Joey returned to the apartment with lazy steps and shoulders slightly slumped. His scarf was rolled up casually, indicating he didn't expect to meet anyone important that day.
His hands trembled slightly as he pressed the apartment door's combination code. The outside air bit, and he'd forgotten to wear gloves that morning. The door finally opened.
The hidden camera in the living room turned on.
Joey entered, closed the door with his heel. Didn't lock it. A bad habit he kept repeating. Or maybe, exhaustion made him not care.
He slung his bag onto the sofa. Not a big bag, just a tote bag containing scripts and cigarettes. He took off his wool jacket while walking to the small kitchen. The camera captured his blank expression—not sad, not happy. Empty, like a copy of himself being broadcast out.
Domenico watched from the bar's back room. Cigarette in his left hand, eyes unblinking.
Joey opened the fridge. Took a half-empty soda can and yakiniku in a styrofoam container already cold. He sniffed it briefly, shrugged, then took everything to the middle of the living room floor, not the dining table.
He sat on the floor, crossed his legs, hunched over like a five-year-old just home from school. His left hand held the soda, his right hand put cold grilled meat pieces into his mouth. Behind him, the large window showed New York's gray sky.
Joey turned on the small television on the floor. Not his favorite show, just daytime programming full of background noise and fake laughter. But between the second bite, he smiled.
Smiled.
That smile didn't belong to anyone. Not because of the TV. Not because of the food. Maybe because for a moment, no one was controlling him.
And that was the moment that made Domenico tense in his chair.
Joey watched with a breath almost unheard. His eyes sharp, holding an unextinguished possessive glint.
Meanwhile, Joey leaned his head against the sofa. Let his neck be exposed—his pale skin contrasted with the dark sweater.
His hand brushed his nape lightly. As if remembering something, or maybe trying to forget it.
Joey then took a poetry book from the lower shelf. Sylvia Plath. He read it while smoking—cheap white filters, not Dunhills like Domenico's.
The camera captured his silhouette from the side.
Joey turned the pages slowly. Then, suddenly stopped.
Looked towards the door. Still for a moment. Frowned. As if feeling something.
Like a faint whisper on the skin of his nape. An inexplicable instinct. He looked around. For a long time. Then laughed softly—laughing at himself, or maybe trying to calm his paranoia.
Domenico saw all that. Then turned off the monitor.
*
12:30 PM - South Brooklyn
The back room of an old bar, an iron door locked double.
Domenico turned off the monitor with one calm movement. His face remained unchanged—cold, almost flat. But his eyes held residual embers. Not anger, more like a possession too absolute, too total, until the world had to be bent just to keep one young soul in his grasp.
He rotated his shoulders slowly, releasing the subtle tension from sitting too long. He put his jacket back on, slowly, like donning a war shield. His left hand reached for the last cigarette from the Dunhill red pack. An old Zippo lit with a distinctive click sound, then a small flame lit the tobacco tip with a precision that was almost boring.
He exhaled the first smoke slowly towards an old vent in the ceiling. Then he spoke, without looking at anyone, although he knew the man standing silently in the corner of the room had been following him since earlier.
"I want news from Tirana and Marseille. Now."
Santino "Il Corvo" stepped from the shadows, his face calm like an old icon in a dark church. He already knew which way the wind was changing—and Cassano wasn't the type to sit still when betrayed. Today wasn't about routine reports. This was about strategic retaliation.
"Marseille is clean. The small lab in Vitrolles was dismantled last night. Two technicians sent back to Sicily. Albania ... still manageable. Durrës port hasn't been touched by the cartel, but they're starting to eye the cross-cargo routes. There's a strange buyer from the north—Balkan connections."
Domenico turned slowly. His eyes sharp, but his voice almost a whisper.
"If they close the sea, we strengthen the land."
He stood up. His movements measured, almost graceful, but cold. He grabbed a long coat from the chair, then put it on like a war cloak.
"Activate Giuliano. Tell him to revive the Prague–Kraków route. Re-check the old nodes in Transcarpathia."
Santino noted it in his mind. He knew—this wasn't a regular order. This was the reshaping of the power map, layer by layer.
"And Morales?" he asked, briefly.
"Send them a signal." Domenico smiled slightly, but sharply. "Don't use bullets yet. But make sure they know who spilled blood first at the port."
Santino nodded. Then vanished back into the shadows, as if he had never been there.
Domenico stood alone in the quiet back room. Then, in the silence only possessed by a man who ruled a city with his quietness, he spoke to himself:
"If they think I'm old enough to be forgotten ... then they don't yet know how deep I once buried bones under Europe."
Domenico stepped outside, and the cold February air greeted him like an old enemy—sharp but familiar.
*
1.00 PM - Astoria, Queens
A cold storage warehouse, a former ice factory, gate triple-locked
The black Cadillac stopped soundlessly. Two armed men opened the gate. Domenico got out, followed by Santino. The wind stabbed sharply into the gap in his coat collar, but Domenico didn't flinch. Inside the warehouse were four large containers from Naples. One was already opened.
Its contents weren't just weapons, but also human bodies.
Three people. Cold, bound, mouths gagged with plastic. Clean stab wounds under the ribs.
"Did they leak?" asked Domenico.
One of the men answered quickly, "The left one was Marco Vescari's man. Caught trying to take photos of the shipment."
Domenico stared at the corpse for a moment. Then turned around, walked away. No verbal command, but his men knew it meant one thing, burn it all, now.
As the fire began to blaze at the end of the warehouse, spreading slowly like sins destroyed without prayer, Domenico got back into the car. Santino was already sitting in front, not speaking. The sound of the car door closing softly was the only living sound amidst the smell of gasoline and burning plastic.
Domenico didn't immediately give instructions. He sat for a moment. Stared at his fingers which trembled slightly—not because of the weather, but because his mind wasn't finished working. His eyes stared blankly ahead, but his head was still weighing, arranging, measuring.
He reached into his coat's inner pocket and took out something small—a torn piece of a photo of a blond young man.
*
The wall clock in Joey's apartment showed 1.45 PM. The leftover yakiniku from the Japanese restaurant the night before was now completely cold, but he was still chewing it slowly. The television was on, but not really listened to. Laughter tracks, medicine ads, fragments of midday news passing by unnoticed.
There was a feeling of something lingering in the air. Something sticking to his skin like a shadow going the wrong way.
Since he entered the apartment earlier, his breath had never truly relaxed. Not because of the cold weather. Not because of the busy filming schedule awaiting him on Monday, but because of something unseen, yet felt.
Like a stranger's breath clinging to the back of his neck.
Like ... someone was watching him from behind the walls.
And it wasn't paranoia.
Joey had felt this before.
He put the last piece of yakiniku into the styrofoam container, then stood up. His movements slow, not from tiredness—but caution. As if every corner of the room held eyes. He walked to the window and closed the white linen curtains completely, even though the thin sunlight was the only natural light sneaking in.
Why do I feel like I'm being audited, when I'm just breathing?
Joey turned off the television.
The room suddenly quiet.
Too quiet.
He walked through his small apartment like someone searching for a disturbance. His eyes swept over the bookshelf, wooden floor, potted plant in the corner, even the small photo frame whose position he hadn't changed since last Christmas.
And that's where he saw it.
A faint scratch under the TV table. Not a real scratch—more like a trace of glue left faintly on the wood surface. He knelt slowly. His left hand lifted the old VHS cassette rack. Then stilled.
A small gap under the board. Only the size of a fingernail.
Joey stared at it for several seconds. Then laughed softly.
"He really can't stand it, can he? Even when I'm just sitting eating?"
His hand touched the side of that panel. But he didn't open it.
Not now.
Instead, he stood up. Took a cigarette, then lit it slowly. Stared at the wall as if talking to it.
"If you're watching ..., just enjoy it. But don't expect me to pretend I don't know."
2:15 PM.
Hot water flowed. Steam fogged the mirror. Joey stood under the shower for a long time, letting the water soak his body like an unspoken confession. His body was thin, but full of marks. Faint childhood scars on parts of his back, a small cut scar on his left wrist.
He looked at himself in the fogged mirror.
"You mustn't break because of it. Don't become an actor rotting away because he's afraid of being loved too hard."
Joey's hand touched his left chest. His heart beat fast.
Not because of the heat. But because he felt subtly stripped.
As if his life was no longer his own private property, but belonged to someone else watching him from a distance.
*
Sitting relaxed at the desk, Joey wore a gray knitted sweater and thin pants. His feet were bare, crossed on the chair. On the table, there was a computer and a piece of unfinished poetry, and the Sylvia Plath book opened to the same page as it had been since morning until now at 3:00 PM.
Joey wrote on a piece of paper.
"In a world where even the sun can hurt,
I grew like a wildflower under surveillance—
watered too little,pruned too often."
The sound of pen scratching on paper became new music for the silence. Occasionally, Joey's eyes glanced toward the suspicious corner of the room.
He wasn't stupid.
He knew—if he started being too free, there would be consequences.
Joey Strategizes as the wall clock showed 6:00 PM.
Second cigarette. Cup of cold tea.
Joey took out a small Polaroid camera from the drawer. He wouldn't damage that bugging device. Not yet. But he wanted to know, could he turn the game around?
He placed a photo of himself—a fake laugh—right in front of the hidden camera.
"You like this face? Good. Tomorrow I'll sit naked in front of the camera." Joey laughed softly. Not happy. Not angry, but challenging. "Let's see if you can still control what you own."
Joey sat on the floor of his room an hour later, leaning against the cold side of the bed. On his lap, a script scene titled A Genius Criminal season 2 was folded in the middle. He read slowly, sometimes chewing potato chips chewed for too long.
On the small table beside him, a metal ashtray full of ash and his phone lay not far away.
There was a message waiting to be sent that read: I know you're watching. Even when I brush my teeth, even when I pee, even when I yawn and don't cover my mouth. I know you're too scared to let me live free. But if you think surveillance can replace intimacy, you're wrong.
I'm not a doll. But I'm not your enemy either. So stop treating your affection like a trap. If you want to talk, come. Don't watch me with devices or with your henchmen.
Joey just held his phone, staring at that message for a long time whether to send it or not—he just put the phone down. Then looked back at the script scene, opening the page where the main character, a criminal genius, writes his last message to someone he loves, before being betrayed by the system he thought he could control.
Joey bit the rest of his chips. Crunchy, too salty.
Then re-read one sentence in that script, murmuring softly, "His genius isn't his crime. But how deeply he could love without ever looking human."
Joey closed the script. Then fell silent.
In reality, some truths are indeed written to be read by the wrong eyes.
Joey sat on the sofa, his blue eyes watching dusk.
New York was getting dark. Orange light seeped from the window gap. Joey hugged his knees on the sofa, wrapping himself with an oversized hoodie.
He watched an old tape. A French black-and-white film. No subtitles, no sound, only movement and light, it was just a tool to chase away the silence in the moment he felt someone else's breath. Distant, yet near.
Peeking from behind a monitor.
You want me obedient? You'll get me wilder than before.
And that night, Joey slept without closing the curtains.
Letting the camera capture his sleeping face under the moonlight.
Rain began to fall slowly outside the West Village apartment window at 11:12 PM. Not a storm. Just a drizzle shrouding the city with a soft sound like a damp thin blanket. Streetlights reflected faintly on the wet sidewalk. New York in sleep mode, but never truly dead.
Joey was on the sofa after dozing off, still wearing an old hoodie and flannel pants. A cigarette glowed at his fingertips, the television on without sound. As for cigarettes, if Charlie caught him smoking, that man would lecture Joey about the bad effects of cigarettes on health.
The poetry book was open on his lap, but his mind drifted—towards a fear that came without form. Joey turned to look at the window twice since coming home. Nothing there. But the premonition stuck to his nape, like a mark left by Domenico.
He stood up. Went to the kitchen. Put the tea cup in the sink.
And that was when the front door handle turned.
Without a knock. Without a doorbell.
Click.
The door opened slowly. Rain seeped in the cold scent from outside.
Joey froze in the kitchen, his hand still holding the cup. His gaze shot towards the door. His breath caught in his throat.
Domenico Cassano entered.
Partly wet. His hair neat though slightly damp. His long coat hung on his arm. A gray wool scarf draped over his shoulder. His eyes dark, staring straight, calm. Like someone entering his own property—not a guest.
The man closed the door softly.
Joey smiled thinly. "You still remember the apartment door code."
Domenico took off his long coat, hung it on a chairback without speaking.
"Should have moved to the floor below," Joey muttered, half annoyed because the man came without telling him. Reminding him of the armed man who had sneaked into his apartment that time.
Domenico approached slowly. His steps calm, but heavy. Like the steps of someone who knew no resistance in this room could win.
"You never truly wanted to move, even after that incident," he said.
Joey leaned his body against the kitchen cabinet. Trying to look calm because he remembered that incident. But something shifted inside his chest—a feeling that this home wasn't fully his. Then, the man before him could hurt and protect him at the same time.
"If I knew you were coming," Joey said, sounding sarcastic.
Domenico stopped a meter in front of the young man. Watching him not with a lover's gaze, more like a ruler's. An owner's.
"All afternoon I watched you laugh, eat on the floor, read poetry. You looked too free for someone who's still alive because of my protection." That wasn't the reason. Joey had gotten too close to someone on the filming set.
Joey pressed his lips together. Looked away briefly, then looked back. "So you came in just to punish me?"
Domenico leaned down a little, as if smelling the scent from Joey's damp hair.
"I'm here because of you."
Silence.
"And because I don't like you feeling alone without fear."
Joey looked into his eyes, unblinking. "Fear isn't a form of love, Domenico."
"I never promised to love you like other humans," he replied. "But I've died many times to make sure you could still laugh today."
Joey fell silent. Domenico touched him gently, a soft caress on the nape.
Joey gently pushed it away. "You're making me a little anxious."
A small smile appeared on Domenico's lips, his eyes still cold. "Good. That means you're still aware of who I am."
He stepped past Joey. Headed to the living room. Took the Sylvia Plath poetry book from the sofa and opened the last page read.
"I am, I am, I am." Domenico read it softly. "Even suicidal women are more honest in writing than you and your gestures.
Joey clenched his fists. "You keep watching me?"
Domenico turned. "Of course. This apartment isn't just your bedroom. It's my small soundbox."
Silence again. Tension thickened like fog between them.
Joey finally said softly, "What do you want tonight?" Domenico often came for something more intimate.
Domenico returned the book to the table. Looked at him.
"Want to see with my own eyes if the boy I keep like a rare collection is still intact."
He walked towards the window. Looked out for a moment. The rain was still falling. Car lights reflected on the window.
Then he said, without turning. "I never liked others getting too close to what's mine without knowing the limits. Or trying to disturb it."
Joey tensed. "What do you mean?"
"Like the armed man who infiltrated your apartment, the young man who delivered a package to the next-door neighbor this afternoon. His name is Mateo. His hand had a small tattoo—a thorn ring. Mexican cartels use that in their new network."
Joey fell silent.
Domenico turned around. "You think those cameras are just for paranoia? I see danger before you realize it's real."
His steps were slow, but locking.
"I came tonight not just because I'm too possessive of you, Joey. But because the world is catching the scent of weakness. And unfortunately ..., that weakness is you."
Joey murmured softly, "I'm not your weakness."
Domenico approached. Touched his chin.
"No. You're not my weakness."
"You are the price I pay so I can still feel human."
Then Domenico kissed him. Quick, deep. Then stepped back before Joey could respond.
And as if that was enough, Domenico took his coat again while looking at Joey for one last second before opening the door.
"You can move apartments anywhere, but don't expect me to stop coming, or stop watching you."
The door hadn't fully closed when Joey said softly, almost like a murmur, "Don't go."
Domenico stopped. Just for a moment. Without turning, without speaking. Then, slowly, his hand that had touched the doorknob released it again. His steps turned back.
Joey still stood near the kitchen, in a shabby hoodie and puffy eyes that didn't want to look like a confession. But his body swayed slightly. And from all that body language, only one sentence read clearly, don't leave me tonight.
Domenico walked back. This time without threats, without orders. He put his coat on the sofa, then began taking off the leather gloves from his hands. His movements calm, but slow, like someone who knew this home had already given him permission to enter not as a ruler.
"Where do I sleep?" he asked, as if he'd never stayed over before.
Joey took a breath. "Don't pretend to be polite."
Domenico smiled slightly looking at him. Then walked slowly to the bedroom.
Joey followed, his steps almost inaudible.
The room was small. The sheets messy, blanket half rolled. The desk lamp gave a soft, warm light amidst the winter night's cold.
Domenico sat on the edge of the bed. He took off his watch, placed it carefully on top of the poetry book Joey hadn't had time to return to the shelf.
Joey stood in the doorway, watching the man's back. The only man who could make him feel like both home and prison at the same time.
"I don't like it when you watch me," he whispered.
Domenico turned. His face still calm. But his eyes looked a bit more tired than usual.
"I don't like it when you make me choose between losing, or destroying."
Silence.
Then Joey walked slowly. Sat beside him. Their bodies almost touching.
"Maybe ..., we both need to stop thinking love always means power."
Domenico smiled thinly. A smile he only showed in front of Joey.
"If not power, then what's left?"
Joey looked at him. "Trust."
Domenico didn't answer. But he stood up, slowly removed the rest of his clothes, leaving an undershirt and black underwear. Then got under the blanket, without inviting. Just waiting.
Joey turned off the desk lamp, then got in too. They lay back to back for several long minutes. No sound, except soft breathing and distant city sounds—faint sirens, wind gusts, streetlight clinks.
Then, slowly, Domenico's hand reached Joey's back. Not forcing. Just touching. Reminding that he was still there. Still claiming. But this time, in a slightly more human way.
Joey didn't push it away.
"You're cold," he whispered.
Domenico pulled Joey's body into his embrace, tucking his chin onto that narrow shoulder.
"You're hot."
And in that embrace, two souls hurting each other—for just a moment—stopped being a war.
Domenico was awake when the time showed two in the morning. Joey had fallen asleep in his embrace. His breath deep and calm, lips slightly parted, his body warm like a small fire kept in an iron room.
.
Domenico touched that blond hair, stroked it for a while. His gaze was dark, yet honest.
"If the world touches you the wrong way again, I will burn this city, and everything in it."
Then he closed his eyes. Fell asleep not as a Don, but as a man who had fallen too deeply into something he couldn't fully control—and that scared him more than bullets.
[]
Coded meetings. Never spoke directly about drugs or weapons.
Crate from Naples = weapons shipment
Old wine = heroin
Guest from the south = new executioner