Chapter 2: Rapid Learning

The warehouse visit had been brief but disturbing. Three bodies, professional execution-style kills, and over two million in product gone. Vittorio had surveyed the scene with cold calculation, instructing his men to clean up while promising a full family briefing the following day. Alessandro had kept Luca close, shielding him from the worst of the carnage while explaining the significance of certain details—the precision of the shots, the disabled security system, the lack of shell casings.

"Professionals," Alessandro had whispered. "Not Camorra foot soldiers. Someone with training."

Luca had studied the bodies with a detached interest that surprised even himself. Growing up in the Bellini household, death wasn't a shocking concept—it was business. These men had worked for his father for years, but their deaths registered primarily as a strategic problem rather than an emotional loss. Was this coldness from his Bellini upbringing, or had the merging with Mark's analytical mind enhanced his ability to compartmentalize? Either way, he'd found himself assessing angles of entry, blood spatter patterns, and likely positions of the shooters while others around him had shown more visible distress.

Now, as the Bellini family car approached the wrought iron gates of their estate, Luca felt a subtle shift from operational readiness to the familiar comfort of home territory. Despite the troubling developments, the family compound represented security and control—a well-defended position from which to plan their next move.

The gates parted automatically, and they traveled up the curved driveway past illuminated fountains. The imposing Italian-style villa came into view, its limestone facade glowing amber in the late afternoon light.

"Home sweet fortress," Alessandro said with a sigh of relief.

"Do you think Father will retaliate soon?" Luca asked, his mind still on the murdered men.

Alessandro glanced at him. "Father never rushes vengeance. It'll come when they least expect it." He squeezed Luca's shoulder. "Don't worry about it, fratellino. We Bellinis protect our own."

As the car stopped at the entrance, the front door swung open. Sofia, the Bellinis' housekeeper for over twenty years, stepped out to greet them. Her stern face softened at the sight of the brothers, and Luca felt a warm rush of affection for the woman who had helped raise him after his mother died.

"Bentornati, ragazzi," she called, her accent thick despite decades in America. "Dinner will be ready at eight."

Alessandro thanked her with a smile, and Luca did the same. Sofia had been a constant in his life—the closest thing to a mother he'd had since age eight. Her familiar presence was comforting after the chaos of the day.

They entered the grand foyer with its sweeping marble staircase. The opulence that had once seemed normal to Luca now appeared extraordinary through the lens of Mark's middle-class upbringing. The dual perspective was disorienting but fascinating.

"You should eat something before we train," Alessandro said, checking his watch. "It's been a long day."

Luca blinked in surprise. "Train? Now?"

All he wanted was to retreat to his room and process everything that had happened—the meeting with the Camorra, the warehouse murders, and most importantly, the strange new abilities he'd been noticing since his transformation. His body seemed to respond differently, movements flowing with unexpected precision.

His brother clapped him on the shoulder. "No better time. After what we saw at the warehouse, and how you spotted Enzo watching us, you need to be prepared." Alessandro's expression grew serious. "Besides, Father agreed it's time to accelerate your education."

Despite his exhaustion, Luca felt a thrill of excitement. For years, he'd watched Alessandro train while he was kept focused on school. Being included in family business matters was what he'd always wanted—even if the circumstances were unsettling.

In the kitchen, they found Maria, Sofia's daughter and assistant, preparing elaborate antipasti. She beamed when she saw Luca.

"Ah, il piccolo fantasma! Just in time to taste test." She pushed a plate of prosciutto-wrapped melon toward him. "Your brother works you too hard. You need meat on those bones."

Luca grinned as he took a piece. The sweet-salty combination exploded on his tongue, and he hummed with appreciation. Maria had been sneaking him extra desserts since he was a child, a conspiracy they both pretended to keep secret from Sofia.

"Grazie, Maria. You're the best," he said, genuinely meaning it.

Alessandro rolled his eyes as he snatched a piece for himself. "Don't spoil him, Maria. He's got work to do."

"Always work with you Bellini men," she scolded, but her tone was affectionate.

As they ate, Luca tried to reconcile his dual sets of memories. In many ways, it felt like having lived two complete lives—one as Mark Olsen growing up in middle-class Chicago, and another as Luca Bellini, heir to a powerful crime family. The contrast was stark, but instead of feeling conflicted, he felt enriched by the dual perspective.

"You're quiet," Alessandro observed. "Still thinking about the warehouse?"

Luca nodded. "Those men worked for us for years."

Alessandro's expression darkened. "That's why Father is taking this personally. Someone knew exactly who to hit and when." He rose from his stool. "Which is why we need to train. The security footage from the warehouse is being analyzed, but first, let's see what you remember from our last session."

Luca thought back to his last training session three weeks ago. Basic firearms handling. He'd been terrible at it, missing the paper target entirely on several shots. Alessandro had been patient but clearly disappointed.

But that was before, Luca thought with a mixture of curiosity and excitement. I guess I'll test how broken this boon really is.

The Bellini villa's basement had been converted into a state-of-the-art training facility, complete with a shooting range, gym equipment, and a matted area for combat practice. Alessandro punched a code into the security panel, and the reinforced door swung open.

"Father had this updated last year," Alessandro explained as he flipped on the lights. "Soundproofed walls, ventilation system for the range, the works."

Luca whistled appreciatively as he followed his brother to the weapons wall where various firearms were mounted in precise order. Alessandro selected a 9mm Glock and handed it to Luca.

"Show me what you remember."

Luca took the gun, expecting to feel the same awkwardness he always had with firearms. Instead, his hands moved with surprising confidence as he checked the chamber, verified the magazine was empty, and assumed a shooting stance. These actions felt natural, fluid, as if he'd been handling guns his entire life.

Alessandro observed his form and nodded approvingly. "Good. Now let's see if you can hit anything." He pressed a button, and a paper target slid into position at the far end of the range.

After loading the magazine and inserting it into the pistol with a satisfying click, Luca took aim. His last attempt had been embarrassing—he'd hit the target only twice out of fifteen shots. He remembered the frustration, the way Alessandro had tried to hide his disappointment.

Taking a deep breath, he settled into his stance. The weight of the Glock felt different now—not just a metal object in his hands but an extension of his body. As he exhaled slowly and squeezed the trigger, something extraordinary happened.

His body adjusted without conscious thought. His right foot shifted back exactly two inches, distributing his weight more evenly. His shoulders dropped to the perfect level of relaxation while his wrists locked firm but not rigid. Even his breathing synchronized naturally with his trigger squeeze.

The pistol bucked against his palm, the report loud despite the room's sound dampening. Downrange, a perfect hole appeared in the center mass of the target. The smell of gunpowder filled his nostrils, sharp and acrid.

"Lucky shot," Alessandro commented. "Try a sequence."

Luca nodded, a smile tugging at his lips as he raised the pistol again. This time he didn't overthink it—he simply allowed his body to take control. His finger squeezed the trigger in a perfect cadence, each shot following the last in a steady rhythm.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Each recoil flowed naturally into the setup for the next shot. His body compensated automatically, adjusting his aim after each round. The pistol became a living thing in his hands, and Luca felt a surge of pure exhilaration as bullet after bullet punched through the target in a tight grouping no larger than a playing card.

By the time he emptied the magazine, the center of the target was nearly obliterated, the paper shredded by the concentrated fire. The slide locked back on the empty chamber with a distinctive click that echoed in the sudden silence.

"Holy shit," he whispered, lowering the gun. The tang of cordite hung in the air as he stared at what he'd done. The Wheel wasn't kidding about this gift.

Alessandro stared at the target, then at his brother. "That was... different. When did you get so good?"

Luca struggled to keep his face neutral while his mind raced for an explanation. "I've been practicing?"

"Bullshit," Alessandro said, but he was smiling. "You couldn't hit the broad side of a barn last month. Now you're shooting like..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "Like someone who's been training for years."

"Maybe I'm just a fast learner," Luca offered, heart pounding with excitement. He'd known the savant ability would help, but this was beyond his expectations.

Alessandro studied him for a moment, then shrugged. "Well, whatever it is, Father will be pleased. Let's see what else you've mysteriously learned."

They moved to the matted area where Alessandro began demonstrating a series of defensive techniques. "The key to surviving hand-to-hand combat is redirecting force, not blocking it directly," he explained, showing a basic inside deflection against a straight punch.

Luca watched intently, his eyes tracking the subtle weight shifts, the precise angle of Alessandro's forearm, the exact moment of contact with the imaginary attacker's limb. As Alessandro demonstrated each technique in sequence—inside deflection, outside parry, downward sweep, rising block—Luca absorbed every detail.

"Your turn," Alessandro said, stepping back.

Luca took position and began mirroring the movements. As he executed the first deflection, he felt something click—like his body suddenly understood the underlying physics. His second attempt flowed more naturally than the first, his arms finding the perfect angle without conscious adjustment. By the third repetition, he was moving with a precision that matched Alessandro's demonstrations.

"Keep going," his brother encouraged, circling to observe from different angles.

Luca progressed through each technique, his movements growing more fluid with each repetition. The outside parry evolved from mechanical mimicry to intuitive motion. The downward sweep, which initially left his balance slightly compromised, adjusted automatically until his center of gravity remained perfectly stable throughout.

"Now put them together," Alessandro instructed.

Luca nodded, beginning to chain the movements into a continuous sequence. First deflection into parry. Parry transitioning to sweep. Sweep flowing into rising block. Each technique connected to the next without hesitation or repositioning, his body finding the optimal pathways between movements.

Sweat began to bead on his forehead, his breathing steady but deeper as his muscles worked through the unfamiliar patterns. Yet there was no strain, no confusion—only the pure joy of movement executed perfectly.

"Let's see how you apply them," Alessandro said, moving to stand opposite Luca on the mat. "Ready to spar?"

Luca nodded, settling into a defensive stance. Alessandro did the same, raising his hands in a classical boxing guard, weight balanced perfectly on the balls of his feet.

"Light contact only," Alessandro reminded him. "I'll start slow."

Alessandro's first attack was deliberately telegraphed—a wide, looping right hook aimed at Luca's head. In their previous sparring sessions, Luca would have either flinched away or thrown up a clumsy block that absorbed the full force of the blow.

This time, as Alessandro's fist arced toward him, Luca saw not just the punch but the entire sequence of muscle activations that preceded it—the loading of Alessandro's right shoulder, the slight pivot of his front foot, the shifting of his center of gravity.

Without conscious thought, Luca executed a perfect outside parry. His left forearm made contact with Alessandro's inner wrist, redirecting the punch's trajectory harmlessly past his ear. In the same fluid motion, Luca stepped forward at a forty-five-degree angle, bringing him inside Alessandro's guard.

Alessandro blinked in surprise but recovered quickly, bringing his left hand up for a protective jab to create space. Luca slipped his head just outside the jab's path and countered with a light palm strike that stopped an inch from Alessandro's sternum.

"Good," Alessandro nodded, resetting his stance. "But that was obvious. Let's try something more realistic."

This time Alessandro came in with genuine speed, launching a quick jab-cross combination followed by a tight left hook. The sequence was smooth, practiced—a combination that had caught Luca dozens of times in previous training.

Luca's response was nothing short of extraordinary. He weaved outside the jab, parried the cross with his right hand, and ducked under the hook in one continuous motion. As Alessandro's hook whistled over his head, Luca countered with a light touch to his brother's exposed ribs.

Alessandro's eyes widened. He disengaged, circling left with newfound caution in his movements.

"Lucky," he muttered, though his expression suggested otherwise.

He attacked again, this time with a more complex combination—jab, cross, body hook, followed by a surprise front kick. The sequence came in rapid succession, each strike flowing into the next with practiced precision.

To Luca's amazement, his body responded with equal fluidity. He parried the jab, slipped the cross, blocked the hook with his forearm, and checked the kick by lifting his own leg at precisely the right angle. The impact of shin against shin made a dull thud, but Luca felt no pain—his body had positioned itself perfectly to absorb and disperse the force.

"You're reading me," Alessandro said, a note of accusation in his voice.

Luca shrugged, unsure how to explain. "I can just... see it coming somehow."

Alessandro's eyes narrowed. This time he attacked with genuine intent, throwing a lightning-fast combination that would have overwhelmed any novice. Jab-jab-cross-uppercut-hook, each strike delivered with speed and power that showed Alessandro was no longer holding back.

Luca's defensive movements flowed like water. He slipped the first jab, parried the second, rolled under the cross, leaned back from the uppercut, and blocked the hook with a perfectly angled forearm. Not a single strike made meaningful contact.

Alessandro pressed forward, increasing his pressure. He launched another combination, adding feints and level changes designed to confuse and overwhelm. Sweat flew from both their bodies as the pace intensified. The slap of skin against skin and the sound of heavy breathing filled the training room.

When Alessandro overcommitted to an overhand right, Luca saw his opportunity. He ducked under the punch while stepping to Alessandro's outside, capturing his brother's extended arm. With perfect timing, Luca executed a textbook hip throw, using Alessandro's momentum against him.

Alessandro's feet left the ground as Luca pivoted. At the last moment, Luca controlled the throw to ensure Alessandro landed safely on the mat. Before his brother could recover, Luca followed him down, transitioning smoothly to side control and capturing Alessandro's right arm in an armbar position.

He applied just enough pressure to demonstrate control without causing pain. "Tap?" he asked, surprised by his own dominance.

Alessandro stared up at him in disbelief, then tapped Luca's thigh twice in submission. Luca immediately released the hold and helped his brother to his feet.

They stood facing each other on the mat, both breathing heavily. Sweat darkened their shirts and plastered hair to their foreheads. Alessandro's expression was a complex mixture of confusion, respect, and lingering disbelief.

"Okay, who are you and what have you done with my little brother?" Alessandro asked, wiping sweat from his brow. "Seriously, Luca. This isn't normal progress."

When they began to spar lightly, Luca found himself anticipating his brother's attacks with uncanny precision. It wasn't that he could predict the future—he simply recognized the subtle shifts in weight and eye movement that telegraphed Alessandro's intentions.

Luca dropped his guard, unable to contain his excitement. "I don't know! It's like... I can see how the movements should work. My body just knows."

The explanation was true enough—he couldn't reveal the full truth about his reincarnation and the Wheel's gift. But he didn't have to fake his enthusiasm. The rapid learning ability was exhilarating.

Alessandro crossed to a storage cabinet and returned with two wooden training knives. He twirled one expertly in his fingers before tossing it to Luca.

"Let's test this new talent of yours. I've been training with blades since I was your age. If you can land a touch on me, I'll convince Father to let you come to the warehouse investigation tomorrow."

Luca caught the wooden knife, feeling its weight and balance. He'd never trained with knives before, yet his hand adjusted its grip automatically, finding the perfect position without instruction. The weapon felt right in his palm, as if he'd been born to hold it.

This is amazing, he thought, a thrill rushing through him.

Alessandro circled his brother cautiously on the training mat, his feet making barely a whisper against the surface. The wooden training knife gleamed dully under the basement lights as he twirled it between his fingers with practiced ease.

"Knife fighting isn't like hand-to-hand," Alessandro explained, his voice taking on the serious tone of a seasoned instructor. "You don't win—you just survive. One mistake means you bleed."

Luca nodded, adjusting his grip on his own wooden knife. The handle was worn smooth from countless training sessions, fitting against his palm like it belonged there. His heart pounded with anticipation—this was entirely new territory.

"Remember, in real fighting, distance is life," Alessandro continued, measuring the space between them. "Manage your range, control the engagement."

Without warning, Alessandro exploded forward. His lead foot stamped down as misdirection while the training knife sliced toward Luca's throat in a vicious arc. The attack was blindingly fast—designed to end the fight in one decisive strike.

In the past, Luca would have frozen or flinched away clumsily. Instead, his body moved with fluid precision. He rotated his upper body just enough for the blade to miss his throat by a hair's breadth while simultaneously parrying Alessandro's knife arm outward with his free hand. The wooden edges clacked loudly as they made contact.

Alessandro's eyes widened in surprise, but he recovered instantly, transitioning into a reverse grip as he pivoted. The blade came sweeping back in a horizontal slash aimed at Luca's floating ribs. Luca's response was immediate—he collapsed his elbow to protect his torso while his own knife hand came up to intercept Alessandro's wrist.

They separated and reset, both brothers reassessing. Alessandro's expression had transformed from instructor to serious competitor.

"Lucky," Alessandro muttered, though his eyes said otherwise.

This time he came in with a complex feint—a high-line threat that transitioned mid-motion into a low disemboweling cut. The movement was so smooth, so practiced that it had caught Luca dozens of times in previous sparring sessions. But now Luca saw through the deception, recognizing the subtle tell in Alessandro's hip rotation that betrayed his true intent.

Luca stepped offline at the perfect angle, letting the blade whistle past his abdomen. In the same motion, he trapped Alessandro's extended arm and executed a picture-perfect counter-strike that stopped with the wooden edge resting against Alessandro's kidney.

"Point," Luca said softly, surprised by his own success.

Alessandro disengaged with a sharp twist, his breathing noticeably heavier now. Something had changed in his eyes—the casual confidence giving way to focused intensity. He was no longer holding back.

What followed was a masterclass in blade work. Alessandro unleashed his full arsenal—slashes, thrusts, feints, and combinations that flowed together in lethal harmony. His wooden knife became a blur as he pressed Luca from all angles, testing his defense with increasingly complex attacks.

Luca met each assault with uncanny precision. Where his movements should have been tentative and reactive, they were confident and fluid. His body seemed to know exactly how much to move—never overreacting, never wasting motion. When Alessandro launched a lightning-quick thrust toward his face, Luca deflected it with mathematical precision, allowing the blade to slide past while simultaneously counter-attacking.

Their training knives clacked together in rapid succession—attack, parry, counter, riposte—the tempo increasing with each exchange. Sweat flew from both their brows as they moved across the mat in a deadly dance. Luca felt completely present, his senses hyperaware of each subtle shift in pressure and balance.

The decisive moment came when Alessandro committed to an aggressive forward thrust, momentarily overextending as he sought to end the exchange. Luca saw the opportunity unfold before him like a road map. He parried downward with enough force to momentarily break Alessandro's structure, then stepped diagonally forward into the momentary blind spot in his brother's defense.

With surgical precision, Luca tapped the wooden knife against Alessandro's chest, directly over his heart. The touch was gentle but unmistakable. Both brothers froze in that position, chests heaving, eyes locked in shared disbelief.

For three heartbeats, neither moved. The only sound in the training room was their heavy breathing.

Alessandro froze, staring at the training weapon. "That's not possible," he said quietly. Then louder: "That's not fucking possible, Luca."

"I got lucky," Luca said, though he couldn't keep the grin off his face.

Alessandro shook his head slowly. "No. Luck doesn't explain this. Those were advanced techniques I've never shown you." He carefully placed his training knife on a nearby bench. "Something's different about you. Has been since..." He studied Luca's face. "Since about a week ago, actually. Right after you had that fever."

Luca remembered—in his timeline, that "fever" had coincided with his reincarnation. The transition point between being just Luca and becoming Luca-with-Mark's-memories.

"Maybe the fever changed something," he suggested cautiously. "Brain stuff. I read about cases where people develop new abilities after high fevers."

It wasn't entirely a lie. Near-death experiences sometimes altered brain function. And technically, he had died completely before becoming this hybrid version of Luca.

Alessandro continued studying him, then suddenly grinned. "Well, whatever it is, it's fucking incredible, fratellino. Wait until Father sees this. The Camorra won't know what hit them when the silver-haired fantasma comes for them."

Pride swelled in Luca's chest. For years, he'd lived in Alessandro's shadow, the younger brother with no particular talent for the family business. Now, finally, he had something special to offer.

Alessandro clasped his shoulder. "You've earned yourself a place tomorrow. Eight a.m. sharp, we go back to the warehouse for the full investigation. Now, one more test before dinner."

He walked to a locked cabinet in the corner and entered another code. The door swung open to reveal an array of exotic weapons—several Luca recognized from his knowledge of the John Wick films.

Continental special-order items, he thought with a jolt of excitement.

Alessandro selected a weapon that looked like a cross between brass knuckles and a push dagger. "Indonesian karambit. Vicious in close quarters. I've been practicing with it for three months." He demonstrated a complex spinning technique that kept the curved blade in continuous motion. "Your turn."

Luca accepted the weapon eagerly. The curved finger ring fit perfectly around his index finger, the blade extending below his fist. As Alessandro demonstrated the technique again, Luca observed the wrist movements, the finger control, the weight distribution.

When he attempted the technique himself, it wasn't perfect—but it was remarkably close. The finger ring hugged his index finger as he rotated his wrist, creating the primary cutting arc. His first attempt was too rigid, the blade wobbling slightly at the end of the motion.

"Loosen your wrist," Alessandro instructed. "Let the momentum carry the blade."

Luca nodded, focusing on the sensation. On his second attempt, he relaxed his grip slightly, allowing his wrist to flow more naturally. The karambit traced a tighter, more controlled arc through the air, the curved blade catching the overhead lights with each rotation. Better, but still not quite right.

For his third attempt, Luca closed his eyes momentarily, visualizing Alessandro's demonstration. When he opened them, he let pure instinct take over. His hand moved in a perfect fluid motion, the karambit becoming a silver blur as it rotated around his finger, transitioned across his palm, and reversed direction in one continuous movement. The weight of the weapon seemed to guide itself, the blade slicing precisely through the space where an opponent's tendons or arteries would be.

Alessandro whistled as Luca completed the sequence flawlessly, transitioning smoothly back to the ready position. "It took me two weeks to get that transition right. You did it in three tries."

With each repetition, Luca refined the movement further—adjusting the angle of his elbow, finding the perfect finger tension, synchronizing the motion with his breathing. The technique became more than just movement; it became a dance of deadly precision. Each successful execution brought that same rush of pleasure—a neurological reward that flooded his system with satisfaction.

Before Luca could answer, the training room door opened. Vittorio Bellini stood in the doorway, observing his sons with clinical detachment.

Luca felt a flutter of nervousness as his father entered. Vittorio had always been a distant, demanding figure—more boss than father. His approval was rare and valuable.

"Alessandro. Luca. Sofia says dinner is ready." Vittorio's cold eyes focused on the karambit in Luca's hand, then on the target at the shooting range with its tight grouping of bullet holes. "Impressive progress."

Alessandro stepped forward eagerly. "Father, you need to see what Luca can do. He's—"

"Tomorrow," Vittorio interrupted. "The warehouse. Both of you." He turned to leave, then paused. "Luca, after dinner, come to my study. There are matters we need to discuss."

As their father's footsteps receded down the hall, Alessandro let out a low whistle. "Private audience with the don. Looks like your new talents have been noticed."

Luca carefully returned the karambit to its cabinet, heart pounding with equal parts excitement and trepidation. A private meeting with his father was rare—usually reserved for Alessandro as the heir apparent.

"Is that good or bad?" he asked, genuinely uncertain.

Alessandro's expression turned serious. "Depends. Father values useful tools." He clapped Luca on the back. "But don't worry. I won't let him sharpen you too quickly."

As they headed upstairs, Luca's mind raced with possibilities. His ability was clearly more powerful than he'd anticipated—and now it had caught his father's attention. Whatever game was being played in the shadows of the Cosa Nostra, Luca was about to become a more significant piece on the board.

I can actually make a difference now, he thought, a mixture of excitement and nervousness coursing through him. I can be more than just the spare son.

He glanced at Alessandro, grateful for his brother's unwavering support. Whatever came next, at least he wouldn't face it alone.

(Author corner: So, I tried to build a more difficult character, even though this is my first time writing a fanfic. I haven't been idle these past months, so let's see if I can pull it off. Also, you might be wondering—or maybe not—why he talks as if he's been in this world for years when, in reality, only a day has passed from Chapter One and Chapter Two. If you didn't notice, his consciousness is a fusion of Mark and Luca, meaning he has two lifetimes' worth of memories and experiences in his brain so he acts as them both. That's why. Hope this clears up any misunderstandings! Kudos <3)