Chapter 4: First Impressions

"A name is earned, not given."

Vittorio Bellini's words hung in the air of his study, the morning light casting long shadows across the polished mahogany desk. Luca stood before his father, hands clasped behind his back, still processing the unexpected summons that had interrupted his breakfast.

Three days had passed since the Continental mission. Three days of increased training with Alessandro, of stolen glances from family members who'd previously ignored his existence, of whispered discussions that ceased when he entered rooms.

"You delivered Sakamoto's message well," Vittorio continued, studying a document rather than looking at his son. "But message delivery is servanthood. A Bellini male must become known for more."

Luca remained silent, aware that his father wasn't seeking a response.

"Alessandro was nineteen when he made his first significant mark outside our family," Vittorio said, finally raising his eyes to study Luca. "The Gambino problem. He resolved it with unexpected... creativity. People remembered."

The "Gambino problem" was family legend—a rival underboss who'd threatened Bellini interests until Alessandro orchestrated an elegant solution involving blackmail, misdirection, and ultimately the man's self-destruction. No violence necessary, yet devastating in its execution.

"You have certain... advantages," Vittorio observed. "Your recent abilities make you surprisingly capable. But without application, these are merely curiosities."

Luca felt a subtle shift in the air—his father was leading to something specific.

"The Russians have taken notice of us," Vittorio said. "Their recent aggression is strategic, targeted. We will respond, but not directly. Not yet." He slid a folder across the desk. "Instead, we send a message."

Luca opened the folder to find photos of a nightclub called The Arctica, along with documentation of its ownership structure.

"Mikhail Petrov," Vittorio explained. "Mid-level Tarasov lieutenant. He uses this club to launder money and host private gambling for their associates. Tomorrow night, he's hosting a high-stakes poker game. Many players, substantial cash on premises."

Luca studied the information, connecting dots. "You want me to rob it?"

A flash of annoyance crossed Vittorio's face. "Bellinis do not rob. We make statements." He leaned forward. "Infiltrate the club. Observe the game. Then ensure Petrov's security is... compromised. Nothing obvious, nothing traceable."

"Security compromised how?" Luca asked, careful to keep his tone neutral.

"That," Vittorio replied, "is where you demonstrate your value. Create a situation where Petrov appears incompetent to his superiors. Where his operation is exposed as vulnerable. Do it without violence against the guests, without direct confrontation, and—most importantly—without being identified as Bellini."

The assignment was deliberately vague, Luca realized. A test of his initiative and judgment as much as his skills.

"Alessandro will provide tactical support but remain outside," Vittorio continued. "This is your operation to plan and execute." He studied his son carefully. "Begin establishing your reputation, Luca. Make them wonder who compromised their security so easily."

The implication was clear—this wasn't just about striking back at the Russians. It was about launching Luca's individual identity in the underworld. Beginning the process of him becoming known beyond his family name.

"I understand," Luca said simply.

Vittorio nodded once, returning to his papers—dismissal without words.

"He's testing you," Alessandro said later that afternoon as they studied blueprints of The Arctica spread across the training room floor. "Seeing if you can think beyond the obvious."

"The obvious being?" Luca asked, marking potential entry points on the diagram.

"Smash and grab. Trigger the alarms, create chaos, maybe steal some cash." Alessandro shook his head. "Any thug can do that. Father wants to see if you can be surgical. Make an impression without leaving evidence."

Luca nodded, his mind already mapping possibilities. The club's layout was fairly standard—main dance floor, VIP section, private rooms upstairs. The poker game would be held in the largest private room, with Petrov's office adjacent.

"What do we know about security?" Luca asked.

"Standard nightclub setup—bouncers at the entrance, private security for the game room, cameras throughout. Nothing exceptional." Alessandro pointed to several locations on the blueprint. "Camera blind spots here, here, and here. Electrical panel on the lower level. Fire exits on both sides."

Luca traced possible paths through the building, his fingers moving with instinctive precision. "Guest list?"

"Invitation only. Mostly Russians, some independents." Alessandro handed him a slender file. "We managed to secure one invitation through a third party. Your cover is David Chen, son of a Chinese shipping magnate, looking to make connections in New York. The real Chen heir is currently in Hong Kong, so no risk of recognition."

"Will they believe the cover?" Luca asked.

Alessandro smiled. "Mixed heritage. American mother, hence your accent. The right clothes, right attitude—no one will question it too deeply in that environment."

Luca studied the invitation. "I'm supposed to play poker with professionals?"

"You're supposed to appear to play poker," Alessandro corrected. "No one expects you to win. Just maintain cover long enough to implement whatever plan you devise."

For the next several hours, they refined details—entry timing, evacuation routes, contingencies. Alessandro provided equipment options without dictating choices, allowing Luca to select what best suited his developing plan.

By evening, the outline had taken shape—elegant in its simplicity yet requiring precise execution. Not a smash and grab, but a surgical intervention that would leave Petrov exposed, embarrassed, and answering uncomfortable questions from his superiors.

"It could work," Alessandro acknowledged after Luca outlined his approach. "If your timing is perfect and nothing unexpected happens."

"When does nothing unexpected happen?" Luca replied with a half-smile.

Alessandro studied his younger brother, noting the confidence that had been absent just weeks ago. "You know, when you first got these new abilities, I worried about what Father might make you do with them."

"And now?"

"Now I'm more curious about what you'll choose to do with them." Alessandro closed the blueprints. "Get some sleep. Tomorrow you make your debut."

The Arctica lived up to its name—all white leather, blue lighting, and frost-patterned glass. The crowd was a mixture of wealthy Russians, connected locals, and beautiful people who served as decoration. Drinks flowed freely, music pulsed at precisely the right volume to energize without preventing conversation, and security maintained a watchful but discreet presence throughout.

Luca entered shortly after midnight, dressed in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit with subtle navy accents. The glasses he wore contained no prescription but added maturity to his youthful features, helping to blur the edges of his sixteen years.

He presented his invitation with practiced casualness, offered the appropriate password, and was escorted to the VIP section without hesitation. The cover identity Alessandro had procured was holding perfectly.

The poker game occupied a glass-walled room overlooking the main floor. Inside, eight men sat around a custom table, chips stacked before them, drinks at their elbows. Mikhail Petrov himself was dealing, his thick fingers moving with surprising dexterity.

"Ah, Mr. Chen," Petrov greeted him with a businessman's smile. "We've been expecting you. Please, join us."

Luca nodded politely, taking the empty seat. Before him sat a stack of chips—the buy-in Alessandro had arranged through their intermediary. Around the table, the other players assessed him with the calculated indifference of predators evaluating potential prey.

"Gentlemen," Petrov continued, "may I present David Chen, son of our esteemed friend from Hong Kong." He made brief introductions around the table—names Luca memorized instantly while noting each man's affiliations and tells.

The next hour passed in the careful dance of high-stakes poker. Luca played conservatively, losing small amounts while watching the dynamics unfold. Petrov was clearly controlling the game, ensuring his favored guests won just enough to keep them happy while the house maintained its edge.

More importantly, Luca was mapping security patterns. Every twenty minutes, a guard made a circuit of the upper level. Cameras covered the main approaches, but the restroom corridor had a blind spot. Petrov's private office was accessible through a door behind him, locked with a keypad.

At precisely 1:45 AM, Luca excused himself to use the restroom. Once in the corridor, he timed his movement perfectly to avoid both the patrolling guard and the camera's sweep. In the blind spot, he removed a small device from his inner pocket and attached it to the underside of a decorative table—an RF transmitter Alessandro had provided, now active and scanning for wireless signals.

Returning to the game, Luca continued his measured play while the device did its work. Fifteen minutes later, his phone vibrated once in his pocket—confirmation that the transmitter had captured the office keypad code from Petrov's last entry.

Phase one complete.

The game continued, stakes rising as players grew more comfortable or desperate. Luca maintained his cover perfectly, losing just enough to appear legitimate without drawing attention. When Petrov excused himself briefly to take a call, Luca made his second move.

"Another drink, sir?" asked a passing server.

"Please," Luca responded, deliberately bumping the man's tray as he reached for his glass. The resulting spill wasn't large, but it splashed across the edge of the table near Petrov's seat.

"My apologies!" the server gasped, quickly moving to clean the mess.

In the brief commotion, Luca's hand moved with invisible speed, planting a second device—smaller than a thumbnail—beneath the table's edge where Petrov would return to sit.

When the Russian returned, the game resumed without incident. But now, the miniature transmitter was recording every word spoken at the table, feeding directly to a receiver in Alessandro's car parked three blocks away.

Phase two complete.

At 2:30 AM, the pivotal hand arrived. A visiting Ukrainian businessman had been growing increasingly reckless, his stack dwindling while his drinking increased. He was now all-in against Petrov in a hand with significant side bets from other players. The pot had grown to over three hundred thousand dollars.

As cards were revealed, tension mounted around the table. The Ukrainian had a full house, queens over tens—a powerful hand. Petrov revealed his cards slowly, building dramatic tension before showing a straight flush.

The Ukrainian's face fell. "Impossible," he muttered. "That's the second straight flush tonight."

Petrov smiled thinly as he reached for the chips. "Fortune favors the bold, my friend."

It was the moment Luca had been waiting for. As Petrov began stacking his winnings, Luca executed the final phase. Under the table, his foot pressed a small transmitter in his shoe, activating the device he'd planted earlier.

Within seconds, the Ukrainian's phone buzzed. He glanced at it, frowned, then looked up at Petrov with sudden suspicion. He said nothing, but his expression had changed completely.

Five minutes later, another player's phone alerted. Then another. By the time Luca's own phone received the transmission, four players had seen the same message—a photo taken from beneath the table showing Petrov dealing from a hidden compartment beneath the table's edge, along with the text: "House always wins when it cheats."

The atmosphere shifted palpably. Players exchanged glances. The Ukrainian studied his drink with new interest. No one directly accused Petrov, but the damage was done.

"Gentlemen," Luca said, rising smoothly. "I find myself needing some air. Please excuse me."

As he left, others began making similar excuses. The game was unraveling, not with confrontation but with quiet suspicion that would spread through the Russian community by morning.

Luca made his way toward the exit, timing his departure to coincide with the arrival of his final surprise. As he reached the main floor, the club's lights flickered once, twice—then emergency lighting activated as the primary power failed.

In the momentary confusion, Luca slipped through the crowd toward the side exit. Behind him, he heard security radios crackling with reports of a breaker failure. The timing was perfect—the electrical disruption would trigger an automated security protocol, unlocking the office safe as a precaution against theft during power loss.

By morning, Petrov would discover not only had his game been compromised, but the safe's contents would be exposed to any staff member who happened to enter during the confusion. Nothing would be stolen—that wasn't the point. The point was vulnerability, exposure, incompetence.

Outside, Luca walked calmly to the predetermined meeting point. Alessandro was waiting in the car, a tablet displaying security camera feeds he'd hacked into showing the controlled chaos unfolding inside the club.

"Clean execution," Alessandro commented as Luca slid into the passenger seat. "No violence, no direct confrontation, completely untraceable."

"Almost untraceable," Luca corrected. "I made sure the Ukrainian saw me leaving calmly while everyone else was confused."

Alessandro raised an eyebrow. "Deliberately drawing attention? That wasn't part of the plan."

"Not direct attention," Luca explained. "Just a question in his mind about the new player who left right before everything went wrong. Not enough to identify me, just enough to wonder."

Alessandro studied his brother with new appreciation. "Building mystique. Interesting choice."

"Every reputation has to start somewhere," Luca said.

As they drove away, Luca could feel something shifting inside him—a new confidence, a sense of having taken the first small step toward establishing his own identity. Not just Luca Bellini, son of Vittorio, but someone who could operate with precision and effectiveness in his own right.

By tomorrow, rumors would circulate about Petrov's compromised game. The Tarasov organization would question his competence, his security, his honesty. It wasn't a devastating blow, but it was a precise one—exactly as his father had requested.

"You know," Alessandro said as they approached the Bellini compound, "the strange thing is how natural this seems for you. One month ago, you were just my quiet little brother who kept to himself. Now..."

"Now I'm still figuring out who I am," Luca finished honestly. "But I'm starting to see possibilities."

Alessandro nodded thoughtfully. "I think others will start seeing those possibilities too."

Later that night, after delivering a concise report to his father and receiving a single nod of approval in return, Luca stood at his bedroom window looking out over the city. The first impression had been made. A small one, barely a ripple in the vast underworld of New York. But it was a beginning.

His father had been right: a name was earned, not given. Someday, he would earn one that people whispered with respect and fear. But for now, he was content to be the newcomer who'd left people wondering.

It was enough for a first night.