Chapter 9: The Job

Luca's phone buzzed at exactly 7:00 AM, pulling him from a dreamless sleep. New York rainfall pattered against his bedroom window, casting the morning in a gloomy gray light. One glance at the screen told him everything he needed to know.

Winston.

"This better be good," Luca answered, voice still rough with sleep. At eighteen, he'd earned the right to drop formalities with the Continental manager.

"When is it not?" Winston's crisp British accent cut through the phone. "I have something that might interest you. Four o'clock. The usual place."

The line went dead before Luca could respond. Typical Winston – all business, no bullshit.

Luca rolled out of bed, running a hand through his silver-white hair. It had been two weeks since the Rome operation, two weeks since he'd dropped Vassallo with a neurotoxin that left the coroner blaming heart disease. The Italian newspapers hadn't questioned the death of an overweight, hard-drinking financial manager. Another perfect ghost job.

So why did he feel so goddamn empty?

Alessandro's words still echoed in his head: "Find something outside this life. Before you forget how." Easy for him to say from his wheelchair. Alessandro had lived a full life before taking four bullets to the chest and spine. What did Luca have besides this?

He showered quickly, the scalding water failing to wash away his restlessness. When he stepped out, he caught his reflection in the fogged mirror – lean muscle, several new scars, eyes that looked too old for his face. The Ghost stared back at him.

Breakfast in the Bellini compound was a formal affair, even with only three of them at the massive oak table. Vittorio sat at the head, Alessandro to his right, with Luca opposite his brother.

"Winston called," Luca said, cutting into his eggs. "Wants to meet at four."

Vittorio nodded without looking up from his newspaper. "Continental business?"

"Probably."

Alessandro's fork clattered against his plate. "You just got back from Rome." His voice had regained most of its strength over the past year, even if his legs hadn't. "Maybe take a breather?"

"I'm fine," Luca said automatically.

"You're always 'fine.'" Alessandro's tone sharpened. "That's the problem."

Vittorio folded his newspaper with deliberate precision. "Your brother has duties, Alessandro. As do you."

Alessandro's jaw tightened, but he said nothing more. The familiar tension stretched between them – Alessandro's concern versus Vittorio's cold pragmatism, with Luca caught in the middle.

"I'll hear what Winston has to offer," Luca said, rising from the table. "That's all."

He spent the morning in the basement training room, working out his frustration on a heavy bag. Right hook, left jab, spinning kick. The bag's chain rattled with each precise strike. His body moved with perfect efficiency – no wasted energy, no flashy movements. Just pure, deadly function.

Three hours later, his knuckles were raw despite the wraps.

The Continental's bar was quiet at four in the afternoon. A few early patrons nursed drinks in corners, their hushed conversations barely audible over soft jazz. Luca spotted Winston at his usual table, tumbler of scotch already half-empty.

"Mr. Bellini," Winston greeted him. "Timely as ever."

Luca slid into the seat across from him. "What's so important it couldn't wait?"

Winston's lips quirked. "Still not one for pleasantries, I see." He pushed a manila folder across the table. "The Macarro family has been making moves in Brooklyn. Small-time outfit with increasingly large appetites."

Luca flipped open the folder. Inside were surveillance photos of a squat, balding man in his fifties. "Anthony Macarro," he read from the attached file. "What's his play?"

"Territory expansion," Winston said, sipping his scotch. "He's moving into the old Gambino neighborhoods. Normally, this wouldn't concern the Continental, but..."

"But it's edging into Bellini territory," Luca finished.

"Precisely." Winston leaned forward. "More concerning is who's backing him. Our sources indicate Japanese money is flowing into Macarro's operation. Significant amounts."

That caught Luca's attention. The Japanese had been circling New York's criminal landscape for months. His encounter with Himura in Rome suddenly took on new significance.

"I'm listening."

"The Macarros are hosting a gathering tomorrow night. Casino night at their club in Red Hook. All the players will be present, including their Japanese backers." Winston tapped the folder. "A perfect opportunity for... observation."

Luca arched an eyebrow. "Just observation?"

"The Continental takes no position on territorial disputes," Winston said smoothly. "We merely provide information to our esteemed members."

Right. The Continental's neutrality was always technically maintained, even when Winston clearly had an agenda.

"Why bring this to me specifically?" Luca asked.

Winston studied him over the rim of his glass. "The Japanese have been asking about you since your Rome induction. The name 'Shirogane' has been circulating in certain circles. Silver Ghost. They seem quite taken with your methods."

The nickname was new. First "The Ghost," now "Shirogane." Luca wasn't sure how he felt about building a reputation when his job was supposed to be staying invisible.

"And?"

"And perhaps they should meet the man behind the reputation." Winston smiled thinly. "Your membership card grants access to the Macarro event. No weapons permitted on the premises, of course. House rules."

Luca pocketed the folder. "I'll think about it."

"Do that." Winston signaled the bartender for another drink. "Oh, and Luca? The Japanese representative attending is named Takeshi. You may remember him from Sakamoto's suite, the night of your first Continental delivery."

Memories clicked into place – Takeshi, the silent shadow who had tested Luca's reflexes during his message delivery to Sakamoto three years ago. The man who had said, "We will watch your progress with interest."

Apparently, they had been.

Alessandro was waiting when Luca returned to the compound. His wheelchair was positioned by the window in the east wing study, a chessboard set up on the table beside him.

"How was Winston?" he asked, not looking up from the chess pieces.

"Cryptic as usual." Luca shrugged off his jacket. "Wants me to check out a casino night at the Macarro club."

"The Macarros?" Alessandro's eyebrows shot up. "Small-time thugs. What's Winston's angle?"

Luca dropped into the chair opposite his brother. "Japanese money is backing their expansion. Winston thinks I should make an appearance."

Alessandro moved a white pawn forward. "Your move, little brother." The double meaning wasn't subtle.

Luca studied the board, then moved his knight. "What do you know about the Japanese syndicates?"

"Traditional. Hierarchical. Respect-driven." Alessandro countered with his bishop. "They value precision and restraint." His eyes flicked up to meet Luca's. "Qualities you've developed quite thoroughly."

"You make it sound like a bad thing."

"It's not good or bad. It just is." Alessandro gestured to the chessboard. "But like chess, life's about balance. All attack, no defense – you lose. All precision, no humanity – you survive but don't live."

Luca resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Since the shooting, Alessandro had developed a philosophical streak that occasionally grated on Luca's nerves.

"This is just reconnaissance," Luca said, capturing a pawn. "Seeing what the Macarros are up to, who their Japanese friends are."

"And if it turns into more?"

Luca didn't answer, instead advancing his queen aggressively.

Alessandro sighed. "Check."

Luca blinked, suddenly seeing the trap his brother had laid. Three moves ahead, as usual. Despite everything, Alessandro's strategic mind remained razor-sharp.

"Father wants me in his study at eight," Luca said, resetting the pieces. "Probably to discuss this Macarro situation."

"Probably," Alessandro agreed. "Just... be careful, Luca. The Japanese operate differently than the Russians or Italians. Everything means something – a gift, a gesture, an introduction. Nothing is casual."

"I'm always careful."

"That's what worries me." Alessandro's eyes were sad. "When was the last time you did something reckless? Something just for the hell of it?"

Luca couldn't remember. Maybe before Alessandro's shooting. Maybe never.

Vittorio's study was as austere as the man himself. No family photos, no personal touches – just dark wood paneling, leather-bound books, and the massive oak desk that dominated the space.

"The Macarros," Vittorio said without preamble when Luca entered, "are becoming problematic."

"Winston mentioned their expansion. Japanese backing."

Vittorio's eyes narrowed slightly. "Winston is well-informed as usual." He slid a folder across the desk – thicker than the one Winston had provided. "Anthony Macarro. Former Gambino affiliate until they fell from grace. Now styling himself as an independent boss with ambitions."

Luca scanned the contents – surveillance photos, financial records, property acquisitions. The Macarros had been busy.

"What's our interest?" he asked.

"Their new shipping operation at Red Hook encroaches on our arrangement with the Chinese." Vittorio leaned back in his chair. "Normally, I would send Alessandro to deliver a diplomatic warning. Given current circumstances, the responsibility falls to you."

Luca nodded, understanding the subtext. Before Alessandro's injury, negotiations would have been the first approach. Now, with Luca's particular skill set available, Vittorio was considering more direct options.

"Just a warning?" Luca clarified.

"For now." Vittorio's expression remained impassive. "Attend their event tomorrow. Observe their operation, their Japanese backers. Make your presence known but not threatening. We need information before decisions."

"And if the information suggests they won't back down?"

Vittorio's gaze was ice-cold. "Then we'll discuss appropriate measures."

In Bellini terms, "appropriate measures" usually meant someone wouldn't live to see next week. Luca wondered when he'd stopped feeling anything about that.

"Winston mentioned a Japanese representative named Takeshi will be there," Luca said. "I've encountered him before."

"Good. Established connection provides opening for conversation." Vittorio studied his son. "Your work in Rome was exemplary. Don Francesco sent his personal compliments on your handling of the Vassallo matter."

Coming from Vittorio, this was effusive praise. Luca merely nodded.

"Your Continental standing provides opportunities beyond family operations," Vittorio continued. "Connections we can leverage, information channels we can access. Use them."

"Yes, sir."

As Luca turned to leave, Vittorio added, "And Luca – the Japanese have expressed particular interest in your methods. Their attention is both opportunity and complication. Navigate carefully."

Luca spent the night preparing. The Macarro club – pretentiously named "The Empire" – was a renovated warehouse in Red Hook's industrial district. He studied the building plans, security layout, entrance and exit points, staffing patterns. Knowledge was leverage, and Luca never walked into a situation without every possible advantage.

By morning, he knew the club's floor plan better than its owner probably did.

Breakfast was a solitary affair, both Alessandro and Vittorio occupied with their own responsibilities. Luca preferred it that way – no philosophical lectures from his brother, no cold assessment from his father. Just coffee, eggs, and silence.

His phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number: Looking forward to renewing our acquaintance. -T

Takeshi. Somehow the Japanese operative had obtained his private number. Not entirely surprising, but a power move nonetheless – I can reach you whenever I want.

Luca didn't respond. Let Takeshi wonder if the message had even been received.

The day passed in careful preparation. Luca selected his attire with precision – a charcoal Tom Ford suit, tailored to conceal his athletic build without restricting movement. No visible weapons, as per house rules, but Luca had never relied on firearms anyway. His body was weapon enough when necessary.

At 9:30 PM, he stood before his mirror, adjusting his tie. The silver-haired young man who stared back looked nothing like the confused sixteen-year-old who had awakened with Mark Olsen's memories three years ago. That boy was gone, replaced by something harder, colder, more efficient.

The Ghost. Shirogane.

For a fleeting moment, Luca wondered what might have happened if Alessandro hadn't been shot. Would he still have become this? Or would he have found that "something outside this life" his brother kept harping about?

The thought vanished as quickly as it had formed. No point dwelling on might-have-beens.

The Empire was already crowded when Luca arrived at 10 PM. Bouncers flanked the entrance, checking invitations and patting down guests with professional efficiency. Luca presented his Continental membership card – a black card with gold embossing that opened doors throughout the criminal underworld.

The bouncer's eyes widened slightly. "Mr. Bellini. Welcome to The Empire."

Word of his arrival would reach Anthony Macarro within minutes. Good.

Inside, the club pulsed with energy and money. The warehouse's industrial bones remained visible beneath upscale renovations – exposed brick and ductwork contrasting with crystal chandeliers and plush velvet seating. The ground floor featured a traditional nightclub setup, while the mezzanine level housed the casino operation – poker tables, roulette wheels, and blackjack stations where well-dressed patrons tried their luck against the house.

Luca moved through the space with casual confidence, mapping exits and security positions while appearing to simply take in the atmosphere. Three armed guards on the main floor. Two more by the staircase leading to the mezzanine. Another pair flanking a door that likely led to back offices.

He ordered a vodka tonic at the bar – mostly tonic, barely a splash of alcohol. Luca never drank on a job. Never did much of anything that might dull his edge.

"Bellini." The voice came from behind him, smooth as silk with just a trace of Italian accent.

Luca turned to find a tall, slender man in his thirties, dressed in an expensive but flashy suit. Not Anthony Macarro but clearly someone in his organization.

"I'm Michael Macarro, Anthony's son." He extended his hand. "We weren't expecting a representative from your family tonight."

Luca accepted the handshake, noting the man's soft palm and manicured nails. Not a fighter. "Just enjoying a night out. Your casino operation is impressive."

Michael preened at the compliment. "We're expanding our entertainment portfolio. The club, the casino. Next month we open our high-end restaurant."

"Ambitious," Luca commented.

"Growing businesses need room to breathe." Michael's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Perhaps you'd like to meet my father? He's entertaining some Japanese associates upstairs, but I'm sure he'd make time."

"Don't interrupt on my account. I'll make my way up shortly."

Michael nodded, though his expression suggested he'd rather keep Luca where he could see him. "Of course. Enjoy your evening, Mr. Bellini."

As Michael walked away, Luca felt a presence at his shoulder – someone who had approached without making a sound, a rare accomplishment given Luca's heightened awareness.

"The Ghost now walks in plain sight," said a quiet voice in accented English. "Interesting strategy."

Luca turned to find himself face to face with Takeshi. The Japanese operative looked virtually unchanged from their brief encounter three years ago – lean, compact, with the coiled readiness of a viper.

"Takeshi," Luca acknowledged. "Been a while."

"Three years, two months." Takeshi's dark eyes studied him. "You've changed considerably in that time. Become something... distinctive."

Luca sipped his drink. "I'm surprised you remember me from a two-minute interaction."

"I make it a point to remember those with potential." Takeshi's gaze was evaluative, professional. "Sakamoto-san was correct about you. The raw material was evident even then."

"And now?"

"Now you've earned a name. Shirogane." Takeshi pronounced it with precise intonation. "The silver ghost. Appropriate, given your methods and appearance."

The conversation was all subtext, layers of meaning beneath seemingly casual exchange. Takeshi was taking his measure, assessing changes since their first meeting.

"I don't put much stock in nicknames," Luca said.

"Names have power in my culture," Takeshi countered. "They reflect essence." He gestured toward the mezzanine. "My associates would appreciate an introduction. Your reputation has generated significant interest."

The invitation wasn't subtle. The Japanese weren't here by coincidence – they'd anticipated his presence, perhaps even engineered it through Winston. The question was why.

"Lead the way," Luca said, setting down his barely-touched drink.

As they climbed the stairs to the mezzanine, Luca felt the weight of eyes tracking him – Macarro security, casino patrons who recognized the Bellini name, observers whose affiliations remained unclear. His appearance was creating exactly the ripples Winston had suggested.

The mezzanine offered a clear view of the club below while providing more exclusive atmosphere for serious gamblers and private conversations. Anthony Macarro held court at a corner table, surrounded by associates and two Japanese men in immaculate suits. The older of the Japanese visitors radiated authority despite his modest stature – clearly the decision-maker.

Takeshi led Luca directly to this table. Conversations hushed as they approached.

"Yamamoto-san," Takeshi said respectfully in Japanese, "may I present Luca Bellini."

The older Japanese man rose with formal courtesy. "Bellini-san. Your reputation precedes you." His English was precise, each word carefully formed. "I am Kenji Yamamoto. Please, join us."

Anthony Macarro's expression flickered between surprise and displeasure at finding a Bellini at his table. At fifty-something, he had the soft physique of a man who enjoyed the fruits of his business too much, but his eyes were shrewd and calculating.

"Bellini," he acknowledged with forced cordiality. "I wasn't aware you were on the guest list."

"Continental membership has its privileges," Luca replied mildly.

"Of course, of course." Macarro gestured to an empty chair. "Any friend of Mr. Yamamoto is welcome at my establishment."

Luca took the offered seat, noting how Takeshi positioned himself just behind Yamamoto's right shoulder – the traditional place for a principal security officer. The dynamics were clear: Yamamoto called the shots, Takeshi provided protection, and Macarro played host while trying to gauge the shifting power balance.

"We were just discussing expansion opportunities in the harbor area," Macarro said, pouring champagne for his guests. "The shipping business is evolving rapidly."

"Indeed," Yamamoto agreed. "Traditional channels giving way to new approaches. New partnerships." His gaze rested meaningfully on Luca. "The young often see possibilities that the established miss."

The subtext was unmistakable. The Japanese were backing Macarro's expansion into territories traditionally respected as Bellini domain, and they were suggesting Luca might have a place in this new arrangement.

"Innovation has its place," Luca acknowledged. "So does respecting established boundaries."

Macarro's face reddened slightly, but Yamamoto merely nodded. "Boundaries are important. Defining where they truly lie is the challenge."

The conversation continued in this vein – seemingly casual business discussion layered with territorial challenges and alliance proposals. Luca participated enough to maintain his presence while observing the dynamics between Yamamoto and Macarro. The Japanese businessman was clearly the dominant partner, with Macarro serving as the local face of operations that extended far beyond a simple nightclub and casino.

As the evening progressed, Luca began to understand Winston's interest in this gathering. The Japanese weren't simply backing a minor player's expansion – they were establishing a foothold in New York through Macarro, potentially as a precursor to larger moves.

And for some reason, they wanted Luca to know it.

The question was why. Warning? Recruitment? Something else entirely?

"Perhaps Bellini-san would enjoy a tour of our other facilities," Yamamoto suggested after an hour of careful conversation. "The private gaming room, perhaps?"

Another layer of invitation – moving from public interaction to more private discussion. Luca weighed his options. Declining might close a valuable information channel. Accepting might lead him into territory where backup was limited.

"I'd be interested," he said finally.

Yamamoto rose smoothly. "Excellent. Takeshi will accompany us."

Anthony Macarro looked like he wanted to object but thought better of it. "Michael will show you the way."

As they moved toward a discreet door at the back of the mezzanine, Luca activated the emergency tracker in his watch – a precaution Alessandro had insisted on after his shooting. If Luca didn't deactivate it within two hours, Marco would come looking.

The private gaming room was smaller and more luxurious than the main casino – just two poker tables, a roulette wheel, and a bar staffed by an attractive young woman. Currently empty except for their group.

"Privacy," Yamamoto said, gesturing for Luca to take a seat at one of the poker tables. "Essential for meaningful conversation."

Michael Macarro poured drinks, then stationed himself by the door, trying to appear casual while obviously serving as security. Takeshi remained standing, his posture relaxed but ready.

"You are wondering why we arranged this meeting," Yamamoto said without preamble.

Luca raised an eyebrow. "Arranged?"

Yamamoto smiled slightly. "Winston is many things, but subtle is not always among them. We expressed interest in meeting the Ghost. Winston made it happen."

"Why?"

"Japan has traditionally maintained limited presence in New York operations," Yamamoto explained. "This is changing. We are expanding certain interests, which requires local partnerships." He gestured vaguely to indicate Macarro. "But also specialized capabilities."

"My capabilities are employed exclusively for my family," Luca stated.

"Currently, yes." Yamamoto leaned forward. "But you have also accepted Continental membership, which suggests awareness of opportunities beyond family operations."

Luca remained silent, letting Yamamoto continue.

"Your methods align with values our organization particularly respects," the Japanese businessman said. "Precision. Discipline. Effectiveness without excess. These are qualities increasingly rare in your American operations."

"What exactly are you proposing?"

"For now, simply awareness. Understanding that options exist." Yamamoto's expression remained carefully neutral. "The Macarros serve immediate purposes, but our long-term interests may align with more... sophisticated partners."

Luca caught the implication immediately. The Japanese were using Macarro as a temporary vehicle for expansion, potentially disposable once better options presented themselves. They were feeling out Luca – and by extension, the Bellini organization – as possible future allies.

"I'll convey your interest to my father," Luca said diplomatically.

"Please do." Yamamoto reached into his jacket and produced a small wooden box, which he placed on the table between them. "A token of professional respect. For Shirogane."

The use of the Japanese nickname was deliberate – separating Luca's professional identity from his family role. Suggesting he could operate in both capacities.

Luca opened the box to find an exquisite tanto knife, its black lacquered sheath decorated with silver inlay depicting a ghost-like figure. The craftsmanship was extraordinary.

"Traditional gifts are important in Japanese culture," Yamamoto explained. "This one is symbolic of recognition. Acknowledgment of distinctive capability."

The gift created obligation – another deliberate move in this complex game of criminal diplomacy. By accepting it, Luca would be acknowledging a connection, however tentative.

"It's beautifully crafted," Luca said, closing the box. "Thank you."

The conversation moved to more general topics after that, but the message had been delivered. The Japanese were establishing presence in New York, using Macarro temporarily while exploring more significant alliances. They saw potential in Luca specifically, separate from the Bellini organization as a whole.

Information that would be very valuable to Vittorio.

As they prepared to return to the main casino, the door suddenly burst open. Anthony Macarro stormed in, face flushed with anger or alcohol – possibly both.

"Problem at the door," he announced. "Russians trying to crash the party. Claiming they have invitations."

Takeshi tensed, moving closer to Yamamoto. Michael's hand drifted inside his jacket.

"What Russians?" Luca asked sharply.

"Tarasov's men," Macarro spat. "Four of them, led by that psychopath they call Baba Yaga."

John Wick. Here. Now.

The night had just gotten infinitely more complicated.