"Where did you go before meeting Jacob at the scene?" An investigator asked the same question as when he was first interrogated.
"West Inn," answered Joey, meeting the gaze of the middle-aged man across from him who was recording every answer. "At 218 E 9th St." He didn't forget to mention the address.
"When was that?"
"Past ten o'clock, I don't know the exact minute. With Charlie Douglas. Once we finished, we parted ways. He went home and I went to Prima Neve Miracles." Joey could guess the next question. This was the fourth call as a witness, and the tone was always the same—cold and suspicious.
Bill Peterson continued taking notes, a voice recorder on his left side.
"To spend the night before New Year's, I wanted to find some entertainment." Joey maintained his relaxed demeanor, occasionally shrugging his shoulders.
"Continue," urged Bill as Joey took a pause.
"Until I finally met Jacob."
"What did you two talk about?"
"I don't remember exactly, we just exchanged greetings, until that car came at full speed and shot Jacob."
Bill Peterson squinted, staring at Joey, who showed no signs of deceit in his gestures. However, the investigator was certain that what Joey was saying was not the actual truth.
After several more questions, the interrogation of Joey concluded three hours later.
Bill Peterson closed his notebook and turned off the recorder. Before that, his gaze remained fixed on the young man. Folding his arms across his chest and leaning back in his chair, Bill asked a question that made Joey freeze.
"What is your relationship with Domenico Cassano?" His tone was firm, matching his expression.
"Just an acquaintance," said Joey, too quickly. Too prepared. His breath hung in the air like a cracked defense. To convince, he looked directly into the investigator's eyes.
A rough snort came from Bill, the middle-aged man's lips curling into a lopsided smile.
Joey let out a long sigh. "I'm sure you know how the entertainment industry works behind the scenes. Besides bribing, sleeping with senior actors, producers, or those in important positions can greatly influence building a career."
Contrary to what he was saying, Joey built his career from scratch, starting as a supporting actor until he landed a leading role without an audition—all through his hard work and support from Charlie, who was most instrumental for Joey.
Bill Peterson was quite interested. The man was certain Joey wouldn't dare leave before he truly ended this interrogation session. Years of being an investigator drove his instinct to dig deeper with more questions.
"As I know, Cassano isn't interested in the entertainment industry where celebrities mingle." Bill thought Joey would need time to think of an answer, but no—the young man immediately explained clearly, concisely, and briefly.
"True." Joey leaned back in his chair, his gaze never leaving the pair of hazel eyes scrutinizing him. "Coincidentally, one of his close acquaintances is a producer whose film I'm starring in now. So, I asked him to introduce me to that producer. In return, you know yourself."
"I thought someone like him wouldn't just agree to meet, let alone fulfill a request from just anyone who shows up."
Joey gave a faint smile. "My mother knows him, and vice versa." Consider it a slip of the tongue.
What Joey just said was enough to surprise Bill. Just as another question was about to be asked, Joey cut him off first.
"My interrogation is over, right, Mr. Peterson? You no longer have the right to hold me here and ask questions that have nothing to do with this case." Joey stood up first, his expression flat, his gaze cold as he looked at the investigator. The wooden table separating them hid Joey's clenched fists—as he held back his emotions. He hated someone trying to dig into his life, his relationship with Dom, and especially his past—even a little.
Bill nodded. "Report immediately if you receive threats from someone or another party, any evidence you remember, or anything else related to this case."
Joey nodded silently. Not that he doubted the police—their work didn't have much influence over the mafia, including if he reported the intruder who entered his apartment. Joey shoved his hands into the pockets of his gray topcoat, warding off the cold.
The air inside the police station felt colder than the temperature outside. The scent of metal, stale coffee, and cigarette smoke clung to every wall and officer's jacket. Joey stepped out of the interrogation room. An older detective in a worn uniform half-heartedly escorted him.
The long corridor he passed through was dim, with murky lighting and the hum of old neon lights making each step feel heavy. The peeling linoleum floor reflected the echoes of his footsteps. Every sound seemed too loud in that hallway—the squeak of shoes, the rustle of papers, and the faint ring of a telephone from the reception desk.
As his steps neared the lobby, Joey glanced back. No investigator was following him. Safe.
The police station lobby was like a lit fuse waiting to explode. Reporters had gathered outside the glass, carrying microphones and large cameras with flashing lights. They were waiting for the celebrity involved in the case. One of them even pressed his face against the glass while shouting Joey's name.
"Joey! Joey Carter! Is it true you're involved?"
Joey clenched his jaw. His steps quickened, slipping to the left side of the lobby as previously directed. No time to answer reporters' questions. His gaze sharp, Joey even ignored the officer calling his name from the information desk.
Outside the left side of the building, a row of patrol cars with sirens, a prisoner transport van, and a black Cadillac Fleetwood Brougham were parked.
Beside the car stood a burly man wearing a long leather jacket. His sturdy frame made no attempt to blend in. His face was cold but professional. Domenico's bodyguard. A man Joey had once seen standing at the entrance of an underground gambling den—and now standing outside a police station as if he had legal immunity.
"The Don is waiting." His voice was low, deep, and expressionless.
Joey didn't answer. He only took a slow breath and began walking. Something inside him felt heavy—whether from fear, hatred, or a longing he denied. As he approached, the man opened the rear door of the Cadillac.
A handsome man in his early forties greeted him with a charming smile, sitting relaxed as he had been waiting. Joey and the man briefly exchanged glances as he sat beside him.
The car interior smelled of expensive leather and Cuban cigars.
Domenico Cassano examined every detail of the young man's face, which now wore a sullen expression.
"Let go." Joey repeatedly brushed off Domenico's hand, which held his head as the man stared intently with forced scrutiny, continuing for a moment to grope his body. Domenico stopped after finding not a single scratch on Joey.
"Where's my welcome hug?" asked Domenico, his fingertips feeling the softness of the young man's right cheek.
Joey immediately turned his face away from Domenico's seductive gaze. "You shouldn't be here." He knew the return of the 'Ndrangheta mafia boss from Calabria wasn't to hear that.
"You said you'd be in Calabria for a month," added Joey, staring ahead as the Cadillac's engine purred softly. The bodyguard got into the front seat and turned on the heater. The luxurious car began to drive out of the police station parking lot.
Domenico didn't respond. No explanation was needed—he was sure Joey knew the reason for his early return. No words came from the man's mouth. Instead, Domenico pulled Joey close, letting the young man lean against his shoulder. There was no refusal. Joey, resigned, settled into the embrace for the entire journey.
The Cadillac Fleetwood Brougham's smooth engine was almost silent, rumbling low like a contented big cat. Its sound was drowned out by the near-perfect cabin insulation, separating them from the chaos outside the police station. The world seemed to shrink to just this luxurious space wrapped in Connolly leather and walnut wood.
Domenico did not release his embrace. His left arm remained firmly around Joey's shoulders, pulling him tightly against his warm side. For a moment, Joey allowed himself to sink into that warmth—a weakness he would only permit here, in this enclosed space, far from anyone's gaze.
"You're trembling," murmured Domenico, his low voice resonating near Joey's ear. His free hand—the one that had just examined every inch of Joey's face with possessiveness—now rubbed Joey's arm in a soothing motion.
"I'm cold," Joey retorted, his voice muffled against Domenico's shoulder.
Domenico sighed. "Always, piccolo. You're always cold."
The car glided smoothly along Manhattan streets damp with melting snow. Streetlights pierced through the tinted windows, sweeping across their faces in alternating waves of light and shadow.
"Bill Peterson asked about you," Joey finally spoke, breaking the silence. He felt the muscles in Domenico's arm tighten momentarily, almost imperceptibly.
"And what did you say?" asked Domenico, his tone still even.
"I told him my mother knows you." Joey turned his face to see Domenico's reaction. "I said you helped me meet a producer."
A faint smile appeared on Domenico's lips. "Clever." His finger traced Joey's jawline. "Peterson... he's a tenacious investigator."
There was something in the way Domenico said the name that piqued Joey's curiosity. As if there was a history he didn't know—a cat-and-mouse game that had been going on for a long time, where Bill Peterson was one of the few people in the police force who couldn't easily be "handled."
"Why did you come back?" Joey hissed, changing the subject.
"You think I'd let you face this alone?" Domenico replied, his voice low. "After what happened to Doyle?"
"You should have stayed in Calabria."
"And let officers like Peterson dig into your life?" Domenico let out a sigh that was almost like a growl. "They'll use you to get to me, Joey. That's how they work."
Joey stared out the window, watching the city's shadows pass by. "He has no proof."
"Not yet," said Domenico. His hand grabbed Joey's chin, gently turning his face. "But they'll keep looking. And you are the easiest path to me."
In the next streetlight's glare, Joey saw something in Domenico's eyes that was rarely visible—a deep wariness, almost like respect for a worthy opponent. Bill Peterson was clearly no ordinary cop who could be bribed or intimidated.
"Sleep," whispered Domenico, pulling Joey back into his embrace. "We'll be home soon."
And as the car continued to glide through the New York night, Joey closed his eyes—not from drowsiness, but from the exhaustion of fighting. Here, in the arms of his enemy, in the arms of the man he hated and... needed, he finally found a sliver of peace.
Domenico watched him, his usually hard face now softened by something akin to affection. His fingers lightly combed through Joey's blond hair.
"Always you," he whispered, so softly it was almost inaudible. "It always has to be you."
*
The mansion was located in the heart of the elite Todt Hill area on Staten Island—a secluded area surrounded by tall trees, with winding private roads nearly inaccessible to the public. A Mediterranean-style mansion stood on nearly two hectares of land, hidden behind wrought iron gates three meters high. Tall arched windows stood proudly on both sides of the building, while giant pillars supported a semicircular balcony overlooking a pine forest in the distance.
The interior was no less grand—bone-white walls paired with pale ash marble accents, while the six-meter-high ceilings were adorned with Renaissance-style frescoes and Venetian crystal chandeliers hung in the center of the room. Roman-style carvings adorned every corner, from the feet of Corinthian columns to an ornate winged lion stone fireplace and small marble statues filling wall niches above. Polished marble mosaic floors reflected the night light from large windows, creating a cold and majestic impression.
"Glad to see you home, Joey."
Domenico spread his arms wide,his silhouette standing authoritatively in the center of the main room, hoping the young man would rush into his embrace like in their childhood days.
"Home?" asked Joey, unmoving, standing right on the threshold between the foyer and the vast main room. His gaze swept over the house he had visited at other times.
"This is where you belong—isn't it?" Domenico continued calmly, his tone like a command wrapped in affection. "With me is where you belong. Not your cramped apartment or the house you stayed at last night."
Joey froze. His body tensed, his jaw hardened. So the car that stopped in front of Charlie's house late last night was indeed the 'Ndrangheta mafia men watching him.
"Stop surveilling my life, Dom," Joey protested, annoyed that his life was constantly monitored.
"Stop? Hahaha." Domenico laughed briefly. "I did for a week while I was in Calabria. And look what happened to you." He took a step forward while observing Joey, who now looked down at the gray marble floor beneath his feet.
"That was just a coincidence. Everyone has bad luck in their life." Joey didn't want the frustration he harbored over the case to be known by Domenico if their eyes met, so he turned his attention to the fireplace. A small fire ignited the logs inside. Joey walked over to the fireplace for warmth, ignoring the host.
The fire grew as Joey threw in dry wood, like his feelings that he wanted to suppress but only flared up more when touched by that man.
Domenico sighed deeply, facing the stubbornness of the young man who kept trying to ignore him. "This cruel world isn't suitable for a kitten who has spent almost his entire life with affection. Even a lion with its own territory must compete with other creatures," he said as he approached.
Joey snorted upon hearing the word 'affection' from Domenico. He added more dry wood to the fireplace until the fire ignited and grew.
"You know I care for you, Joey. I don't want you bothered by strangers, let alone hurt." Domenico now stood behind Joey, wrapping his arms around the young man's waist, his embrace warmer than the fire blazing in winter.
"You're the only one who hurts me, who disturbs my mother." Joey's blue eyes were fixed on the fire slowly burning the dry logs, creating sparks and smoke billowing up the chimney.
"You still hold a grudge against me for that, after all these years?" asked Domenico, whispering in Joey's ear while tightening his embrace. The young man didn't answer, so Domenico continued, "Your mother knew the consequences of waking a sleeping lion, but she did it anyway."
Joey remained silent, his hands grasping the larger hands that felt like shackles.
"Don't act so tough like that, your acting can't fool me."
"I'm not..." Joey held his breath as Domenico's lips kissed the skin of his neck, brushing against the masculine jaw covered with fine stubble, feeling ticklish yet spreading warmth to the deepest parts of his body. Closing his eyes, he remained passive as the kisses continued, swept by a warm, wet tongue that elicited shivers Joey had felt before.
"What's so hard about saying you missed me?" Domenico smiled faintly at Joey's silent reaction, seemingly enjoying his touch. The hand that had been around the young man's waist moved lower to caress something beneath. Joey reflexively bit his lower lip.
"Bullshit," Joey responded to what Domenico had just said. He turned around, now fully facing the man who embraced his waist again.
Domenico chuckled briefly, then brought his face close to the handsome—almost beautiful—face with blue eyes and soft blond hair. Joey looked up at the taller man as Domenico's fingers tenderly combed through his hair.
The masculine scent of white musk ignited Joey's desire as that low voice whispered. "Want me to help release that frustration?"
Joey chose silence, knowing Domenico wasn't finished.
"That tight feeling pressing on your chest. You need release, to calm your mind, at least for a while," Domenico added.
Sparks from the fireplace danced in Joey's eyes, creating shadowy patterns on the marble walls. Domenico no longer allowed room for refusal. His large hand held the nape of Joey's neck, bringing their faces close until their breaths mingled.
"You can't lie to me, piccolo," whispered Domenico, his low voice echoing in the vast room. "I know every reaction of your body better than you do."
Joey swallowed, his eyes fixed on Domenico's perfectly shaped lips. "I hate you—"
His sentence was cut off as Domenico hungrily covered his mouth. Not a gentle kiss, but a deep, possessive claim. Joey felt his hands reflexively gripping Domenico's arms, the fine wool of his suit jacket reminding him of a hundred nights like this.
Domenico slowly pushed him toward the marble wall beside the fireplace, his larger body perfectly pinning Joey. One hand slid down to Joey's hips, pulling him closer until Joey could feel every inch of Domenico's desire.
"Still saying you didn't miss me?" Domenico hissed between kisses, his front teeth gently biting Joey's lower lip.
Joey let out a stifled moan, his hands now clutching Domenico's coat collar. "You... always... know how to—"
"Satisfy you?" Domenico finished the sentence while his hand unbuttoned Joey's jeans. "Because you're mine. Always."
The cold marble against Joey's back contrasted with the heat radiating from Domenico's every touch. As Domenico's hand slipped inside his pants, Joey tilted his head back, eyes closed, surrendering to a sensation too familiar yet always feeling new.
[]