The old warehouse was cold and damp. The smell of metal, dust, and blood hung thick in the air, lingering like the remnants of a night that refused to leave. The fluorescent light overhead flickered, occasionally going out, then lighting up again with a soft, grumbling sound—as if annoyed it had to stay alive.
In the middle of the empty room, Kevin Richardson sat on a metal chair. His back was to a blood-soaked body that hadn't fully cooled. A knife lay on the floor. His left hand was smeared red, and on his lap lay a worn poetry book, its pages brittle, full of scribbles and creases.
He opened it to the middle. Read it slowly.
"Dying, Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well." His voice was almost a whisper. Too calm for a man who had just killed.
The water in the small basin beside him began to change color as he dipped his hand in, slowly scrubbing between fingers stiff from the cold. But his eyes remained fixed on those words—the poem by Sylvia Plath, perhaps too beautiful to be read with bloodstained hands.
"It's easy once you know how," he said again. This time, it wasn't a quote. The words were his own. "The dying part, I mean."
He closed his book, then looked straight ahead—right into the camera. His gaze was empty, yet piercing. As if it wasn't Kevin Richardson looking at the viewer, but someone more real. Someone who knew wounds. Someone who knew how to hide them with words and death.
"But the hardest part," he said, "is surviving afterwards."
From behind the monitor, Charlie Douglas was silent. His fingers gripped the edge of his director's folding chair. Beside him, the soundman and cameraman also froze, as if they had forgotten how to breathe.
"Cut," Charlie finally murmured. Not because he needed to. Only because he knew if he didn't say it, they would be trapped in the trance for too long.
Joey Carter stood up slowly from the metal chair. His hands trembled slightly—whether from the cold, or because he had gone too deep into Kevin's skin.
No one spoke. No one clapped. Only silence. Long, heavy silence, like a night that refused to end.
Someone from the crew tried to approach, bringing a warm towel. But Joey only gave a slow nod, took the poetry book, and walked away without saying a word. He disappeared behind the narrow set corridor, leaving behind the blood, the empty chair, and the Sylvia Plath quote that still echoed.
"The art of dying," Charlie thought, staring at the monitor that recorded everything.
"Joey wasn't acting it. He was living it."
---
That afternoon, Manhattan was bathed in golden light that fell slantwise between old brick buildings and modern glass. The snow that had covered the sidewalks for a week was beginning to melt, leaving puddles of water and wet reflections of the soft orange sky. The air was still bitingly cold, but the timid winter sun offered an illusion of warmth.
On street corners, shops were starting to put up pink decorations and satin ribbons. Heart-shaped balloons were tied to the iron fences outside flower shops, and behind display windows, fresh rose bouquets in crystal vases stood elegantly next to small shelves of chocolates—from five-dollar versions in transparent plastic to handmade Swiss chocolates costing two hundred dollars, wrapped in red velvet and gold ribbons.
On 5th Avenue, a Cadillac Fleetwood Brougham with tinted windows slowed to a stop as the traffic light turned red.
Domenico Cassano sat in the back seat, his left hand resting on his knee, while his right hand held an unlit cigarette. His dark eyes gazed out the window, not really focused, until his sight caught on a simple scene:
A young man—probably still a teenager—emerging from a flower shop holding his girlfriend's hand. In his other hand, a small box of chocolates and a bouquet of pink tulips.
They were laughing softly. Their faces lit up by the sunlight and something warmer: hope.
Domenico saw it in a glance. His face remained expressionless, unmoved, untouched. Only his eyelashes blinked slowly. His gaze then fell to the watch on his wrist—a Rolex with a black leather strap and a second hand ticking almost soundlessly.
"Would you like to buy something, Don?" asked Fabio, the driver and bodyguard who rarely spoke unless spoken to.
Domenico raised an eyebrow. That was unusual. Fabio was usually quiet, like a hunting dog that only moved at a hand signal.
His eyes returned to the window, looking at the flower shop display filled with pink ribbons and heart-shaped chocolates. The afternoon sunlight touched the car window's surface, reflecting a golden glint onto the black silk tie he wore.
Buy something? For whom?
Flowers? Or chocolates?
It sounded like a nice idea—if he were another man. A normal man. But Domenico Cassano was not a man who bought chocolates for someone. Especially not for a stubborn kid who rejected every form of affection as if it were poison.
Joey.
The name surfaced unbidden.
Domenico smiled faintly—a smile barely visible—full of self-directed sarcasm. He knew exactly the reaction Joey would give if he actually showed up with a box of chocolates.
"What's that? A new bribery tactic for a broken kid?"
"You should've brought a knife and chains. More fitting."
"Chocolate? Are you serious, Dom?"
No. Joey wasn't the type to melt over sweet chocolates or cheap romance. To be honest, the only thing that had ever softened the young man's eyes on Valentine's Day was Domenico's own homemade four-cheese pasta. With thick melted mozzarella and parmesan, served warm on the marble table, when the whole house was quiet because Domenico had sent everyone away. Or other Italian dishes, anything, as long as Domenico cooked it.
Even then, Joey didn't smile. But he ate voraciously. And didn't run away that night.
Domenico leaned back in the car seat, his fingers touching his temple.
"Not necessary," he murmured finally, almost voicelessly.
Fabio only nodded once. Didn't ask further.
The traffic light turned green.
The car moved on, and the flower shop display vanished from view like an unimportant little illusion.
But in the quiet car, the name echoed in the silence.
Joey.
Domenico didn't frown. Didn't sigh. But something changed in the way he looked at the window—as if the kid's shadow clung to the reflection of his own face.
Love didn't come to him like flowers. It wasn't sweet like chocolate.
But Joey still came.In his thoughts. On days that should have been ordinary.
---
The sky at the edge of Manhattan slowly shifted from pale blue to copper orange. The sun slipped low, almost touching the water's surface which faintly reflected the distant silhouette of the Statue of Liberty in Battery Park. A winter wind blew in from the harbor, carrying the salty scent of the sea, metal, and the remnants of last night's rain that hadn't fully evaporated from the park benches.
Domenico Cassano sat alone on one of the rusty wooden benches, wearing a long charcoal coat. His right hand held a cigarette half-smoked. Thin smoke rose slowly into the air, dissipating before reaching his expressionless face.
From the other side of the park, quick footsteps approached—not rushed.
Joey Carter emerged from behind a row of trees,five minutes late, wearing a grey hoodie and a black cap. Part of his face was hidden in the shadow of the fabric and high collar. A vague mask of a young actor now hunted by camera lenses and the dirty rumors of tabloid media.
Joey didn't apologize for being late.
And Domenico didn't ask.
The young man stopped a meter in front of the bench. His blue eyes were barely visible from under the cap, but their cold glint reached the man sitting before him.
"Busy," Joey said curtly. "New script, promotions. An interview this afternoon plus a night shoot later."
His tone was flat,almost defensive. But it was just the surface of the tension he carried.
Domenico flicked the cigarette ash with a slow motion. He stared straight ahead, not at Joey, not at the Statue of Liberty—but at something in between.
"Wear a scarf next time. Reporters can recognize your posture from thirty meters," he muttered.
Joey gave a small shrug. "Then don't ask me to meet in an open park, Dom."
Domenico stood up.
Without a word, without a signal, he grasped Joey's wrist. The touch was cold, yet held a pressure that made the young man still for a moment. Not painful, but strong enough to convey a message—I still hold you.
Joey didn't resist. He only glanced at the hand gripping the skin above his vein. Silent. Surrendering—or pretending not to care.
"Come with me," Domenico finally uttered, his eyes just once flicking to the left where a black sedan was parked facing the park exit.
"I don't have much time," Joey replied—just in case the man was taking him home to Todt Hill again like yesterday.
"I know." Domenico still pulled the young man slowly towards the car. Not with force, but with something more dangerous—familiarity. A habit that was never truly agreed upon, yet still followed.
The evening wind swept through strands of blonde hair peeking out from under Joey's hoodie. In the distance, the dock lights began to flicker on one by one like stars arriving late.
Under the frozen evening sky, the two silhouettes walked toward the Cadillac Fleetwood Brougham. One holding. One held. And no one refused. Because that's how old wounds kept surviving—amid cigarette smoke, cold words, and a grip too familiar to be considered violence.
Valentine's Day hadn't arrived yet. But the feelings of possession, guilt, and loss had already demanded their place.
---
The Manhattan sky shifted from pale orange to deep purple. The last light crept between old buildings, sweeping over glass and sidewalks wet with melting snow. The air remained biting, and the night wind came slowly, as if holding its breath. At the corner of Amsterdam Avenue and 89th Street, a three-story building stood out in its simplicity.
The building was newly renovated but hadn't lost its classic touch. The red bricks were polished clean, large black-framed windows looked warm from within. Above the entrance, a retro-style sign hung with golden-yellow light; Trattoria Fioretta — slanted letters layered in gold, reminiscent of old taverns in Tuscany.
A Cadillac Fleetwood Brougham stopped in front of the door. Domenico Cassano stepped out first, opening the door for Joey without a word.
Joey Carter got out of the car slowly. His grey hoodie was pulled up to cover part of his face, and his black cap was hidden behind his high collar. From a distance, he looked like a fugitive actor—but up close, his expression was a mix of suspicion and confusion.
His eyes were fixed on the restaurant sign. For a long time.
Then he looked at Domenico, as if asking silently, "You brought me to an Italian restaurant?"
Domenico didn't answer with words. He simply grasped Joey's wrist, guiding him through the heavy double glass doors.
Upon entering, warmth immediately welcomed them. Not just from the room temperature, but from the atmosphere. A chandelier with yellowish light hung low, illuminating old wooden tables covered with simple white linen cloths. Part of the brick wall was left exposed, decorated with frames of Italian family photos—definitely not the Cassano family, paintings of vineyards, and handwritten old Italian recipes hanging near the open kitchen.
The aroma of oregano, stewed tomatoes, roasted garlic, and cheese melting in the oven blended in the air. Soft acoustic music played from hidden speakers—Italian classical guitar that sounded like whispers of nostalgia.
A waiter whose face was familiar to Joey—having been seen at the Todt Hill mansion—gave a polite smile with a slight bow. Still one of Domenico's men, clearly. But now wearing a neat waiter's uniform with an apron. The same world, in a different costume.
Joey still hadn't said anything until they sat at a table near the window, facing the wet street lit by city lights.
Domenico took off his long coat.
Joey pulled down his hoodie, leaving a thin t-shirt underneath.
A few seconds of silence.
Joey hadn't sat down yet. His attention scanned the interior. His eyes began to narrow slowly, as if piecing together a puzzle.
Domenico sat down first. Their table faced directly to the large window, with a view of the Amsterdam Avenue lights beginning to flicker on one by one like tiny city stars.
"What do you think of this place?" Domenico asked, breaking the silence with a light tone, as if asking about the weather. But his eyes were serious. He wanted to know.
Joey opened his mouth, about to answer, but only a choked breath came out.
The interior of this restaurant. The name above the door. The details of the old wooden tables and Tuscany-style chandelier.
This was the dream restaurant Joey had once described to Domenico when he praised the man's cooking.
"I took your advice," Domenico said calmly. "Opened an Italian restaurant. Clean. Not mixed with other businesses."
Joey was about to reply, but his eyes moved quickly to the female waiter wiping a table. Still a Cassano underling. Still part of the mafia.
"Who's the chef?" Joey asked with a suspicious tone.
Domenico leaned back. His fingers aligned the fork and knife on the linen placemat.
"Me," he admitted quietly. Too honest. "Besides..., I only cook when I come with you and only for you." It sounded more like a confession of love than a statement of fact. Domenico added, "You know, I still wear that old blue apron you used to mock."
Joey almost laughed. "The one with the sauce stain on the chest?"
Domenico nodded. "But only worn when you come."
For a moment, the world felt too soft for a man like him. A meaningful, faint smile spread across his face. A smile that didn't try to conquer, didn't seduce, didn't demand reciprocation. It was just there, hanging at the corner of his lips like a shadow that wouldn't leave.
Joey looked at him for a few seconds—and in silence, he realized something; the man before him hadn't changed. Still rough, still stubborn, still not a good man. But also, he had never really left. Never really let Joey fall without a hand ready to pull him up—even if that hand sometimes pulled too hard, painfully. A man who, since when, had made a kid the center of his gravity.
That was Domenico. A wound that never healed, but also never festered.
Their relationship never had a name. Not dating. Not lovers. Not even victim and perpetrator in the classic sense. Just two people too deep in their respective roles—and sometimes, forgetting who was really in control.
Joey couldn't hide his smile. A bitter smile that emerged on its own, without permission. A jumble of happiness and fear. Of trust and wounds still gaping.
"Don't ask me to retire early," Domenico said then. His voice was calm, but stubborn in a way that couldn't be negotiated.
Joey chuckled. Not a happy laugh. But his trademark sarcastic laugh.
Soon, the waiter arrived with a plate of steaming beef lasagna, with melted Mozzarella cheese on top like a warm blanket in winter. Its steam danced softly in the air, briefly blurring Joey's vision as he stared at the lasagna for a long time without touching it.
"I made it before picking you up," Domenico said.
Joey raised his gaze to the man's eyes. "Dom..."
For a moment, he let himself be silent.
Letting the food be the only reason to stay at this table. And letting the memory of the past not hurt tonight too much.
Outside the window, Manhattan kept moving. But inside Trattoria Fioretta, time slowed down.
And for one night in a long winter, a kid who was once lost and a man who could never truly save him, tried to share something simple; A plate of lasagna. Or perhaps a new way home. But even homes could burn.
Sometimes, coming home isn't about a place. But about who's waiting—and who you can't leave, even though you should.
[]