The light had not fully appeared when Domenico Cassano's internal alarm woke him—no clock, no sound. The world was still quiet, shrouded in dew and the cold winter air hanging outside the tall window of his master bedroom.
He sat on the edge of the bed, wearing only black sleep pants and no top. His 41-year-old body was still maintained like a well-preserved old war machine. There was no sound except the ticking of the quartz wall clock in the next room—a gift from his father in 1978—and the faint hum of the central heating system working without complaint.
Without haste, Domenico walked to the private balcony on the second floor. The sky was a dark purplish blue. The city was still asleep. But in the distance, the harbor lights were starting to come on, blinking slowly through the morning mist. In the distance, the silhouette of the World Trade Center still stood like a silent sentinel—a symbol of 70s ambition now part of the city skyline.
He lit his first cigarette—Dunhill red, the only brand he allowed to touch his lips. The smoke rose slowly, held back by the freezing February wind. His large, sturdy hand held a small Bialetti espresso cup. Black. No sugar. Bitter like something stored too long in the chest.
Behind the thick glass of the balcony door, the dark wooden table was already set with morning documents placed by his assistant at 5:30. No voice notes. All handwritten, in code—a hallmark of the 'Ndrangheta system; no digital evidence, no emails, only faxes already destroyed and loyalty paid for with black ink.
Domenico read them one by one, while inhaling cigarette smoke.
Reports from Newark port, a weapons shipment from France successfully entered without customs interference, FBI movements in Brooklyn, a weekly financial report from the money laundering showroom on 47th Street. Then there was a note of a new name from Calabria; a 15-year-old boy, nephew of a former soldato, being considered for induction into the family.
Domenico marked one name. Circled it with a Montblanc pen. Matteo L.
Then wrote beside it. "Test loyalty, not blood."
When the LED digital clock on the wall showed 06:50, he headed to the private gym on the lower floor.
The room was cold and empty, containing only an old punching bag, rows of dumbbells, and a large mirror reflecting his own image. The brick walls were unplastered, a pale yellow light hung low, casting long shadows on the cold cement floor.
Domenico started the day with 100 push-ups. Then light weight training. Focused. No music. Only heavy breathing and the sound of bones working like the wheels of a war machine.
Each movement was executed with brutal precision, as if his body were not flesh and blood, but a weapon that must remain sharpened. In the mirror, his eyes stared at his own reflection—sharp, dark, unblinking. As if measuring: was the monster still under control today?
In his mind, there were no random thoughts. Only counting in Italian, like a silent prayer.
"Uno, due, tre ..."
Sometimes, faces from the past slipped in. Faces of those who could no longer speak. Who would never speak again. But he kept pressing the dumbbell upward, as if the weight in his hands could replace the weight in his chest.
Training wasn't just about strength.
For Domenico, it was a ritual of purification—erasing doubt, dampening anger, maintaining control.
Because in the world he stood in, losing control meant losing everything.
And today, like yesterday, he had no intention of losing.
At 07:30, Domenico entered the kitchen. There was no servant that morning. He always prepared his own breakfast. Whole wheat bread, boiled eggs, a little olive oil, and a small piece of pecorino cheese from Calabria.
Today was a bit more relaxed than usual. If Joey stayed over, Domenico would become a personal chef, cooking some Italian dishes for him. Sometimes at night—after returning from 'business' matters—to coax the sulking young man who was upset at being left alone all day.
At 08:15, the house phone rang.
Not a mobile phone. This was a special line. Connected directly to an old network that only a few people knew existed.
Domenico answered.
The voice on the other end said softly, "He came home rather late, stopped by a Japanese restaurant after filming."
The 'he' referred to the blond young man, the Don's 'private property'.
"Continue surveillance," replied Domenico. Then hung up.
Domenico put on his first black suit of the day just before 08:45. A crisp white shirt, a thin dark silk tie, a finely striped suit from a Neapolitan tailor his family had used for two generations. Not flashy. Not big brands. But every stitch was paid for dearly with loyalty and fear.
His clothes weren't just clothes. It was a uniform—a symbol of a heritage and power not inherited through democracy, but through blood, secret agreements, and bullets never announced in the newspapers.
Before leaving the mansion, Domenico stood for a moment in front of an old photo on the wall of his study. A photo of himself in his 20s, standing with his father and grandfather in Calabria.
His father remained in Calabria, guarding the roots of the main family business built by his grandfather. Domenico took it outward—to America, to Canada, to Uruguay, to Zurich, to all places where money could be laundered clean and promises could be silenced with one midnight visit.
New York was the expansion headquarters, and he was the brain. In the 'Ndrangheta structure, he wasn't just a Capo Crimine. He was an intercontinental bridge, a shadow diplomat who could sit with the yakuza in Tokyo and a cartel commander in Bogotá in the same week.
At 09:00, a black Cadillac waited in the front yard.
Fabio opened the door.
Domenico got in without saying a word.
The car drove off. Heading to Manhattan. Heading to another day. And a world that never truly changed, only took new shapes.
*
Winter sunlight filtered softly through a gap in the white linen curtains not fully closed the night before. Manhattan wasn't fully awake yet. Outside, the occasional sound of cars was like murmurs from another dream—some final yellow cabs from the 80s era were still passing by, though most had already changed color.
Joey opened his eyes, slowly. The left side of his pillow was cold—sometimes that meant he slept alone, sometimes it just meant someone had left earlier.
He wore a shirt that was starting to get loose and old flannel sleep pants with a checkered pattern. His hair was slightly messy, his cheeks still bore pillow creases. The apartment air was cold, but not freezing—an old radiator in the corner of the room ticked slowly, emitting uneven heat typical of 1920s West Village buildings.
His hand rose, wiping his face. His gaze was empty towards the ceiling cracked in the upper right corner. For a long time. As if weighing whether today was worth living fully.
A quiet Saturday morning, but not empty. Just ... too quiet for a child who grew up in noise. Joey didn't immediately get active, not if he was in the middle of a dense filming schedule; his assistant Sheila would come to the apartment at six in the morning with a beeper buzzing to help him get ready. For today, Joey just sat or lay back down to gather his senses until full. Then decided to start the day.
Joey's small kitchen was in the corner of the apartment. The old wooden floor made a distinctive creaking sound as he walked barefoot. He poured water into an old aluminum kettle, brewed cheap Lipton black tea bags and added a little milk. Beside it, an old Sunbeam model toaster popped up two slices of toast with a ting! sound.
At 08:00 on Saturday morning Joey started with a light breakfast, sometimes interspersed with reading.
At the small wooden table near the window, Joey sat wearing a large, faded Pearl Jam hoodie, thick socks covering his feet. On the table, Sylvia Plath's poetry in a worn 1972 edition, a stack of pages from the A Genius Criminal season 2 script full of blue Pilot ink scribbles, and a metal ashtray from a diner that was now closed.
From a small old Panasonic radio in the kitchen, the song This Charming Man by The Smiths played softly—a mixtape cassette Chelsea made for him last year. The sound was almost drowned out by the hissing kettle and static from the radio frequency that was never truly clear.
·
Joey's room wasn't big, but clean. Not tidy, just arranged by habit. The sheets weren't changed, but the blanket was folded. Pillows stacked haphazardly.
Doing laundry and tidying the apartment usually happened at 09:00 in between filming five days a week. Joey lifted the laundry basket—sweaters, underwear, a ruined film T-shirt, and black wool pants—then sorted them. He poured powdered detergent by estimation. The washing machine hummed like the background sound of a simple life.
An old cassette played, the soundtrack to Paris, Texas.
The smell of detergent and soft music made the apartment feel familiar. Not luxurious. But enough to breathe.
Joey put on a dark brown wool jacket, black pants, and a thin hoodie sticking out from the collar. He shoved his hands into his pockets, walking slowly outside just to get some fresh air at ten in the morning. The cold air brushed his face—February wind in New York was never truly gentle.
In the park, he sat alone. Watching children play ball, an old couple sharing a thermos of coffee. Beside him, an empty bench that was never truly empty in his mind.
Not because Joey was lonely. But because he knew, some forms of loss couldn't be replaced by others.
*
An old bar in South Brooklyn. The back door at 12:00 noon. A small windowless room. Thick curtains covered the entrance, the smell of old alcohol and cigarette smoke filled the air like a fog from the 70s that never truly disappeared.
Domenico Cassano sat facing the door.
His body was calm. Upright. His face clean, closely shaved with a traditional razor—not an electric one. A black suit hung on the back of the chair, leaving a white Brooks Brothers shirt rolled up to the sleeves. A slim gold Rolex Daytona on his left wrist stood out, but not for style—it was a signal; your time is very expensive here.
On the table, an untouched old bottle of Cinzano vermouth. A pack of Dunhill red. A small espresso cup half cold.
Across from him sat two men—Giorgio, the right-hand man for Naples–Brooklyn operations. Alvino—a new arrival from southern Calabria. Not talkative, body like a machine, expression empty like a professional head-cutter.
No formalities. No greetings. Domenico spoke directly. "Has the crate from Naples been delivered?"
Giorgio nodded quickly, his face sweaty even though the room was cold. In his pocket, his Motorola beeper vibrated once, then fell silent.
"Arrived early morning. Untouched. Stored in the fish warehouse in Red Hook as usual. The customs boys have been cheered up—two boxes of Cubans, as usual."
"And the old wine?"
"Two barrels. Barolo '78 quality. Already moved to the cold storage room behind the flower shop on 8th Avenue."
Domenico was silent for a moment. Lifted his cup, stared at the surface of the black coffee now cold. Didn't drink, just weighing.
"First barrel for the Queens boys. The rest shipped to Harlem next week. The blend is too strong for local kids," he said softly.
Giorgio noted it, though there was no paper. If he forgot, it wasn't just about business.
Then Domenico's eyes shifted to the second man. Alvino. Had just arrived two weeks ago from Gioia Tauro. A dead letter carrier. Right-hand man for dirty work that mustn't leak to the media.
"Guest from the south," Domenico said curtly. A statement, not a question.
Alvino bowed slightly. A military gesture inserted into the mafia world.
"Ready anytime."
Domenico curled his fingers. A long silence fell on the room like smoke. Choking. But none of them dared move.
"You will stay in the city until the wine runs out," Domenico finally said. "If a fly gets into the glass, you know where to go first."
"To the throat that last sipped," replied Alvino. Short. Precise. Answers like that were why he was sent from the south.
Giorgio squirmed in his chair. His eyes moved to the door, then to Domenico's hand. But the Don didn't open an envelope. Didn't offer a hand. He just stared.
Three seconds. Then, "You can go."
They stood up. Almost simultaneously. No greetings, no "arrivederci." Only slow footsteps and the sound of the wooden door opening.
The room was quiet. The lamp light flickered slowly.
Domenico took a breath. Slowly. Then slipped his hand into the hanging jacket. Pulled out a small device the size of a pager. Pressed the silver button on the right side once. A small panel in the wall opened. A black-and-white monitor glowed faintly from behind the old wood drilled with secrets.
Joey's apartment.
Joey had just returned. Still wearing the dark brown wool jacket, black pants, and thin hoodie, a crumpled scarf wrapped around his neck. His hair messy, slightly damp, cheeks red from the cold wind. He threw his bag onto the sofa, then yawned. Unconsciously rubbed his neck.
Domenico leaned back in his chair.
His face didn't change, but his gaze didn't waver.
Like an old wolf watching the winter sun unable to warm anyone, yet too beautiful to ignore.
Joey opened the fridge. Took last night's leftover yakiniku. Sat on the floor, eating it while watching something on TV.
Laughed.
The laugh was soft. Not unrestrained. But it was there. And it was enough to stab Domenico's stomach with an unfamiliar feeling—not jealousy, not pride. Just hunger.
Hungry for something he couldn't fully possess, even though it had been bought with blood and time.
"If you can laugh without me, you're forgetting your place," he murmured almost soundlessly.
Then he pressed another small button.
The camera switched to the corner of the apartment's front door.
A man passed by, delivering a package. Unimportant. But too close. Too ... ordinary.
Domenico closed the monitor. Pulled a cigarette from the Dunhill box, lit it with a small Zippo lighter.
Watched its smoke slowly rise to the ceiling.
While thinking, "If those people disturb what is mine, then I will erase them without a trace."
Domenico's regret—not placing surveillance devices—before and even after the incident of a stranger armed intruding into Joey's apartment. After his 'possession' became a key witness in a murder case. Although that case had faded from media coverage due to diverted issues, the police were still investigating until the perpetrator was caught.
The watch on his wrist ticked once more. It wasn't too late to keep watching.
[]