Chapter 10: Baba Yaga

Holy shit, it's actually John Wick.

The thought hit Luca like a truck. His mind—the part that still contained Mark Olsen's memories—was reeling. John fucking Wick. The Baba Yaga. The man who had killed three men in a bar with a pencil. The boogeyman of the criminal underworld.

This was 2007 John—still with the Tarasov organization, still at the peak of his deadly skills, but according to Mark's memories, only about two years away from attempting to leave this life behind. Though no one knew it yet, not even John himself perhaps, he would soon meet Helen and try to escape this world entirely.

But right now, he was simply the most dangerous man in the room. And he was walking straight toward them.

"What's the Baba Yaga doing here?" Luca asked, keeping his voice carefully neutral while his heart hammered.

Yamamoto raised an eyebrow. "You know of him?"

"Everyone in our world knows of him," Luca replied, eyes fixed on the door. The stories weren't just stories. The legend was real, and he was about to meet him.

Anthony Macarro was already barking orders at his security team, his face flushed with panic. "Double the men at the entrance! No one gets up here without—"

The door swung open.

Four men entered. Three were typical Russian muscle—expensive suits stretched over powerful frames, faces like slabs of concrete. But leading them was a figure Luca recognized instantly, despite having never met him in this life.

John Wick.

He wasn't what most people would expect. No flashy clothes, no intimidating scowl. Just a man in his mid-thirties wearing a perfectly tailored black suit, dark hair slightly longer than a business cut, with a focus in his eyes that seemed to register everything at once. He moved with a casual grace that belied the lethal capability Luca knew lay beneath.

"Mr. Macarro," John said, his voice surprisingly soft. "Mr. Viggo Tarasov sends his regards."

Macarro's security team had formed a line between John's group and their table. Six men total, hands hovering near concealed weapons. Luca counted at least four pistols and two knives among them.

Against John Wick, they might as well have been unarmed.

"This is a private event, Wick," Macarro snapped, false bravado sharpening his tone. "The Tarasovs weren't invited."

John's gaze swept the room, pausing briefly on Yamamoto before settling on Luca. Something flickered in his eyes—recognition. He knew exactly who Luca was.

"The Tarasovs are concerned about recent shipping disruptions at the Newark docks," John continued, ignoring Macarro's hostility. "Disruptions that trace back to your new operation."

Takeshi had shifted position, moving closer to Yamamoto while maintaining a sight line to John. The Japanese bodyguard's posture had changed subtly—weight balanced perfectly on the balls of his feet, hands relaxed but ready.

"Whatever business concerns the Tarasovs have can be addressed through proper channels," Yamamoto interjected smoothly. "Not by interrupting a private gathering."

John inclined his head slightly—a show of minimal respect. "Mr. Yamamoto. Your involvement in New York operations is... unexpected."

"The world evolves, Mr. Wick."

Luca remained still, watching the exchange with dual perspective. The Mark part of him was practically vibrating with adrenaline at seeing the legendary assassin in the flesh. The Luca part was calculating escape routes, assessing threats, and wondering why John kept glancing his way.

"Proper channels have been attempted," John said. "This is the escalation."

One of Macarro's security men—young, jumpy, clearly out of his depth—made the catastrophic mistake of reaching for his weapon.

What happened next occurred so quickly that Luca's brain processed it in fragments.

John moved—not frantically, not hurriedly, but with an economy of motion that seemed almost choreographed. His right hand caught the security guard's wrist, twisting it at a precise angle that forced the man's body to follow or suffer a break. In the same fluid motion, John's left hand removed the guard's pistol, ejected its magazine, and cleared the chamber.

All in under two seconds.

The guard was on his knees, wrist locked in a submission hold, before anyone else had fully registered what was happening.

This was gun fu. Not the flashy, cinematic version Mark remembered from the films, but its real-world foundation—absolute mastery of firearms integrated seamlessly with hand-to-hand combat.

Luca felt something stir inside him—his adaptive body responding to what it had just witnessed, neural pathways already beginning to reconfigure, muscles preparing to replicate those same efficient movements. It was like watching a master artist at work and feeling your own hand suddenly knowing the brushstrokes.

"No weapons," John said quietly, releasing the guard with a small push that sent him sprawling. "This is just a conversation."

But the damage was done. Macarro's men had seen one of their own taken down effortlessly. The remaining guards shifted nervously, caught between their orders and their survival instincts.

"Perhaps," Yamamoto suggested calmly, "we should give Mr. Wick and Mr. Macarro privacy to discuss their business concerns."

It was a diplomatic exit offer, but Macarro wasn't having it. "No one's leaving," he insisted, desperation making him reckless. "Tarasov doesn't dictate terms in my establishment!"

The tension in the room ratcheted up another notch. John's expression hadn't changed, but Luca could sense a shift in his posture—a nearly imperceptible coiling, like a spring compressing.

Luca made a decision. He stood slowly, deliberately placing himself between the opposing groups.

"Mr. Wick," he said, voice steady despite the adrenaline surging through him. "The Bellini family has interests that overlap with both parties here. Perhaps we can find a resolution that doesn't involve redecorating Mr. Macarro's club."

John's eyes met his—dark, evaluating, frighteningly perceptive. "Luca Bellini. The Ghost. We haven't formally met."

The acknowledgment sent a chill down Luca's spine. John Wick knew his operational name. Had been tracking his activities.

"No, we haven't." Luca maintained eye contact, refusing to show the intimidation he felt. "Though your reputation precedes you."

A ghost of a smile touched John's lips. "As does yours. Impressive work in Rome."

The casual mention of his most recent operation confirmed what Luca suspected—the intelligence network surrounding John Wick was as formidable as the man himself.

"Mr. Macarro," Luca turned slightly, keeping John in his peripheral vision, "the Tarasov organization has legitimate concerns about territorial overlap. It would be... professionally advisable to address them."

"Listen to the kid," one of the Russian enforcers chimed in, his accent thick. "Wick doesn't make social calls."

Macarro's face flushed deeper, humiliation fueling his anger. "I don't need business advice from a teenager, Bellini. This is between us and the Russians."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. Luca turned slowly to face Macarro, his silver eyes hardening to steel. When he spoke, his voice was dangerously soft.

"That 'teenager' is the son of Don Vittorio Bellini, who holds a seat at the High Table." He let the words hang in the air, their weight crushing Macarro's bravado. "Choose your next words carefully."

Macarro paled, suddenly remembering exactly who he was speaking to. The hierarchy in their world was absolute - and a High Table family stood at its apex. His eyes darted nervously between John and Luca, caught between two lethal forces.

"I meant no disrespect to the Bellini family," he backpedaled, sweat beading on his forehead.

"And yet here we all are," Yamamoto observed dryly. He remained seated, seemingly unperturbed by the escalating situation.

Something was off. The Japanese businessman appeared too calm, too comfortable with John Wick's presence. Luca filed this observation away for later analysis.

"Perhaps a demonstration would help clarify the situation," John suggested, his quiet voice somehow more threatening than a shout.

Without warning, he moved—not toward anyone, but to the nearby bar. Three long strides, fluid and economical. He picked up a pencil that lay beside the bartender's order pad.

Luca's heart nearly stopped. He knew exactly what John was capable of doing with that pencil.

Instead, John simply set it on its point, balanced perfectly on the polished wood. A small display of precision and control that somehow conveyed more menace than outright aggression.

"Viggo Tarasov respects established boundaries," John said, eyes on the balanced pencil. "The shipping lane you've been using crosses into territory that has been Tarasov-operated for twelve years. This creates problems."

"Those shipping lanes aren't exclusive," Macarro argued, though with noticeably less conviction. "International waters."

"The arrangement with port authorities is exclusive," John countered. "An arrangement that costs Mr. Tarasov considerable resources to maintain."

Luca watched, fascinated despite the danger, as John's finger flicked the balanced pencil, sending it spinning upward. He caught it without looking, then set it back on its point, perfectly balanced once more.

The message wasn't subtle: John's control was absolute. His focus unwavering. His patience limited.

"Perhaps," Luca suggested carefully, "a temporary adjustment to shipping schedules could prevent unfortunate overlaps while a more permanent solution is negotiated."

John glanced at him, expression unreadable. "The Bellini family has interests in this matter?"

"The Bellini family has interests in stability," Luca replied. "Disruptions attract unwanted attention."

It was a diplomatic way of saying that open conflict between criminal organizations would bring law enforcement scrutiny that would harm everyone's operations.

Macarro seemed to finally grasp the severity of his situation. "Fine," he conceded through gritted teeth. "We can adjust our incoming shipments. Temporarily."

"Good decision," John said, still balancing the pencil. Without warning, he flicked it upward again, caught it mid-spin, and slid it back onto the bar in one smooth motion. "Mr. Tarasov will be in touch to discuss specifics."

Macarro nodded stiffly, sweat beading on his forehead.

Crisis apparently averted, John turned his full attention to Luca. The intensity of his gaze was like a physical weight. "Walk with me, Mr. Bellini."

It wasn't a request. The Russians were already moving toward the exit, their purpose accomplished. Takeshi tensed, but Yamamoto gave him a subtle signal to stand down.

Something reckless stirred in Luca's chest. Here was John Wick—the legendary Baba Yaga—right in front of him. The opportunity was too perfect.

"Actually," Luca said, feeling a rush of adrenaline, "I've heard stories about your hand-to-hand skills. Care to indulge a quick demonstration before you go?"

The Russians paused. Macarro looked like he might faint. Even Yamamoto's eyebrows rose slightly.

John studied Luca for a beat, something like amusement flickering in his dark eyes. "A demonstration?"

"Nothing serious," Luca clarified, rolling his shoulders casually. "Just... professional curiosity."

"Professional curiosity," John repeated. He looked at Luca for another moment, then gave an almost imperceptible nod. "One exchange. No weapons."

Is this kid serious? John thought, intrigued despite himself. Either foolish or confident. Maybe both. He'd heard whispers about the youngest Bellini son—the silver-haired ghost who'd taken out targets with disturbing efficiency. The boy didn't move like a teenager. He moved like someone with years of combat experience. Interesting.

Luca's heart hammered against his ribs. Was this really happening? He moved into the center of the room, where a space had cleared as people backed away. He settled into a neutral fighting stance—weight perfectly distributed, hands relaxed but ready, core engaged.

Don't overthink this, Luca told himself. Let the body do what it does. His adaptive ability was already humming with anticipation, preparing to absorb and incorporate whatever he was about to witness.

John removed his suit jacket, handing it to one of the Russians, and stepped forward. His posture revealed nothing—no telegraphing, no visible preparation. He simply stood there, perfectly still, waiting.

"Whenever you're ready," John said quietly.

Let's see what you've got, kid, John thought. He wasn't planning to hurt the boy, but he was curious. Winston had mentioned this Bellini son specifically—said there was something unique about how he fought, how he learned. Said it was worth seeing firsthand.

Luca didn't hesitate. He launched forward with a lightning-fast combination—a jab aimed at John's solar plexus, a right cross targeted at the jaw, transitioning instantly into a low roundhouse kick toward the outer knee. Each strike was precisely calculated, flowing into the next with seamless momentum. It was a probing sequence, designed to reveal defensive patterns while maintaining offensive pressure.

John's response was... educational.

He didn't block the jab—he wasn't there when it arrived. A subtle weight shift to his rear foot, a quarter-inch twitch of his torso, and Luca's fist passed through empty air where John's solar plexus had been a fraction of a second earlier. The cross met John's forearm at an angle that redirected its energy rather than absorbing it, using Luca's own momentum to guide his punch harmlessly past John's jaw. The force redirection pulled Luca slightly off-balance, just as his roundhouse kick connected with nothing but air—John's leg had shifted position with such minimal movement that it seemed to phase out of the kick's path rather than actively evading.

Minimal exertion, maximum efficiency, Luca's mind registered, his adaptive body already cataloging every microscopic detail. The weight distribution, the precise angle of John's forearm deflection, the timing of the evasions—all of it was being absorbed, integrated, becoming part of Luca's own movement library.

Before Luca could reset, John countered—not with overwhelming force, but with perfect timing. A palm strike that stopped a hair's breadth from Luca's sternum, a leg sweep that tapped the back of his knee just enough to demonstrate vulnerability without taking him down.

Message delivered: I could have ended this already.

Damn, this kid's fast, John thought, surprised by Luca's initial speed. Most people telegraphed their attacks with minute shifts in weight or gaze. This kid minimized those tells—not eliminating them entirely, but reducing them to almost imperceptible cues. Still green though. Attacking with textbook combinations. Let's see how he adapts.

Luca felt the adaptive response flowing through him—the subtle adjustments in balance, the recalibration of timing, the sharpened threat assessment. His body was literally reprogramming itself based on what it had just experienced. The weight shift that had evaded his jab, the angle of forearm deflection, the minimal leg movement—all were now integrated into his own movement possibilities.

He attacked again without pause, but this time, everything was different.

Instead of the direct jab-cross-kick combination, Luca moved laterally first—the same subtle weight shift he'd just seen John use. His jab became a feint, purposely falling short while his body prepared for the real attack—a tight hook to the ribs that came from an unexpected angle. His footwork had changed completely, no longer driving straight forward but moving obliquely, creating angles that hadn't existed in his previous attack.

What the hell? John's eyes narrowed slightly. The kid's entire fighting style had transformed in seconds. The textbook attacks were gone, replaced by something that looked eerily familiar—because it incorporated elements of John's own defensive movements, repurposed into offensive actions.

John adjusted immediately, meeting this new approach with an evolved defense. He slipped the hook with a compact shoulder roll, simultaneously launching a counter strike—a short elbow aimed at Luca's temple that stopped just before impact. Luca's response was what really caught John's attention—the boy had already begun moving his head away from the elbow strike before John had fully committed to it, anticipating the counter based on the shoulder roll.

He's learning my patterns, John realized. Not just mimicking movements, but internalizing the underlying principles. Interesting.

Luca felt a rush of exhilaration as his body seamlessly incorporated each new piece of information. It wasn't conscious learning—it was instantaneous integration. The shoulder roll John had just used was already mapped into his neural pathways, ready for deployment. The precise timing of the counter elbow was logged, analyzed, and countered before his conscious mind had fully registered it.

They exchanged six more strikes in rapid succession, a deadly ballet of attack and counter, each sequence increasing in complexity. To the observers, it looked like an impossibly fast conversation of violence—restrained but intense, neither combatant landing a solid blow, both moving with fluid precision that seemed choreographed rather than improvised.

Luca's approach evolved with each exchange, becoming less predictable, more efficient. His adaptive body was in overdrive, each microsecond making him incrementally better, more synchronized, more dangerous. His movements began incorporating not just John's techniques but the underlying philosophy—the economy of motion, the conservation of energy, the perfect timing that made John Wick legendary.

It's like fighting a mirror that improves with each reflection, John thought, genuinely impressed now. He hadn't encountered anything quite like this before—an opponent who evolved in real-time, becoming demonstrably more skilled with each exchange. Not just learning from mistakes, but actively absorbing and implementing new concepts mid-fight.

For the final sequence, John decided to test the limits of whatever ability this kid possessed. He launched a complex combination rarely seen outside specialized training circles—a Systema-based attack flow that integrated principles from three different martial arts, with timing variations designed specifically to disrupt predictive defense.

Luca's body responded before his mind fully comprehended what was happening. His muscles fired in precise counterpoint, matching the complex rhythm of John's attack. His defensive positioning shifted between hard blocks and soft redirections depending on the incoming strike's velocity and angle. When John incorporated a mid-sequence feint designed to bait a specific counter, Luca's body refused the bait—recognizing the trap through some unconscious calculation of minute muscular tells in John's shoulders and hips.

Jesus, John thought. The kid's not just learning the moves, he's learning me.

After forty-five seconds that felt like both an instant and an eternity, John stepped back, signaling the end. Luca was breathing hard, adrenaline surging through his system. John looked exactly as he had when they started—not a hair out of place, breathing calm and measured.

"Impressive," John said simply. His eyes held a new assessment, something beyond professional acknowledgment. "You learn during combat, not just after. Rare quality."

Luca nodded, too wired to trust his voice. His body hummed with new information, muscles tingling as they integrated movement patterns they'd never executed before. He'd just gone toe-to-toe with John Wick and walked away standing. Granted, John had been holding back—significantly—but still. Few could claim as much.

I just sparred with John fucking Wick, the Mark part of his consciousness marveled. And my body just downloaded his fighting style like it was a software update.

"Walk with me," John repeated, retrieving his jacket. This time, there was a hint of respect in the invitation.

"Of course," Luca replied, composure returning as his heart rate slowed.

Around them, the room remained frozen in stunned silence. Macarro's security team looked like they'd seen a ghost. The Russians were muttering among themselves. Yamamoto wore an expression of calculated interest, watching Luca with new intensity.

Takeshi, however, was staring at Luca with something approaching reverence.

These people have no idea what just happened, Luca thought as he followed John toward the exit. They saw a spectacle. Only John and I know what really occurred—that my body just absorbed fighting techniques it would take others decades to master.

John's thoughts ran along similar lines. The rumors about this kid weren't exaggerated. Winston was right—there's something unique about how he learns. Could be extremely valuable... or extremely dangerous, depending on who's directing him.

As they moved toward the door, John leaned closer, speaking for Luca's ears only. "You learn quickly. Most people would still be processing what they saw."

Luca kept his face neutral, though his pulse quickened. John had noticed something.

"I pay attention," Luca replied carefully.

"More than that." John's voice remained conversational, but his eyes were piercing. "Your stance shifted after I took down the guard. Same weight distribution, same angle. Mirroring."

They reached the hallway outside the private gaming room, the Russians creating a perimeter of privacy around them.

"Winston speaks highly of your... observational skills," John continued. "Says you pick up techniques faster than anyone he's seen."

So that was it. Winston had been tracking Luca's progress, noting how quickly he absorbed new fighting techniques. Not the supernatural ability itself, but its visible results.

"What do you want?" Luca asked directly.

"Nothing at the moment." John studied him with clinical detachment. "But it's useful to understand the capabilities of other professionals in our community. Especially those affiliated with High Table organizations."

The reference to the High Table—the supreme ruling body of their criminal world—was a reminder of the Bellini family's elevated position compared to the Tarasovs.

"Your rising reputation has drawn attention," John continued. "The Ghost. Shirogane. You've accomplished in three years what takes most a decade."

"Experience still matters," Luca acknowledged, nodding toward John. It was as close as he'd come to admitting his limitations.

"Yes, it does." Something almost like approval flickered in John's eyes. "Your intervention back there was... professionally sound. Macarro isn't worth the cleanup that would have followed."

High praise from the Baba Yaga himself.

"The Japanese connection is interesting," John added, glancing back toward the room where Yamamoto remained. "Their expansion in New York hasn't gone unnoticed. Their interest in you specifically is... noteworthy."

Before Luca could respond, one of the Russians approached John, murmuring something in rapid-fire Russian.

John nodded once, then returned his attention to Luca. "Our paths will cross again, Mr. Bellini. Next time, perhaps we can continue our... professional discussion."

The implication was clear: John was curious about testing Luca's capabilities further. The prospect was both terrifying and exhilarating.

"I'll look forward to it," Luca replied, maintaining his composure.

John extended his hand—a surprisingly normal gesture from a man whose legend loomed so large.

Luca accepted the handshake, noting the controlled strength, the calluses from weapons training, the perfect balance of pressure. Every aspect of John Wick was precision-tuned.

As their hands separated, John added one final comment. "Your brother's recovery continues, I hear. Please extend my professional regards to Alessandro."

With that, he turned and walked away, his Russian associates falling in step behind him. No dramatic exit, no threatening parting words—just a professional completing a task and moving on.

Luca's adaptive body was still humming with new information, processing what it had witnessed, integrating John's movements and techniques into its expanding repertoire. He had just interacted with the deadliest assassin in their world and walked away with new capabilities and—somehow—professional acknowledgment.

When Luca returned to the private gaming room, he found Yamamoto and Takeshi in quiet conversation. Macarro had disappeared, likely to nurse his wounded pride and reconsider his strategic position.

"An interesting resolution," Yamamoto commented as Luca approached. "Your intervention was unexpected."

"Conflict would have benefited no one," Luca replied, studying the Japanese businessman with new suspicion. "Though I'm curious why John Wick's arrival didn't seem to surprise you."

Yamamoto smiled slightly. "In our business, Mr. Bellini, information is often the most valuable currency. Who has it, who lacks it, and when it is deployed."

"You knew the Russians would send someone."

"We anticipated a response to the Macarro shipping operation," Yamamoto acknowledged. "That they sent their most effective operative was... illuminating regarding the importance they place on this territory."

"And you didn't think to mention this when discussing potential business arrangements?" Luca kept his tone neutral, but the implication was clear: Yamamoto had deliberately placed him in a volatile situation without full disclosure.

"Would it have changed your approach to see how the legendary Baba Yaga operates in person?" Yamamoto countered. "To measure yourself against such a standard?"

The manipulation was now obvious. Yamamoto had orchestrated this encounter—or at least leveraged its inevitability—to observe how Luca would react to John Wick. A test within a test.

"You're playing a dangerous game," Luca said quietly.

"All games in our world are dangerous, Shirogane. The question is whether the players understand the stakes." Yamamoto rose smoothly. "I believe we've concluded our business here for tonight. The gift is yours, regardless of future arrangements."

Takeshi collected the wooden box containing the tanto knife, presenting it to Luca with a formal bow.

"We will speak again soon," Yamamoto said, moving toward the exit. "Your conversation with Mr. Wick appeared... productive."

After the Japanese departed, Luca remained alone in the private gaming room, processing everything that had happened. The wooden box felt heavy in his hands—a symbol of Japanese interest, a token of professional respect, and now a reminder of how complex the game had become.

His phone buzzed with a text from Marco: Status?

Luca deactivated the emergency tracker before replying: Heading out. Meeting concluded. Call father, tell him we need to talk about the Tarasovs. And the Japanese.

As he left The Empire, Luca replayed his encounter with John Wick in his mind. The precision. The control. The economy of motion. His adaptive body had absorbed so much from just those brief moments.

But more than the physical lessons, Luca found himself contemplating John's words about reputation and attention. The Ghost. Shirogane. Names that were spreading, creating expectations, drawing interest from the highest levels of their world.

Three years ago, he had been Mark Olsen, then suddenly Luca Bellini with special abilities. Now he was becoming something else entirely—a professional whose reputation preceded him, whose skills drew attention from legends like John Wick himself.

The question was, what would he do with that attention? And whose agenda would it ultimately serve?

For the first time in months, Luca felt something beyond the cold efficiency that had defined his existence since Alessandro's shooting. Something like anticipation. Something like purpose.

Something like a future he actually wanted to see.

(A/N: If you guys give me 3 reviews and bring my story to 150 power stones I will drop an extra chapter! Kudos <3)