Domenico Cassano stood in front of the gate, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat. He didn't utter a single word.
Joey froze behind the steering wheel. The ticking sound from the dashboard clock suddenly seemed louder.
Domenico approached. Not in a hurry. Not angry.
When he was close enough, he tapped the car window twice—gently, almost like knocking on the door of his own home.
Joey took a heavy breath before rolling down the window.
"Out for a drive, hm?" Domenico's voice was low and soft, devoid of any angry tone. It was unnervingly calm.
Joey didn't answer right away.
Domenico leaned against the car, tilting his head slightly to get a better look at the young man's face.
"If you wanted to go...," he said softly, "...you should have said goodbye. Or at least left a little note like, 'Dom, I'm running away, don't wait up for breakfast.'"
Joey gritted his teeth. "I just—"
"—needed some fresh air, of course." Domenico gave a small nod, finishing the sentence before Joey could voice it.
Silence for a moment. Then he casually opened the driver's side door, got in, and closed it gently.
They now sat side by side in the Jaguar's cabin. The gentle rumble of the engine was the only audible sound.
Domenico stared straight ahead. "You know, I'm not angry."
Joey turned his head slowly. "But you know."
"I knew from the moment you left my room. Your footsteps aren't as light as you think."
Joey looked away, focusing on the steering wheel. Guilt? No. More like frustration. "Are you going to make me go back?"
Domenico was quiet for a moment. Then he said quietly, almost like a whisper, "I just wanted to know, are you going back to that director's place, or are you running from me?" He clearly didn't want to say Charlie's name.
Joey looked at him. The question hit deeper than he expected. Because he himself wasn't sure of the answer.
Domenico gave a faint smile, then patted Joey's thigh gently. "You still have time to decide. But if you're going to run, make sure it's not with my car."
Joey held back a sarcastic smile. "Next time I'll bring running shoes."
Domenico let out a low chuckle. "Make sure your shoes can handle a dozen kilometers. Todt Hill to West Village isn't a distance you can conquer on a moment's anger."
Without any pressure, Domenico opened the door and got out of the car. He didn't force Joey to follow. He didn't give an ultimatum. But as the man walked away slowly, Joey knew the freedom he sought was still too expensive to buy tonight.
*
The old Chevrolet Caprice sedan had been parked for hours on the side of the road in West Village, right across from the building where Joey Carter lived. The mid-January weather brought a piercing cold, letting a thin vapor escape from the exhaust pipe, still warm from the engine running the previous night.
The metallic silver-gray body was dull. The bottom of the doors had slight rust, and the only window rolled down—on the driver's side—let cigarette smoke drift out into the cold air. The man inside was around his mid-thirties, fairly handsome with a strong jaw, a firm nose, and thin lips that never smiled except in public. His skin was pale, and his eyes were dark brown. His hair was jet black, neatly trimmed in a crew cut, not a strand out of place.
He dropped the cigarette butt from his middle finger onto the asphalt, letting it die on its own in the damp air. Then he looked up at the window of Joey's apartment unit. It had been a few days. The curtains were drawn tight. No light, no sound. Quiet, as if abandoned by its occupant. But he knew Joey was still in there.
A few meters away, a young man stood casually on the sidewalk. Pretending to read flyers, occasionally glancing at the car.
But the man in the car wasn't fooled by the undercover young reporter. It was clear from the young man's restless eyes. His right hand was clutching something in his pocket—maybe a mini voice recorder or a hidden camera.
The man sighed softly, then started the car's engine. With one smooth motion, he rolled up the window. The car drove off slowly, swallowing its own long shadow, cutting through the quiet winter fog of West Village.
*
Having failed to escape with Domenico's Jaguar, Joey followed the man four meters behind. The fire that had briefly ignited in him earlier had now died out like a cigarette butt crushed on asphalt.
Domenico had to give him a reason to stay. More than just fear of a stranger with a weapon breaking into his apartment. More than just pity, or deadly nostalgia.
The man's steps suddenly stopped at the threshold of the dark mansion door. Without turning, he spoke—flat, quiet, but heavy.
"You're sleeping with me tonight."
No question. No option. It was an order.
Joey lifted his head, his jaw tightening even as his steps continued forward. "Fuck you," he hissed, each word laced with venom.
Domenico paused for a moment at the threshold without turning. His baritone voice came out flat, like he was reporting the weather. "If that's an offer, my bed is more comfortable than the Jaguar seat you left in disarray."
Joey grumbled, but his feet kept following the man into the mansion's darkness. "At least the car seat has a heater."
"And my bed has me," Domenico retorted, finally turning, his eyes sweeping over Joey with a look ambiguous between threat and invitation. "Which one do you choose?"
Joey sighed, stepping over the threshold. "I hate your mafia logic."
"You call it logic. I call it incentives." The door closed softly behind them, locking them into a world with rules only they bitterly understood.
Perhaps, for the first time in his life, Joey wanted to believe that a monster could learn to love without tearing him apart. And that he himself deserved a love that didn't come with blood and fear.
But for now, he just cursed under his breath, following the man into the darkness.
"After your recent escape attempt, I thought you'd be ready to sleep," Domenico stated flatly, opening the door to their room that night.
Joey stood in the doorway with an expression of annoyance he didn't bother to hide—resigned, tired, but still holding a remnant of fire in his blue eyes.
"I want to call Charlie," he said softly but firmly.
That name.
Domenico took a deep breath, his shoulders rising and falling slowly. The name seemed to slice something between his ribs. He closed his eyes briefly, then opened a small drawer in the bedside table and handed over a grayish, worn Motorola cell phone.
"One minute," he said sharply. "Just to say you're fine. And do it here. In front of me."
Joey took the phone from Domenico's hand—roughly, as if holding back an emotional outburst. He quickly dialed Charlie's number.
The dial tone buzzed.
One ring. Two. Three—
"Hello?" Charlie's voice sounded heavy and anxious, as if he hadn't slept all night.
Joey bit his lower lip before answering.
"It's me.I'm... I'm okay."
"Joey, God—where are you?! I saw the news. You disappeared, weren't answering—I almost reported you to the police."
Joey glanced briefly at Domenico, who was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, his expression cold and vigilant.
"Don't do that," Joey's voice was low. Firm but quiet. "I'm somewhere safe. Don't ask more."
Silence for a moment on the other end.
"Is he with you, yes?"
Charlie wasn't stupid.He knew who 'he' was without needing a name.
Joey didn't answer directly. Then, in a voice barely audible, "Yes."
"Joey, come home." Charlie's voice was almost a whisper. Not quite an order.
Joey clenched his fist. His throat felt dry.
"I will. But not tonight."
Domenico slowly lifted his head upon hearing that sentence.
Charlie was silent for a few seconds.Then, softly, "Take care of yourself. My door is always open for you. Jessica and Jack too."
Joey gave a small nod even though he knew Charlie couldn't see. "Thank you."
A second before the time limit, he pressed the end call button, then placed the phone on the table with a decisive motion.
Without looking at Domenico, Joey said softly, "Are you satisfied now?"
Domenico answered calmly, "Not yet. And we start from there."
Joey didn't move from where he stood. His breathing was slow. His shoulders rose and fell, as if carrying an invisible weight.
Domenico remained leaning against the wall, watching him in silence. The room's lighting was dim, enough to let shadows fall on their faces.
"You can sleep on the couch if you want," Domenico finally said.
"Or on the bed.Or anywhere in this house. I won't touch you tonight. Unless you choose otherwise."
Joey turned quickly, as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Since when do you give choices?"
Domenico approached, his steps slow and careful, like approaching a wounded wild animal.
"Since I realized, I can't possess someone whose life I've stolen."
Their eyes met. For a long time.
And in that silence,something crumbled—not trust, but the wall of fear that had been frozen between them.
Joey finally took off his jacket, placing it on a chair without a word. He walked to the side of the bed, sitting on the edge. His hand gripped the corner of the sheet.
"I won't run tonight," he said flatly. "Not because I trust you. But because I'm too tired to run."
Domenico nodded, sitting on the other side of the bed. "Sometimes, exhaustion can be the only form of honesty."
Joey closed his eyes. "Do you think I'm stupid for still coming back to you?"
"No. I think... you're strong because you came back and can still look me in the eye."
*
They slept side by side that night. Without touch, only two breaths merging in the dark, two bodies too familiar with fear, yet that night was a little more peaceful in a relationship that was starting to feel slightly healthier.
As Joey's eyes slowly closed, a low voice sounded, almost like a whisper from across the pillow.
"You don't have to love me to stay. But let me learn to keep you in a way that doesn't hurt you."
Joey didn't answer.
But he didn't move away.
And for Domenico that night,that was enough.
*
Joey woke when the sky outside the bedroom window was still a bluish-gray. Birds hadn't started chirping yet. Only the faint hum of the heater and the slow ticking of the wall clock in the corner.
Joey needed a few seconds to realize where he was.
Soft mattress,smell of old wood, expensive cologne, and a faint warmth on his left side.
Domenico was still asleep next to him, the man's face half-turned toward the wall, his right hand resting on his stomach—not touching anyone, yet still vigilant.
Joey slowly turned onto his side, resting his chin on his own arm while observing the man. It felt strange, seeing that monster sleep peacefully. Unarmed. Not threatening. Not playing any role. He looked human.
There were faint circles under Domenico's eyes, like someone who rarely slept deeply. His black hair was slightly messy, and his usually rigid jawline seemed softer.
Joey watched the man's chest rise and fall slowly. Then, without thinking, he reached out a finger—touching Domenico's shoulder with just the tip of his nail, almost as if confirming the man was real.
Suddenly, Domenico shifted slightly. He didn't open his eyes, but his breathing changed. "You're staring at me like I'm a time bomb," he mumbled quietly, his voice heavy and hoarse from sleep.
Joey reflexively pulled his hand back. "You're awake?"
"I don't sleep fully when you're in this bed."
"Afraid I'll run again?"
"More afraid you're crying silently and I wouldn't know."
Joey stayed silent. His breath caught in his throat.
"I wasn't crying," he said softly. "I just briefly thought about not waking up."
Domenico opened his eyes. Looked at Joey from very close.
"But you did wake up."
"Because it's cold," Joey mumbled.
"And because somehow,I didn't want to let you sleep alone for too long."
Silence for a few seconds.
Then Domenico moved, sitting up slowly at the edge of the bed while running a hand through his hair.
"Are you hungry?" he asked.
"I can make breakfast."
Joey raised an eyebrow. "You can cook?"
Domenico didn't answer, he just looked at the young man meaningfully.
*
The morning air in Todt Hill, Staten Island was still freezing outside the large glass window of the stone-walled, classically styled kitchen. Thin fog hung among the trees, blurring the backyard. Inside the kitchen, only the sound of a spatula touching a pan, the sizzle of olive oil, and the ticking of the wall clock could be heard.
Domenico Cassano stood behind the granite kitchen counter, wearing a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves and a dark leather apron. In a copper pan, scrambled eggs mixed with Parmigiano cheese and white truffle from Alba sizzled gently, blending with a fresh tomato sauce reduced with basil, garlic, and a hint of peperoncino.
On the dining table, the aroma of frittata alla Calabrese—a Calabrian-style frittata with sliced potatoes, sweet peppers, and local sausage—began to fill the air. On the other side of the stove, warm ciabatta bread had just come out of the oven.
Joey entered silently. His body was still clad in a thin t-shirt and pants, his hair a bit disheveled, his face pale without camera makeup. He stood in the doorway for a few seconds, watching the back of the man he once feared, now standing like a five-star hotel chef—as if blood had never dripped from his hands.
The aroma of the food hit his empty stomach, making his breath catch.
Without being asked, Joey sat in the dark wooden chair facing the large dining table. His hands rested on his thighs, his posture upright like a well-behaved child waiting.
Domenico glanced over, sweeping his gaze from Joey's head to his fingertips. No smile, just a short sentence. "Eat a lot. You look thinner than before I left for Sicily."
He served the food onto white ceramic plates. Beside them, two cups of espresso were placed, smelling bitter and strong, complete with a small pot of warm milk and a bottle of lemon-infused water. Everything felt calm and orderly.
Joey took the first spoonful slowly. Hot, savory, and salty. His eyes didn't immediately show praise, but his expression changed. There was a hint of warmth at the corner of his lips, like a kitten suddenly given a home. "You'd be hired as head chef on your first day applying at a restaurant," he murmured, half-joking, half-impressed.
"Unfortunately, I'm too fond of working in messy kitchens full of bullets." Domenico sat across from him while sipping his espresso.
Joey raised an eyebrow. "I already guessed, you'd flat-out reject my suggestion to quit being a boss of a dark organization rather than open an Italian restaurant."
"I'm a chef only for you, Joey," Domenico answered without a smile, but his tone was almost gentle—too dangerous to be considered sweet, too honest to be mocked.
A few seconds of silence. Something flowed in the air, something faint between acknowledgment and threat.
"Don't worry anymore about your last call to the police station," he said flatly. "I've taken care of that. The murder news dragging your name as a witness will also disappear today."
Joey looked at him, silent. His gaze was hard to read—somewhere between relief and fear.
"A diversion of the issue," the man continued, without looking at Joey. "Your days as an actor will return to normal."
The kitchen atmosphere remained quiet.
Only the sound of forks touching plates.And the ticking of the wall clock.
[]