"Joey..."
That low call, deep, heavy, and almost like a sigh, sounded like a distant echo pulling Joey back to consciousness. Rough fingers caressed his cheek slowly, as if reluctant to wake him forcibly. Joey's eyes opened slowly, his vision blurred, dazzled by the dim light filtering through the bedroom curtains.
"You're awake?" asked the familiar voice, belonging to someone who was too often present even in his darkest memories—
Domenico, the sound murmured in Joey's ear.
Joey felt his movements restricted, a slight tightness in his chest because Domenico was on top, pinning him down while intently studying the charm of an actor waking up.
Joey let out a low groan, his hands pushing against Domenico's bare chest to make the man move away. Through his unfocused gaze, Joey saw Domenico smiling at him. Not the kind of full, dominating smile the man usually displayed. A faint smile heavy with melancholy. Then, unexpectedly, a man in a ski mask wearing a black parka jacket appeared behind Domenico, cocking a semi-automatic assault rifle.
Joey's eyes widened seeing the gun barrel aimed at the back of Domenico's head.
"DOM!" he screamed, but his voice was drowned by the gunshot. The world went silent in an instant. As if something had exploded in his chest and no sound came from his mouth.
Red liquid splattered on his face as Domenico fell. The young man experienced a mental freeze; his entire body suddenly paralyzed where he lay. He couldn't scream. Only the sound of his own heartbeat echoed in his ears. The gun barrel now shifted to his temple before a follow-up shot was heard.
Joey opened his eyes. Cold sweat dampened his temples. The tightness in his chest made his breath catch slightly. He found himself lying on a warm bed in winter. Orange light filtered through the window. When Joey tried to get up, a sharp pain attacked his head. Joey immediately grimaced but still forced himself to sit up. He found an IV line attached to his right hand and a bowl of warm food waiting on the bedside table.
A dream? Joey thought. His blue eyes scanned the room. He was still in Domenico's room; the atmosphere was quiet and the sheets had been changed.
Soon after, Domenico entered dressed in a black turtleneck sweater and trousers. He approached Joey and sat on the edge of the bed. He didn't say anything, but his eyes were enough to show Domenico was deeply concerned about Joey.
"It's afternoon, isn't it?" Joey asked as Domenico picked up the pastina con brodo, a small pasta soup dish from the table. "Why didn't you wake me?"
He began to panic, trying to get up to find his phone to call someone, his movement halted by Domenico gripping his arm. "Dom, let go! I have to—"
"I already spoke with him," the man said without looking at Joey.
A look of surprise crossed Joey's pale face. "Y-you..." He was shocked. Joey felt the real world was no less terrifying than his dream.
It felt as if the blood drained from his head to his feet. His breath was heavy, and his hands trembled imagining what Charlie might be doing now.
Domenico had called Charlie. Now Joey's worries multiplied. Worry for Charlie, because the man would surely declare war if he and Domenico ever spoke. Charlie had shown Joey his threats against Domenico several times—every time the 'Ndrangheta boss kept bothering him. That was what made Joey always tread carefully. Joey never saved either man's number in his phone, choosing to memorize them instead, and never forgot to delete the call history. All this time, Charlie had tried to hide Joey's existence from Domenico—regardless of his career.
"Don't worry about that, worry about yourself." Domenico's voice sounded calm, though not completely enough to ease the shock Joey felt. The young man truly knew when to be obedient—eating the pastina con brodo directly from Domenico's spoon to please the man. It was impossible Domenico's anger hadn't been provoked when speaking with Charlie, even if only a few words.
Domenico fed him with a patience and care ill-suited to his reputation as a dangerous man. "Two days of getting nutrients from an IV, you must be very hungry." He looked satisfied seeing the empty pasta soup bowl.
Joey almost choked. He stared at the man in disbelief as Domenico handed him a glass of water.
"You slept like the dead for two days, running a high fever. At night you were delirious, calling my name." Waiting for Joey's next reaction, Domenico placed the bowl on the table and the half-empty glass of water.
The young man was lost in thought for a moment while massaging his temples, frustrated. "What's the date today?" he asked.
"The 20th."
"I missed another witness call," Joey muttered, audible to Domenico. Seriousness immediately filled the man's expression. "They'll order officers to bring me in." Joey closed his eyes and took a breath.
"They won't do that if they know who you belong to." Domenico grasped Joey's chin, making the young man look up at him.
"That's exactly why." Joey brushed Domenico's hand away. Anxiety and shame shone in his blue eyes. "I don't want them to know." Joey remembered the look on Jacob's face that night. The condescending stare directed at him. "What would people, your fans, think if they knew Joey Carter is a criminal's sex slave." And that sentence echoed in his head again.
Domenico laughed briefly, his hand returning to guide Joey's gaze to meet his. With a hint of force, Domenico framed the young man's handsome face and said, "Since when have you been afraid of cheap gossip about you?"
"The reality is, our relationship is exactly like that," Joey retorted, half-shouting.
The man stared at him expressionlessly. "Is that what you think?"
Joey turned his face away, immediately stopped by Domenico. "There's no proof. The media won't sniff it out," he said to calm the young man.
"Not for now, but some people already know," Joey dared not look into Domenico's eyes. "You know what Jacob said to me before he was shot? 'Joey Carter is a criminal's sex slave'." The young man paused just to take a breath. "And the investigator questioning me, he asked about my relationship with you. I think he knows..."
For a moment, Domenico recalled which investigator had questioned Joey as a witness. The name Bill Peterson came first. The man's eyes narrowed—remembering the poor impression from their few encounters. Bill Peterson was one of the few state dogs he had to be wary of. Patriotic and dedicated. No matter the sum the 'Ndrangheta boss had once offered, loyalty for Bill was non-negotiable. Threats only made Domenico more watched, to the point where his government allies would be investigated one by one until legal sanctions caught them.
A quiet atmosphere snaked between them. Joey remembered his nightmare again. He immediately scrutinized every inch of the man beside him.
Domenico stood in a white shirt that framed his tall frame, his black hair neatly combed back, accentuating his sharp jawline and deep brown eyes that never merely glanced. His face was handsome with an aristocratic sternness, yet quietly showed tenderness when looking at Joey.
Suddenly, Joey was hit by nostalgia. Memories of his early days with Domenico resurfaced. That was over ten years ago. Time had passed so quickly without him realizing. Joey had grown older, and the man hadn't changed much physically.
Joey looked down, staring at his own pale hands. He let himself sink into the silence for a few seconds. Not because he didn't know what to say—but because there was too much he wanted to say.
"I hate you," he said suddenly, softly, without emphasis. "Because you make me afraid to live freely. Because you appear even in my dreams. Because when I think I can run from you... it turns out I'm actually running towards you."
Domenico didn't answer immediately. He just watched Joey's face with an intensity that silenced the world. As if those words weren't an insult, but the most honest form of love.
"I don't ask you to love life with me, Joey," he said quietly, almost inaudibly, "I just can't imagine life without you."
Joey let out a small, hollow laugh. "That's not love, Dom. That's obsession."
The man sat back down on the edge of the bed. This time he looked down, staring at his own hands as if trying to restrain anger directed at no one in particular.
"You're not wrong. Maybe it is obsession. But that obsession is what makes me guard every breath you take, what allows me to know the location of your old wounds just from the shadow of your body under the light in this room."
Joey closed his eyes. They felt hot, but no tears fell. He had cried too much in his life. Now there was only a damp feeling—buried in his chest.
"They will still come, Dom. Police, investigators... media. The outside world. They won't stay quiet."
Domenico nodded slowly. "Let them come. But they'll have to go through me first if they want to touch you."
Joey bit his lip. That sentence... sounded too much like a love confession from a classic Italian film. Yet there was no romantic background music. Only the ticking of a clock, breaths, and the residual heat from the nightmare.
"I want to say this will end one day." Then Domenico touched his hair, stroking it slowly. "I'm a terrible liar."
Joey opened his eyes and looked at him. "You're not a liar, Dom. You're just a man who doesn't know how to love without clutching."
Domenico touched Joey's cheek, gently. "And you're a man who doesn't know how to be freed without feeling guilty."
They fell silent, looking at each other. Each other's wounds recognizing one another.
After a few seconds of that quiet, Joey finally leaned against the man's chest. His head rested on Domenico's shoulder.
"I'm scared to sleep again. The dream felt too real," Joey murmured.
"Then don't sleep for now," Domenico whispered. "I'll stay here until you're tired of reality."
Joey didn't answer. He just gave a small nod. His fingers clutched the hem of the man's black sweater. Then, in a small voice like a child confessing, he whispered, "I remember everything. When I was 10. When you took me from California. When I first slept on the study sofa, because I was too scared to sleep in the big bed you prepared."
Domenico took a deep breath. His hand stroked Joey's nape.
"I remember too, Joey. All of it."
---
Morning in Todt Hill felt slow and quiet. The air was still cold, yet sunlight filtered through the bedroom curtains, coloring everything it touched with a warm gold. Joey emerged from the bathroom drying his face with a small towel. His blond hair was slightly damp, dripping slowly onto the thin white t-shirt clinging tightly to his body. He wore loose shorts, barefoot, with lazy steps towards the sink mirror.
The clean, reflective white countertop surface held a freestanding sink equipped with sleek, gleaming faucets that gave a futuristic impression. The back wall was clad in matte gray textured stone panels, creating a soft contrast to the white in front of it. Ambient lighting hidden behind the long mirror and wall edges spread a soothing, warm glow.
In front of the mirror, Domenico stood wearing black trousers and a towel over his shoulder. His right hand held a gleaming silver straight razor, while his face was already half-covered in shaving foam. His movements were slow and calm, like a morning ritual performed for years.
Joey paused in the doorway, watching him for a moment. "Want me to help?" he asked, approaching.
Domenico turned his head, his expression flat but soft. He looked at Joey through the reflection before raising his hand and handing over the razor without a word.
Joey was briefly still. He accepted the sharp object, then casually perched himself on the edge of the sink counter, his legs dangling lightly. In front of him, Domenico bent slightly to align his face with Joey's level as the young man touched his chin to make him tilt his head back slightly.
One of the man's hands rested on the edge of the sink, beside Joey's body, as if creating an invisible fence so the young man couldn't run.
"I've never shaved anyone," Joey murmured softly. "But I'm a fast learner."
Domenico only nodded once, giving unconditional, full trust. Between them, silence wasn't distance—it was a deeper form of communication.
Joey took a bit more foam and smoothed it over another area of the man's face. His fingers were nimble and diligent, slightly stiff at first, but he quickly learned to read the contours of Domenico's face. Joey started from the jaw, pulling the razor slowly in the direction of hair growth. His movements were careful, almost like touching the skin with a wing.
"I'm jealous," Joey quipped softly. "You even look classy while shaving. I don't even have enough stubble to call a beard."
Domenico only exhaled a small breath, the corner of his lips lifting slightly. "That's your advantage."
"You say that because you've never known what it's like to make peace with a baby face at twenty." Joey snorted in amusement, yet remained focused on his hand movements.
He finished one side, then moved to the other. When shaving the chin, he leaned a little closer. His breath touched the man's skin. There was something gentle in that intimacy—not erotic, not dramatic, just calm and real.
"Dom," Joey said suddenly, his eyes still inspecting the shaving line, "Have you ever felt... life is too long to be filled with war, but too short to learn to be ordinary?"
Domenico closed his eyes. He stayed silent, letting Joey finish the last line under his jaw. Only then did he answer, with a voice so hoarse it was almost a whisper, "Every day."
Joey lowered the razor. He took a clean towel, wiping away the remaining foam with gentle motions. He studied the man's face, now clean, neat, looking slightly younger. He gave a small smile.
"Smooth. No cuts," he said lightly.
Domenico opened his eyes, looking at him in the mirror. "You have steady hands."
Joey responded with a small nod. "I'm used to holding scripts like they're my life."
Domenico slowly stood up straight. He took Joey's hand, which was still holding the towel, and kissed the back of it. The gesture was full of feeling, without theatrics.
"Grazie," he murmured.
---
The main kitchen of the Todt Hill Mansion was filled with the aroma of fresh coffee and toasted bread. Sunlight slipped through the large windows, sweeping over the long marble table and spotless, gleaming stainless steel kitchen appliances. Joey sat at the end of the table, stirring a spoon in his warm tea cup, wearing the same white t-shirt and shorts, his hair starting to dry. Domenico, still in his black sweater, sat across with a calm posture, scooping ricotta and honey onto his plate of toast.
Joey observed the man's face, noting his jawline now more clearly defined without the shadow of stubble.
"Did I shave it too clean?" he asked while nudging his own toast. "You usually just trim it."
Domenico took the last bite of his toast. He sipped his espresso slowly before answering, "Sometimes I want to look not so much older than you."
Joey smiled slightly, raising an eyebrow. "And it worked. You look ten years younger."
Domenico looked at him for a moment, not laughing. There was something deliberate in that gaze—something containing an unspoken intent.
"Good," he finally said, his voice deep and flat, "because this time I want to look like your lover when we meet someone."
Joey stopped stirring. His face reflexively lifted, his blue eyes looking questioningly.
"Who?"
"Raffaele Mancini," Domenico answered softly. "Do you still remember him?"
Joey frowned. He needed a few seconds to realize who that name belonged to. Then a sliver of a childhood memory slipped into his mind—a quiet room, a grey sofa, and the calm voice of a man with very observant eyes.
"That doctor?" he whispered, slightly surprised. "The one who back when—"
Domenico nodded. "Yes. He'll help you, if you're willing to talk to him."
Joey looked down, touching the rim of his teacup with his finger. Silent, not immediately refusing. But not answering either.
Domenico didn't press for an answer. He only added,
"Think of it as having lunch with an old friend of mine who also happens to know how to read souls."
Joey let out a soft sigh.
"You sure that's a good idea?"
"I'm sure of one thing." Domenico leaned forward slightly, his voice low and firm.
"You need more than a long sleep to make that pain go away."
Joey looked at him, weighing whether this was a form of care, or a new, subtler form of control.
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