Chapter 3: The Assignment

Vittorio Bellini's study occupied the east wing of the mansion, as far as possible from the household's common areas. Unlike the ostentatious luxury of the main rooms, the study embraced a severe minimalism—dark wood paneling, leather-bound books in glass cases, and a massive oak desk that dominated the space. No family photos adorned the walls, only a single painting of Sicily's coastline and a collection of antique weapons displayed with museum precision.

As Luca entered, his father was studying documents spread across the desk, a crystal tumbler of amber liquid at his right hand. He didn't look up immediately.

"Close the door," Vittorio said, still examining the papers.

Luca obeyed, heart quickening despite his best efforts to remain calm. Private meetings with his father were rare, especially for him. Alessandro received regular audiences—strategy sessions, business briefings, lessons in leadership. Luca had always been an afterthought, the spare son.

Until now.

Vittorio finally looked up, his cold eyes assessing Luca with calculated interest. "Alessandro tells me you've developed some... unexpected talents."

It wasn't a question, but Luca nodded anyway. "Yes, sir."

"Show me."

Vittorio opened a drawer and removed an ornate silver letter opener fashioned in the shape of a stiletto. He tossed it to Luca without warning—a quick, awkward throw deliberately difficult to catch.

Luca's hand moved instinctively. His fingers plucked the spinning blade from the air by its handle, adjusting perfectly to counter the rotation. The move would have been impressive for a trained knife-fighter, let alone a teenager who'd never handled bladed weapons before yesterday.

Vittorio's expression didn't change, but he leaned forward slightly. "Again." He pulled a solid glass paperweight from his desk and threw it with equal suddenness.

Luca caught it one-handed, the heavy glass settling perfectly in his palm.

"Your brother thinks you're a natural prodigy," Vittorio said, studying his son's face. "I think there's more to it." He pointed to an antique revolver mounted on the wall. "Load and unload that. Now."

Luca crossed to the display, removing the Smith & Wesson Model 27 from its brackets. He'd never handled this specific firearm, but his fingers moved with practiced precision—breaking open the cylinder, checking the empty chambers, spinning it closed with a flick of his wrist, then reversing the process in one fluid sequence.

"Impressive," Vittorio said, his tone unchanged. "When did this start?"

"After the fever last week," Luca answered honestly. "It's like my body just... knows what to do."

Vittorio steepled his fingers, silent for several long moments. Luca replaced the revolver in its display, waiting.

"The Camorra situation is escalating," his father finally said. "The warehouse hit wasn't their style, but they're taking advantage of the disruption. Alessandro will handle the investigation with Marco tomorrow."

"You said I could—" Luca began.

"I have something else for you," Vittorio interrupted. "Something more suited to your new... capabilities."

He slid a small envelope across the desk. Inside was a golden coin—heavy, intricately engraved with symbols Luca recognized from Mark's memories of the John Wick films.

"Continental currency," Vittorio explained, watching Luca's reaction closely. "You know what this is?"

Luca nodded carefully. "Service currency for the Continental Hotel and affiliated businesses."

"Correct. Tomorrow night, you'll deliver a message to an associate staying at the New York Continental. His name is Sakamoto. Room 818." Vittorio held out a sealed envelope. "This is for his hands only."

Luca accepted the envelope, studying its unmarked exterior. "What's the message?"

"Not your concern." Vittorio's tone made it clear the subject was closed. "What matters is that you deliver it without being seen or identified by anyone except Sakamoto. Consider it a test of these new abilities."

"I understand," Luca said, tucking the envelope inside his jacket.

Vittorio leaned back in his chair. "The Continental operates under strict rules. No business conducted on hotel grounds. No blood spilled on Continental property. Violations are punishable by excommunication or death."

"I know the rules," Luca said, then quickly added, "Alessandro explained them."

His father's eyes narrowed slightly. "Did he? Interesting that he would share such specific information with someone he didn't consider part of our business operations until today."

Luca cursed silently. He needed to be more careful about revealing knowledge Mark possessed but Luca shouldn't.

"Alessandro has always prepared me, even if you didn't know," he responded, a calculated risk to explain his knowledge.

Vittorio studied him for a long moment, then nodded once. "Perhaps I underestimated both of you." He gestured toward the door. "You leave at nine tomorrow night. Dress appropriately. Take no weapons onto Continental grounds—they'll be detected and confiscated."

Luca turned to leave, but his father's voice stopped him.

"One more thing." Vittorio's tone hadn't changed, but something in his eyes had shifted. "If you succeed in this, there will be other assignments. More... challenging ones."

It was as close to approval as Vittorio Bellini ever came.

The Continental Hotel stood majestically in Midtown Manhattan, its neo-classical façade blending perfectly with the surrounding architecture while still projecting an aura of exclusive luxury. To ordinary passersby, it appeared to be merely another high-end accommodation. To those in the underworld, it represented neutral territory in a landscape of shifting alliances and constant danger.

Luca approached on foot, having dismissed his driver three blocks away. He wore a tailored charcoal suit over a black shirt, no tie—formal enough to blend with the Continental's clientele but unremarkable enough to avoid attention. The coin rested in his right pocket, the envelope secure in an inner pocket of his jacket.

He paused across the street, observing the entrance. Two well-dressed men exited, their bearing and subtle bulges under their jackets marking them clearly as professionals. The doorman greeted them with respectful nods, and Luca noted how the man's eyes scanned the street in patterns that betrayed security training.

No obvious approach without being seen by the doorman, Luca thought. His father's instructions had been precise—deliver the message without being seen by anyone except Sakamoto. Entering through the front door would defeat that purpose immediately.

Luca circled the block, identifying service entrances and delivery bays. Most were secured, many with visible surveillance. As he completed his circuit, he noticed a group of hotel staff on smoke break near a partially open service door. Three employees in black uniforms, laughing and sharing a lighter.

Perfect.

He continued past them, ducking into an alley that ran alongside the hotel. A fire escape provided access to upper floors, but it would likely trigger alarms. Instead, Luca focused on a narrow utility access ladder bolted to the wall, partially concealed behind a dumpster.

Not ideal, but workable.

He waited until a delivery truck passed, using its noise as cover to quickly scale the short wall separating the alley from the hotel's service area. From there, he moved to the ladder, climbing swiftly to a small maintenance platform.

The platform connected to a narrow corridor of service passages. Luca slipped inside, encountering a maze of maintenance hallways, storage rooms, and utility spaces. He moved confidently, as if he belonged, nodding curtly to the occasional staff member who passed. None questioned his presence—his suit and demeanor marking him as someone important, someone who had business being there.

A service elevator provided access to the upper floors. Luca rode it to the seventh, then took the stairs to the eighth, avoiding the main corridors and their surveillance. Room 818 would be near the north wing, based on the hotel's layout.

As he emerged from the stairwell, Luca heard voices approaching—hotel guests returning to their rooms. He ducked into an alcove, waiting until they passed. The eighth floor was quieter than the lobby, but still active. Each person he encountered increased the risk of being remembered, identified.

Luca moved swiftly down the corridor, counting room numbers. 814... 816... 818. He paused, listening for movement inside. Nothing.

He knocked twice, waited, then three times more. Silence.

Luca frowned. Had Sakamoto stepped out? Was this the wrong room?

The door opened suddenly, revealing a middle-aged Japanese man in an impeccable suit. His eyes—sharp, assessing—took in Luca's appearance in an instant, lingering momentarily on his silver-white hair.

"Bellini's boy," he said in perfect English, stepping aside. "Enter."

Luca hesitated only briefly before stepping into the room. The suite was luxurious but spartan—no personal items visible, the bed still made. A second man stood by the window, younger, with a lean build and the unmistakable posture of a trained fighter.

"I expected Alessandro," Sakamoto said, closing the door. "Vittorio sends his younger son instead. Interesting."

Luca reached into his jacket, producing the envelope. "For your hands only."

Sakamoto accepted it with a slight bow, breaking the seal and scanning the contents. His expression remained neutral, but something in his eyes hardened.

"Your father is direct, as always," he said, folding the letter and slipping it into his pocket. "Tell him I will consider his proposal. He will have my answer within 48 hours."

The man by the window shifted slightly, drawing Luca's attention. His stance had changed subtly—weight forward, hands relaxed but ready.

"This is Takeshi, my associate," Sakamoto said, noticing Luca's observation. "He's curious about you."

"Why?" Luca asked, maintaining his distance from both men.

"Your appearance is... distinctive," Sakamoto replied. "The white hair, so unusual in one so young. In my culture, such coloring often represents spiritual power. The touch of the divine." He studied Luca with renewed interest. "Or perhaps something else. Takeshi believes we should test you."

The younger Japanese man moved with startling speed, closing the distance to Luca in an instant. His hand flashed out in what appeared to be a simple push but contained far more power than the casual movement suggested.

Luca's body reacted before his mind fully registered the attack. He pivoted slightly, redirecting Takeshi's force with a subtle circular parry that left the man slightly off-balance. It wasn't a counter-attack—simply a perfect defensive redirect that honored the Continental's no-fighting rule while demonstrating skill.

Takeshi's eyes widened fractionally. He reset his stance, nodding once to Sakamoto.

"Interesting indeed," Sakamoto said. "You move like water—effortless, adaptable. Unusual for an Italian's training."

"I have diverse influences," Luca replied carefully.

"Clearly." Sakamoto approached, circling Luca slowly. "Your father mentioned your... unique talents in his letter. I see he wasn't exaggerating."

Luca remained silent, aware that he was being assessed in ways he didn't fully understand.

"In Japan, we have legends of those born with special gifts," Sakamoto continued. "Natural abilities that others must train lifetimes to achieve. We call such individuals 'tensai'—prodigies touched by heaven." He stopped in front of Luca. "Your unusual appearance and movement... they suggest something extraordinary."

Luca remained noncommittal. "I'm just here to deliver a message."

"Are you?" Sakamoto smiled faintly. "I think there was a second message in who your father chose as messenger." He reached into his pocket and withdrew a gold Continental coin, offering it to Luca. "For your service tonight."

Luca accepted the coin with a slight bow, mirroring Sakamoto's earlier gesture. As their eyes met, he sensed an unspoken evaluation—as if he'd passed some test beyond the simple delivery of an envelope.

"The Continental offers many services beyond accommodation," Sakamoto said. "When you're of age, I hope you'll visit properly registered as a guest. Your father's reputation grants certain... courtesies."

"Perhaps I will," Luca replied, recognizing the dismissal while noting the implied respect—being acknowledged as a future player rather than merely a messenger.

As he turned to leave, Takeshi spoke for the first time, his voice low. "We will watch your progress with interest, young Bellini."

Alessandro was waiting in the car three blocks from the Continental, engine idling. His face broke into a relieved smile as Luca slid into the passenger seat.

"Success?" he asked, pulling into traffic.

Luca produced the gold coin Sakamoto had given him. "Delivered."

"And?" Alessandro pressed, glancing at his brother. "What did Sakamoto say?"

"He'll consider Father's proposal. Answer within 48 hours." Luca hesitated, then added, "There was someone else there. Takeshi. He tried to test me."

Alessandro's grip tightened on the steering wheel. "Test you how?"

"Nothing serious. Just checking my reflexes." Luca described the brief exchange. "Sakamoto seemed impressed. Called me a 'tensai' - some kind of natural prodigy."

"The Japanese and their assessments," Alessandro muttered, but he seemed troubled. "Did anyone see you enter or leave?"

"No one who'd remember me," Luca assured him. "Service entrances, maintenance corridors, staff elevator. Basic infiltration."

Alessandro shot him a curious look. "Where did you learn infiltration techniques?"

"I didn't," Luca answered truthfully. "It just... made sense. See a problem, find the best solution."

They drove in silence for several minutes, the city lights streaking past the windows. Finally, Alessandro spoke again.

"The warehouse investigation turned up something interesting today. The security footage showed the attackers using hand signals—Russian special forces techniques. Very specific."

Luca absorbed this. "Russians hit a Cosa Nostra shipment while making it look like something the Camorra would do?"

"That's our working theory," Alessandro confirmed. "The question is why."

Luca thought of Sakamoto, of the letter his father had sent. "Maybe Father's proposal to Sakamoto is related."

Alessandro glanced at him sharply. "What makes you say that?"

"Timing," Luca replied. "The attack happens, immediately after Father sends a message to a Japanese associate. Seems connected."

"You're thinking like a Bellini," Alessandro said, a note of pride in his voice. "Father's building alliances. Russians targeting us, Camorra circling—he's preparing for something bigger."

"And now he's bringing me into it," Luca observed.

Alessandro's expression turned serious. "Be careful, Luca. Father doesn't see people—he sees assets. Tools to be used." He reached across, gripping Luca's shoulder. "Your new abilities make you valuable, but also expendable if you fail."

"I won't fail," Luca said with quiet confidence.

His brother studied him for a moment, then nodded. "No, I don't think you will, fratellino." A wry smile crossed his face. "You're becoming something none of us expected."

As they drove through the night toward home, Luca found himself contemplating how quickly his world had changed. Two days ago, he'd been a teenager on the periphery of family business. Now he was being noticed—by his father, by powerful associates, by potential enemies.

Alessandro glanced at him. "What are you thinking?"

"That there's no going back," Luca answered honestly.

His brother's expression softened with understanding. "There never is in our world. But at least we face it together."