The air outside blew cold, piercing through Domenico's wool coat as he stepped past the large wooden door of the mansion in Todt Hill. The rumble of the car engine, just turned off, slowly faded, leaving a thick silence broken only by the sound of his leather shoes touching the marble floor.
Several guards gave respectful nods. Giuliano, his consigliere, accompanied him to the living room before bidding him a brief goodnight to return to his own home.
"I'll review the port reports again tomorrow morning," Giuliano said flatly, putting on his overcoat. "You rest, Don."
Domenico only nodded; the weariness wasn't shown on his face but felt in his shoulders, which had begun to slump a little.
As his footsteps crossed the dark corridor towards the family room, the faint light of a still-on television greeted him. He paused for a moment in the doorway, observing the figure sprawled on the dark brown leather sofa.
Joey.
The young man was asleep, his body curled in a half-prone position. One arm dangled towards the floor, almost touching the carpet. His lips were slightly parted. On the coffee table—an open bag of potato chips, a half-empty water bottle, and a TV remote lying haphazardly. The television screen displayed a boring late-night broadcast, the narrator's voice droning softly about weather patterns in the Midwest.
Domenico let out a short sigh. He placed his coat on the back of a chair, slowly rolled up his shirt sleeves, then walked closer.
Carefully, he bent down and touched Joey's shoulder.
But he didn't wake up.
His sleep seemed deep, perhaps from exhaustion or simply because he felt safe enough not to stay awake all night. His blue eyes were tightly closed, his blond hair messy, covering part of his forehead.
Domenico didn't wake him. He slid one hand under Joey's knees, the other supporting his back—then lifted the light body with a practiced and gentle motion. Joey mumbled something indistinct, his head falling against Domenico's shoulder, but his eyes didn't open.
Walking slowly along the stairs to the second floor, Domenico let out a long sigh, whether from fatigue or something deeper and unspoken. The night felt silent. Even the shadows were reluctant to move.
Upon reaching the room, Domenico pushed the door open with his shoulder, then walked towards the large bed. There, he laid Joey down, carefully placing him on the clean white sheets. He pulled the blanket up to his chest. Joey's face looked younger in sleep. Peaceful and untouched by the world.
Domenico stood by the bedside, watching him for a moment. Then, unconsciously, his hand touched that blond fringe—brushing it away from Joey's forehead with a slow movement.
He knew their relationship wasn't something that could be explained to the world. Even to himself, sometimes, it was difficult.
Just as Domenico was about to turn towards the bathroom to clean up, a soft voice from the bed stopped his steps.
"I'll be back in the evening, I won't be gone for days."
The sentence was uttered flatly from Joey's lips, half-asleep, imitating Domenico's words from that morning with an irony too gentle to be called sarcasm.
"Don't use that sentence if you don't know when you're coming back," Joey murmured. "I know it's a lie. But hearing it is still annoying."
Domenico stopped.
He turned slowly. There was no smile on his face, nor any show of remorse. But the look in his eyes spoke—a pair of dark eyes holding back the word "sorry" from being spoken.
Joey rolled over to face the man, letting the blanket slip halfway down his chest. "You say it as if I'm just one of your possessions in this house, aware you've left it empty, and then you return."
Domenico didn't answer immediately. But he walked back, slowly, approaching the bedside. The light from the bedside lamp framed his face—tired, yet still firm like marble.
"I'm home," he said briefly.
Joey stared at him. "But what percentage of you is actually home, Dom?"
No response.
Domenico looked down. He didn't know how to answer that. The world he came from didn't speak that language. Honesty was measured by loyalty, not by confession of feelings. But in front of Joey, things that once seemed simple became complicated, and complicated things became profoundly silent.
Joey let out a soft snort. "Because this mansion is empty without its occupant, or because today's business is finished?"
Domenico looked straight into his eyes. "I'm home because you are my place to come home to."
Joey froze for a moment. The sentence was too simple to be a reason, yet felt too honest to be a ploy.
"If you said that to make me feel special, you totally failed," Joey retorted quickly, but his voice lost its sharpness.
"I'm not speaking to make you feel special. I'm speaking because you're the only reason I can still call this place home," Domenico replied, softly but sharply.
Joey fell silent. His eyes narrowed slightly—not in anger, but as if trying to read the true meaning behind the words. As if searching for a trap between the man's breaths.
"And what is that supposed to make me feel? Protected? Confined?"
Domenico didn't answer. He just sat on the edge of the bed, his hand briefly touching Joey's shoulder. Warm.
"I know you don't believe it," he said softly. "But tonight, I came home because you're here, and I wanted to see you. That's all."
Joey looked towards the window. "I don't need you to see me, Dom. I need you to stay. Or at least, don't keep me confined like before."
Silence fell like a curtain.
Domenico took a deep breath, then stood up again. But before walking away, he turned and looked at Joey once more—deeply, as if imprinting the young man's silhouette in his mind.
"I'll stay as long as you are here, and as long as I can."
Joey didn't answer. But as the bathroom door closed softly, he closed his eyes again.
That night, they slept in the same bed. No promises were made, no requests were asked. Just two bodies accustomed to keeping their distance, now separated by a sheet and a silence that slowly dissolved.
Joey lay with his back to the man, not speaking much after their brief conversation. But the way he didn't move when the bed shifted slightly under Domenico's weight—that was enough of a sign. He had been quietly waiting for the man's return since the sun began to set behind the mansion's large windows. Waiting, without knowing for what, or why.
And now, in the long, slow silence of the night, Joey couldn't hide that a small part of him felt calmer. Maybe not happy, not yet. But enough to not feel abandoned.
Domenico himself said nothing. He didn't try to touch, nor did he force anything. But his gaze remained fixed on Joey's back for a time that felt immeasurable. The look in his eyes was gentle—almost like a gratitude that never got spoken.
He didn't need much tonight.
Just the person he waited for, breathing softly under the same roof. In a world full of enemies, deceit, and betrayal, this—Joey's presence by his side—was more than enough.
Outside, the winter wind swept across the empty grounds of Todt Hill. But inside that room, the silence was no longer cold. They began to sleep in the same bed without touching. Two equally damaged people, each enduring in their own way, finding small solace in each other's presence. No one felt alone. And for tonight, that was enough. The long nights were filled with honest silence, not fear.
*
The morning air enveloped the mansion with the typical chill of January. Snow still clung to the corners of the yard and roof, though the sun began to creep from behind the curtain of the gray sky.
The clock showed 6:12 AM when Joey slowly opened his eyes. Faint light from the window streamed in, revealing the silhouette of his body still wrapped in the blanket. The space beside him was empty. Warm, but empty.
Joey took a deep breath, then sat on the edge of the bed. His hair was messy, his skin pale from the cold still seeping through the stone floor. He wore a thin t-shirt and gray sweatpants. For a moment, he stared out the window—leafless trees stood still in the thin fog.
From downstairs, the faint scent of coffee and toast wafted up.
Joey walked down, unhurried. In the dining room, he found Domenico already dressed neatly in a suit and scarf, sitting in a long chair facing the yard, a newspaper in hand, a cup of coffee in front of him.
On the dining table, a new phone lay. Black and shiny, the screen still clean without fingerprints. That phone was for Joey. The number was the same. All contacts were copied. All messages—technically—were still intact.
The phone began to vibrate. Once. Twice.
Domenico glanced over, then picked it up slowly. On the screen, a notification appeared—a message from Sheira and one from an unknown number.
Reminder: Meeting tomorrow at 9 AM in Brooklyn, new crew introduction & script read-through for episode 3. Charlie will be there. Don't be late.
Domenico only stared. For a long time. He didn't open the message. Didn't swipe the screen, didn't go searching. He just sat—silent, one hand gripping the phone, the other curled around his coffee cup.
There was a line, he knew. Between protecting and controlling. But sometimes that line blurred when the one you were protecting was someone who didn't know how often enemies spoke his name when they raised their weapons.
He was still holding the phone when Joey finally came down to the kitchen, half-asleep, his hair disheveled.
Without looking at the young man, Domenico said, "You were snoring softly last night."
Joey sighed. Sat down without greeting. "At least I slept."
"You needed that," Domenico replied. "Before the world starts stripping you bare again when you go back."
Joey glanced briefly, then took a slice of toast. "I'm just a witness. Not the defendant."
"Unfortunately, for the press—you're still guilty by association." Domenico folded his newspaper. "They don't care about the truth. They just need a narrative."
Joey didn't answer. He knew the man was right.
Domenico slid the phone over without a word. Joey took it with one eyebrow raised. He read a few of the incoming messages silently, including the one from his assistant, Sheira.
"I'm going to shower," he said, then added, "and don't leave before I finish breakfast."
Domenico watched Joey's back with an unreadable expression. He took another sip of his coffee. "You'll be fine on set later."
Joey stopped on the stairs. "Sure. I'll meet people who only love me on screen."
Domenico smiled faintly. "At least they never hurt you."
"But they also never truly know me." Joey paused on the stairs. Half-turned, squinting as if realizing something. "I see a new wrinkle on your face."
Domenico raised an eyebrow, then gave a sideways smile, the kind of smile typical of a man used to hiding everything. "I'm glad. You pay such close attention to me."
Joey snorted, his flat expression returning. "Don't get too full of yourself."
He continued up the stairs, leaving Domenico still sitting at the dining table with a faint smile, another sip of coffee following down his throat.
Less than thirty minutes passed before Joey returned to the dining table. He wore a thin sweater and warm pants, the faint scent of soap still clinging to his skin.
His eyes swept the dining table. No frying pan, no warm plates filled with food spiced in typical Italian fashion. Just two slices of toast on a porcelain plate and a small bowl of fruit jam. No frittata alla Calabrese like yesterday morning—the dish Chief Domenico could secretly cook, one that could make Joey smile.
Joey sighed half in despair, then sat down and took a piece of toast. He bit into it without a word.
Domenico still sat at the head of the table, finishing his coffee. He shifted his gaze from the newspaper, then said softly, "I was a bit rushed this morning." His tone was flat, almost like an apology for not having time to be a makeshift chef for Joey.
Joey didn't look at him. He just chewed the plain toast with a blank face.
"I can make some tonight, pasta, lasagna," Domenico said.
Joey turned his head. Didn't respond to anything. Honestly, he did hope Domenico would come home earlier to spend the rest of the evening, even without words or touch. Just together.
The soft sound of the wall clock was heard in the silence between the two men of different generations.
Domenico rose from his chair, approached Joey, then said calmly, accompanied by a gentle stroke on the head. "Finish your food. You need energy today."
Joey didn't answer, but as Domenico moved to leave, the young man continued eating his toast slowly. This time, until it was gone.
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