Monday morning arrived too quickly.
The Manhattan sky was still pale blue, not fully awake, when the sound of the door being forcefully opened and small, determined footsteps echoed in the hallway of Joey Carter's apartment.
"Sheira's in," said the bright voice, parting the silence with the scent of citrus perfume and instant coffee in hand.
The young man in his twenties was still curled under a thin blanket, his face towards the window. Eyes half-open, blond hair a mess, an old hoodie bunched around his stomach.
"It's Monday already?" he mumbled hoarsely.
"Yup. It's Monday. New script. And, well—your hair looks like you slept in a tornado," Sheira replied while opening the curtains. Morning light flooded in like a small troop attacking without mercy.
Joey groaned, dragging himself to the bathroom. The sound of running water. Ten minutes, twelve minutes. Then he reappeared, wearing only a towel around his waist, face fresh but eyes still holding traces of dreams.
"Sheira...," he said with a practiced mischievous smile, approaching with bare shoulders and a slender frame that created an illusion of playfulness. "If I get a little flirty, you'll stay, right?"
Sheira didn't turn from the small desk where she had been arranging scripts since seven. She noted something on her clipboard, then answered without looking back, her voice neutral but precise.
"Depends. You want a new assistant?"
Joey paused for a moment. His smile faltered. His eyes stared at Sheira's back as if realizing something he was slow to remember.
Not because her words were hurtful. But because she was right.
Joey knew. Everyone knew. That Sheira was the fourth assistant in the last three years. Not because Joey was difficult to handle. But because every young woman who got too close to him—would be 'reassigned' with an unwritten transfer order from someone in Todt Hill.
Domenico never directly forbade Joey.
The man simply replaced them.
Joey took a breath, hiding the small wound behind a thin laugh.
"Yeah, well," Sheira turned slowly. "Don't."
The woman wasn't angry. Just realistic. Like someone who understood who was really watching whom.
"Fine." Joey sighed. "I was just kidding. I'll be sweet today, no flirting, no poetry."
Sheira smiled slightly, finally looking at him. "Good. Because the producer wants you on set on time. And your hair still looks like a bird's nest."
Joey chuckled softly. "It's intentional. Grunge is a statement." Raising his hands in surrender, he then walked to the wardrobe.
In the silence, Joey knew this wasn't just the first day of shooting this week. This was the first day where he had to play a role—not as Kevin Richardson, not as an actor—but as himself, in a world that never truly gave space to his authentic version.
Step by step, youth doesn't always come with freedom. Sometimes it comes with a stage, a script, and a shadow that always knows where you are going.
This morning Joey Carter chose silence—not because he was defeated, but because he wanted to survive.
Outside, the air still held the remnants of a winter chill that hadn't fully subsided, though the sun had begun to melt the ice on the roadside. A Volvo 240 stopped at the curb in front of the now-familiar production building—a sign that the workday had truly begun.
Joey opened the door and got out first. A denim jacket covered his grey hoodie, his blond hair still half-damp, as if rushed from the shower into the real world. His shoes landed lightly on the asphalt.
Before Sheira could call out or remind him of the morning schedule, the young man turned, his steps still half-running.
With a spontaneous gesture—and too quick to avoid—Joey approached and gave Sheira's cheek a brief kiss.
"Happy Valentine's," Joey said with a sarcastic yet warm smile, like a little kid who knows he's being naughty but still hopes for forgiveness.
Then he ran off, down the front steps of the studio, as if the world wasn't heavy and time could be chased with laughter.
Sheira stood frozen for a moment, one hand still gripping the clipboard, the other reflexively touching her cheek. She let out a long sigh.
"Damn sweet kid," she murmured softly.
Her lips curved into a faint smile, not because she was swept up in tomorrow's Valentine's mood, but because she knew—whatever that young man was going through—Joey Carter was still trying to be human, amidst all the roles and surveillance.
Sheira followed inside a few minutes later. The day was still long. That morning, Sheira decided to let him have this moment—to let Joey run without interruption. At least, until the cameras started rolling.
On the set, the morning activity had already begun. Some actors looked alert, others sat quietly with scripts in hand, waiting for cues from the assistant director. The camera was being positioned on the south side of the small street in Queens that was temporarily closed, complete with a prop police car and fake crime scene tape.
Joey stood next to an orange traffic cone, arms crossed over his chest, eyes scanning the set. His hoodie was off, leaving only a tight dark t-shirt clinging to his slender frame. His gaze was alert, but there was a streak of laziness he could never hide in the morning.
Charlie stood behind the camera, headphones around his neck, script clipboard in hand. His eyes darted around, clearly looking for one person—the lead actor for today's chase scene. Detective Eli Voss hadn't appeared.
"Where's Leonhart?" he muttered to the production assistant.
Before there was an answer, the sound of hurried footsteps came from the end of the street. Leonhart Stahl appeared slightly breathless, his trench coat half-open, his dark brown hair a bit messier than Joey's this morning, with dark circles under his eyes—like someone who had been up all night.
"Sorry, I'm late," Leonhart said quickly, flashing a charming smile that slightly redeemed his tardiness.
Charlie glanced at his watch, then gave a short nod. "You're five minutes late. But we can still catch the best light. Change quickly. We'll shoot the chase scene first."
Leonhart didn't argue. He immediately headed towards the wardrobe van. Behind him, Joey just raised an eyebrow, expression neutral. He didn't speak, just watched, as if observing the man's every move.
The crew began preparing. The camera was pushed into a steady-cam position, cables were checked again, and a stunt coordinator was discussing with the handheld camera operator.
However, Charlie approached Leonhart, who had just come out of wardrobe in a rumpled white shirt and a worn detective-style jacket.
"We're shooting the chase and then the shooting from the car. Do you want to use a stuntman?"
Leonhart squinted slightly towards the prop sedan parked at the end of the street. Then a small smile appeared.
"No need. I'll do it myself."
Charlie looked at him for a few seconds. "Are you sure? This is a 40 mph jump from the sedan, firing twice while running."
Leonhart adjusted his watch, then patted Charlie's shoulder lightly. "If Voss can only chase criminals in a studio, the audience won't believe he can take them down in the field."
Charlie let out a short laugh. "Fair point. What kind of actor did I find from Germany..."
The scene was set up. An old sedan painted like an FBI car was parked at the end of the street. The technical crew gave the signal. Joey, standing behind the monitor, silently watched it all from the shadows.
Once the camera was rolling and the scene began.
Twilight descended slowly upon the city. Under the old bridge that held the dampness of winter, the narrow street became the stage for the most dangerous action scene of the season.
The black sedan sped fast, crossing wet asphalt and sharp turns. Two armed criminals were inside, faces covered, breaths hurried, as if trying to escape the hell they had created.
But hell was on foot today.
Detective Eli Voss—played directly by Leonhard Stahl—chased them. Without a stuntman. Without cables. Without safety equipment other than the steel-hard determination behind his cold face. His long strides hit the pavement with a soldier's rhythm, pistol raised as the car approached him.
Two shots. One tire burst. The car skidded and hit a lamppost.
A loud crash tore through the air. The filming crew held their breath.
Leon didn't stop. He approached, pistol still aimed. The criminals slowly opened the door, knelt, surrendered.
Voss's gaze pierced through the smoke and the red glow of twilight.
"Drop it. Or I'll drop you," his voice was low but sharp.
The atmosphere on set broke into applause as Charlie Douglas yelled "Cut!" But one person remained silent, Joey Carter. He stood behind the screen, the spring breeze tousling part of his messy blond hair, his body unmoving.
His eyes were locked only on Leonhard. As if witnessing more than just a scene. As if he was seeing the reflection of Kevin Richardson meeting his true rival. Or someone he had once seen.
Alice, who had just finished filming her earlier scene, approached Joey. A light touch on his arm didn't divert the young man's gaze. Joey's focus was sharp, watching Leonhart.
"He's the man who will hunt you, Kev," Alice whispered.
Joey replied without looking away. "And he looks like someone who would never stop."
On the other side, Leonhard wiped a small cut on his temple, the result of a scrape from rolling on the pavement. Leon refused a bandage for the small cut visible on his temple.
"I'm fine," he said, his breath still heavy.
Charlie approached him, his voice loud and relieved. "Damn, man. You're insane. But precision insane."
Leon just shrugged. "Military training. No use being fake if the danger's real."
While the crew was still bustling, the two lead actors stood in silence.
Voss and Kevin—off camera, Leonhard and Joey—both fell silent. Like two poles quietly starting to move towards each other.
*
The New York sky that afternoon looked red, not because of the upcoming day of love tomorrow, but because of the dancing sirens in the distance. In the basement of the Cassano mansion in Todt Hill, the air was filled with the smell of tobacco and old iron. A monitor screen lit up—without any warning sound.
Domenico Cassano straightened his body, his black suit unchanged since morning. Beside him, Giuliano Ferretti just stood quietly, his fingers pressing the rosary that never left his pocket.
"What is that?" asked Domenico sharply.
Matteo—who was controlling the surveillance system today—stared at the screen wide-eyed. "A signal from an encrypted channel usually used for communication within the Cassano network. But—the sender is unknown."
The screen played a recording, dark, blurry, then a yellow light from a single bulb overhead appeared. A young man sat on an iron chair, his face bruised and battered. His eyes were blindfolded with cloth. His neck was wrapped with a bicycle chain.
Giuliano murmured, "...Gianni Lavecchia. Our informant in Veracruz."
Then a voice was heard. Soft, smooth, with an accent too elegant for a scene this brutal.
"Greetings of affection, Don Domenico. Approaching February 14th. A day when people give gifts to those they love."
Santiago Morales appeared on the screen. Wearing a white linen shirt, hair slicked back, his smile as thin as a blade.
"We too want to give a gift. Not flowers, not candy, but a message." Santiago, the head of the Mexican cartel, touched Gianni's shoulder as if greeting a pet. "He talked too much. So let him become the next symbol of silence."
Domenico gripped the arm of his chair. His left hand trembled slightly.
Santiago crouched down, looking directly into the camera.
"You said that boy is not part of the business. But look who is now paying the price for your delusion."
In one slow movement, he pulled the chain. Gianni's neck was lifted, strangled slowly. Not fast, not efficient. But like theater. The camera kept recording until the sound of the ticking clock sounded like gunshots.
Gianni stopped moving.
"Happy Valentine's Day, Don Cassano. Don't let you lose what you love, just because of stubbornness."
The screen went dark.
Silence fell like freezing snow. Giuliano looked at Domenico.
"We must respond. Now."
Domenico only said one sentence, "Send a message to Marseille. Use the Red Sea code. And keep watching Joey."
Then he stood up. Left the room. In the heavy steps of a man who knew the war had begun. He realized, love was no longer a protector—but a weakness that would be traded for blood.
Morales had discovered Domenico Cassano's weakness. Someone claimed to be "the Don's private possession".
Domenico did not love Joey Carter like a father, or an ordinary lover. He was obsessed, quietly and deeply, with something that went beyond mafia logic. Joey was a part of both past wounds and future hopes.
Joey was not just his, but the only part of Domenico's life that did not fully submit to him. Just as the mafia world was not something that could be fully controlled—and love was not an organizational structure.
*
Thick fog enveloped the Port of Marseille, Warehouse D12, at 02:39 in the morning. The lighthouse blinked slowly. Salty winds from the Mediterranean swept over unmarked containers. Warehouse D12 looked lifeless from the outside, but inside, a bloody plan was waiting for its time.
A truck stopped in front of the warehouse. From inside, Claudio Mancini stepped out. Grey suit, black gloves. A calm face, but there was something sharper than a knife behind his smile. As the Cassano family's treasurer, Claudio was the financial mastermind behind Domenico's entire dark empire. He didn't just count, he designed a multinational money laundering system with the precision of a Swiss banker and the cunning of a Sicilian mafioso.
Inside the warehouse was a long table. Three men sat. They were intermediaries for the Colombian cartel, trading partners playing both sides between the Cassano Family and Morales.
They didn't know that Domenico already knew.
Claudio smiled slightly.
"Grazie per il tempo. Don Cassano sends Valentine's greetings—but not flowers."
The back door opened. Matteo De Luca entered. He brought nothing but a black briefcase and a small radio code.
Inside the briefcase were fake financial documents, proof of their betrayal, and a small detonator.
The conversation was full of diplomacy. But heat crept in slowly. One of the intermediaries began to sweat nervously. "We want peace, we were just adjusting prices from Morales," he said anxiously.
Claudio narrowed his eyes.
"Adjusting prices means adjusting loyalty."
One second of silence. Matteo dropped a glass of water, and that was the signal.
From the warehouse roof, a group of armed men infiltrated quietly.
The execution began. Quick. Silent. Bloody.
The first bullet pierced the chest. The second hit the throat. The rest didn't have time to speak. Their bodies fell silently to the concrete floor.
Matteo just nodded. "Done."
[]