The Final Edge

The sound of Luca's boots echoed through the underground training facility beneath the De Rossi estate. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, metal, and gunpowder, the oppressive atmosphere of a place designed to forge killers. This wasn't the haphazard, chaotic training he had endured during his first year in captivity. This was different. It was calculated, brutal, and refined. It was the training of a man meant to lead an empire.

Enrico Ferrara, known as "Il Lupo," watched from a shadowed corner of the room, his arms crossed over his chest. He was one of the few people in the De Rossi family who still tested Luca mercilessly. Enrico had once been skeptical of the godmother's decision to adopt the South Korean heir, but over time, even he had begrudgingly acknowledged Luca's transformation. Still, his respect had limits. Luca wasn't there to be coddled; he was there to be shaped into the next predator.

"Again," Enrico barked, his voice cutting through the silence like a whip.

Luca, already drenched in sweat, tightened his grip on the combat knife in his hand. His opponent, a burly enforcer named Franco, circled him like a wolf hunting its prey. Franco was taller, broader, and stronger. He was also a loyal De Rossi soldier—loyal enough to be tasked with battering the godmother's heir into perfection.

Franco lunged, his own blade gleaming in the harsh fluorescent light. Luca sidestepped, his movements fluid and controlled. Three years of rigorous training had given him an instinctive understanding of combat. He no longer thought about his moves; his body simply reacted.

The clash of steel against steel rang out as Luca parried Franco's attack, countering with a swift strike toward the man's ribs. Franco blocked it, grunting as their knives locked together. The enforcer's strength pushed Luca back a step, but he didn't falter. Instead, he used Franco's momentum against him, pivoting and slashing at the man's arm. Blood splattered on the floor.

"Good," Enrico muttered from the sidelines, his sharp eyes narrowing. "But not good enough."

Franco roared, his injury only fueling his aggression. He came at Luca with a flurry of attacks, his blade a blur of deadly precision. Luca dodged and blocked, every movement calculated to conserve energy. He was outmatched in size and strength, but he had speed and precision on his side.

And then he saw his opening.

In a split second, Luca ducked under Franco's arm, driving his elbow into the man's solar plexus. Franco stumbled, his breath hitching. Luca didn't hesitate. He spun behind him, his knife pressing against Franco's throat.

"Yield," Luca commanded, his voice steady despite his labored breathing.

Franco froze, his chest heaving. After a tense moment, he dropped his knife, the clang echoing in the room. Luca stepped back, lowering his weapon. The match was over.

Enrico clapped slowly, his expression unreadable. "Not bad, Luca. Not bad at all. But if that were a real fight, you'd already be dead. You hesitated before going for his throat."

Luca didn't argue. Enrico was right. In this world, hesitation was the same as death. He wiped the sweat from his brow, his mind replaying the fight and analyzing every mistake.

"Clean yourself up," Enrico said, walking toward the exit. "Then meet me in the shooting range. We're not done yet."

An hour later, Luca stood in the shooting range, a sleek black handgun in his hand. Targets popped up in rapid succession, each one requiring a split-second decision. Civilian. Enemy. Civilian. Enemy. His training wasn't just about hitting targets; it was about making the right choice under pressure.

He fired, his bullets finding their marks with deadly accuracy. His breathing remained steady, his focus unshakable. Years of practice had honed his aim to near perfection, but the stakes had never been higher. Every missed shot, every hesitation, was another reminder that he wasn't ready to lead.

"Faster," Enrico growled from behind him. "You're too slow. By the time you decide whether to shoot, you're already dead."

Luca gritted his teeth, pushing himself harder. The targets blurred together as he moved through the drill, his mind racing to keep up. Civilian. Enemy. Civilian. Enemy. His muscles ached, his vision swam, but he didn't stop. He couldn't.

When the drill finally ended, Luca lowered his weapon, his chest heaving. Sweat dripped from his brow, stinging his eyes. He turned to face Enrico, waiting for the inevitable criticism.

To his surprise, Enrico nodded. "Better. Still not perfect, but better."

Luca didn't allow himself to feel pride. There was no room for it in this world. Perfection wasn't a goal; it was a necessity.

That night, Luca sat alone in his quarters, the faint glow of a single lamp illuminating the room. He rolled the knife in his hand, the blade catching the light. It was a simple weapon, but it had become an extension of him—a symbol of the man he had become.

The old Jaehyun would have balked at the idea of holding a weapon, let alone using it to kill. But Luca wasn't Jaehyun anymore. He had been stripped of his softness, his naivety, and his weakness. All that remained was the man Isabella had molded him into—a weapon sharpened to a deadly edge.

And yet, deep down, a part of him still burned with something raw and primal. A part of him that remembered the family who had discarded him, the life he had lost. That fire fueled him, driving him to push harder, to become stronger. One day, he would return to Korea. Not as the Jaehyun they had abandoned, but as Luca De Rossi—a force to be reckoned with.

For now, though, he focused on the task at hand. His transformation wasn't complete. There were still battles to fight, skills to master, and enemies to defeat. And Luca wouldn't stop until he was ready to claim his place as the heir to the De Rossi empire.