At the far end of the east wing's second floor, past a long, hushed corridor, was a library with tall glass windows.
One wall was nothing but shelves—rows of calfskin-bound volumes and the latest academic works stacked tight.
It was Luca's classroom.
He had never attended a proper school.
His father, Alessandro, insisted:
"Belloni blood is not raised among the crowd."
Instead, tutors were brought into the estate—handpicked.
A mathematician from England.
A man of letters from Paris.
A historian from the University of Milan.
None lasted more than a year.
Some couldn't bend to the Belloni way.
Some faltered under Luca's questions.
Some were simply judged "not useful enough" and replaced.
In the winter of his seventeenth year, an evening lesson ended early.
Ink still hung fresh in the air above the desk.
Outside, the harbor lights blinked faintly in the distance.
A knock at the door.
"Your father requests you," Matteo, the butler, said.
Luca closed his book and rose.
At the small reception room adjoining Alessandro's study,
his father waited.
On the desk lay a sealed envelope and a slip of paper
no larger than a palm.
"Deliver this before midnight," Alessandro said.
The words were quiet, but they carried weight.
Luca lifted the envelope.
Its heft, its texture—there was more inside than cash and paper.
"I won't ask what it is."
His gaze didn't waver.
A faint nod from Alessandro.
"Tonight, you go alone. No guards. Time, place, expression—everything precise."
10:40 p.m.
From the garage, Luca eased out a black Alfa Romeo sedan.
Lessons in geography, politics, psychology, the structure of Europe's cities—every map and lecture from his tutors found its place on nights like this.
The sea air bled into the car as he drove the coastal road.
The radio stayed off.
Only the hum of the engine and the sound of wet asphalt under the tires.
The address was in the old quarter, down a narrow back street.
Stone buildings crowded on both sides,
walls blotched with damp and mold.
Streetlamps broke in the puddles on the ground.
Two men in black coats waited at the mouth of the alley.
As Luca approached, one asked,
"From Belloni?"
He gave no answer—only handed over the envelope.
No hesitation. No break in his gaze.
The man checked the contents and nodded.
A door opened beside them.
A chill metal frame brushed Luca's fingers as he passed.
And he understood—guns weren't the only way to stake a life.
On the way back, he stopped by the docks.
The lighthouse beam swept slowly across the water.
When the light caught his face,
he felt the coarse grain of the folded note in his pocket.
A damp scrap of paper, oddly heavy on his fingertips.
For months afterward, he repeated the routine.
Lessons by day, and by night the harbor, the casino,
the back doors of restaurants.
He never asked about the contents—
only memorized the hour and the route.
The servants never knew what he carried.
They only saw that each time he returned past midnight,
his step was measured… and his eyes had changed.
One evening at dinner, Alessandro asked abruptly,
"Afraid?"
Luca set down his fork.
"Fear… isn't necessary yet. When it is, I'll make it myself."
The corner of Alessandro's mouth lifted, almost a smile.
It was approval—and a promise of the next test.
From that night,
Luca's shadow stretched longer than the halls of the estate.
His face still held the youth of seventeen,
but in his eyes was a quiet declaration—
that one day, the head of this table would be his.