around Luca's shoulders. "What did you think, fratellino? What did you notice?"

Luca considered carefully. "Santino doesn't like being in his father's shadow. He pushed harder than Massimo wanted him to."

Alessandro nodded approvingly. "Good eye. Anything else?"

"The lawyer was taking notes even when nothing was being agreed to," Luca added. "And he kept looking at his watch during the final negotiations."

"Very observant," Marco commented, impressed. "The boy has potential, Alessandro."

As they slid into the car, Vittorio's phone rang. He answered, listened briefly, then hung up. His expression had darkened.

"Problem?" Alessandro asked.

"One of our shipments was hit last night. Cocaine, coming through Newark." Vittorio's eyes fixed on his sons. "Three men dead. Professional job."

Marco cursed. "Dio mio. The Camorra?"

"Too convenient," Vittorio replied. "And Massimo isn't that stupid." He turned to Alessandro. "This was someone else. Someone sending a message."

Alessandro's face hardened. "Che tipo di messaggio?"

Vittorio's eyes were cold. "That we're vulnerable. That there are sharks in the water."

The car pulled away from the curb. Through the window, Luca spotted a figure watching from an alley across the street—a tall man with a distinctive scar running down his left cheek, wearing a well-tailored suit. His stillness and focus marked him clearly as a professional.

As their eyes met briefly, the man didn't react or look away. Instead, he deliberately checked his watch—the same gesture Luca had seen the Camorra lawyer make repeatedly during the meeting.

"Marco," Luca said quietly, "that man in the alley. I think he's with the Camorra."

Marco glanced back but the car had already turned the corner. "What man? What did he look like?"

"Tall, scarred face. He made the same signal as Rossetti did during the meeting."

Alessandro and Marco exchanged glances. "Enzo Varga," Alessandro said grimly. "Massimo's enforcer. Seems our Camorra friends might not be as innocent about that shipment hit as they claim."

Vittorio's expression darkened further. "We'll discuss this at the warehouse. And Luca—" he fixed his younger son with an appraising look, "—good catch. Very good catch."