The night wind from the Ionian Sea carried the scent of salt and a cold gust that crept through the cracks of the old wooden windows of the Cassano villa on the outskirts of the old town of Reggio Calabria. Small lanterns in the yard swayed slowly, casting shadows onto the dining room wall.
Luca Cassano was clearing the remnants of dinner. His hands brushed breadcrumbs from the linen tablecloth, one by one, with a methodical movement like an old habit that never disappeared, even though he now led an international business network.
Antonella sat across from him, silent. Her hair was loosely tied in a bun, her face clean and makeup-free. She already knew—Luca only acted this way when his mind was silently fighting.
"Has someone else been killed?" she asked softly, her voice almost drowned out by the sound of a small fork being put away.
Luca paused for a moment. He wasn't surprised. Antonella always knew first, though she never asked too quickly.
"Alessandro Carbone. And all his crew." His voice was flat.
Antonella pursed her lips, her eyes lowered. Her hand touched the cold surface of the table. "Naples?"
"Atlantic. His ship was ambushed while carrying diamonds from Antwerp to New York. Cassano's route."
Silence hung in the air. The chandelier above them swayed slightly as a breeze whispered from the open kitchen.
"Are they coming here?" asked Antonella. Not out of fear. But because she needed to know the scale of the storm that would reach their home.
Luca looked at his wife. A deep, careful, and weary gaze. "Not yet. But if they dare to attack our oldest route, it means no more respected boundaries. Including Calabria."
Antonella stood up slowly, walked to the window, and looked out. The light from the neighboring villa was barely there. The old town was quiet, too quiet. Only the sound of the sea in the distance, and the cry of a night bird.
"The children must not know," she said finally. "Giulia is sleeping soundly. Today she drew a picture of her great-grandfather's house on the hill. She said she wants that house to be safe forever."
Luca closed his eyes for a moment, swallowing something he couldn't say.
"I know."
Antonella sat back down. Her hand touched Luca's fingers, which were still cold despite the warm room.
"I married a Cassano. I know this is part of the fate," she said quietly. "But don't make silence a way of atoning for blood."
Luca turned to her. "I won't. But I'm also not Domenico."
Antonella smiled faintly. "And that's why I chose you." Antonella said it quietly, almost like a reminder for herself, not to blame. But in her eyes, there was an unease that couldn't be hidden.
Luca didn't answer immediately. He sat on the edge of the bed, his body slightly hunched, his hands clasped between his knees. His face was turned toward the window beaded with morning dew.
In the eyes of many, Luca Cassano was the calm shadow of the sleeping lion—six years younger than Domenico, softer-spoken, but not weaker. If the older brother ruled with the blaze of fire and fear, Luca led with logic and loyalty.
His face bore traces of the classic Cassano good looks, warm brown eyes, a firm jaw, and a smile that rarely appeared except for his wife and daughter. But behind that gentleness lay an analytical intelligence that made many opponents think twice before considering him merely the Don's little brother.
He grew up in Calabria, guarding the family roots while Domenico conquered the big cities. He never thirsted for power, but never hesitated to spill blood if principles were violated. He believed in boundaries—and knew when to erase them.
His attire was always neat and neutral, linen shirts, dark grey trousers, his father's silver watch that he never replaced. His manner was courteous, his words chosen carefully. But when he spoke at the table of the Capos, none dared to interrupt. They knew, a voice that calm only came from a man who knew exactly when and how to end a conversation—or a life.
If Domenico was the feared legend, then Luca was the preserved legacy.
And in the storm of violence beginning to sweep from the west, Luca was the only Cassano who still believed: that a home should be a place you could return to—not a place to hide.
Luca sighed deeply. "The Don asked me to guard the south. If the rear line collapses, his whole body will be paralyzed. I must stay alert. Perhaps in the next few days..."
"You will leave?"
"Not yet. But there will be a meeting with the local Capobastones. Some are already starting to get scared. Some are starting to talk too much. Or hiding profits."
Antonella nodded slowly.
Then her voice flowed, as if reading from a diary never written.
"Power,Luca, always wants to be remembered. But blood only knows how to leave a stain."
Luca was silent. Then he replied, softly, "That's why I want you and Giulia far from the path of the storm."
Antonella looked at him. Straight. Intensely.
"A storm isn't just about place, Luca. But also about the human heart."
For the first time that night, their hands clasped each other fully.
And outside, the wind carried the sound of bells from the old monastery on the hill. They chimed six times, then silence returned.
Calabria was silent—but not asleep.
He looked at his wife, now sitting on the edge of the bed, her hair half disheveled from restless sleep. That face was the reason he was still here. Why he kept walking the thin line between heritage and family.
"I know this isn't the life you chose," Luca said finally, his voice hoarse and low. "But it's the life I inherited. And I promise—as long as I can—I will keep you safe within it."
*
Snow was still falling lightly outside Domenico's study window. The fire in the hearth slowly licked at the mahogany wood, casting moving shadows on the old marble walls. The room was quiet—only the sound of an antique French clock ticking, marking each passing second.
Domenico stood with his back to his desk. His black shirt was now taken off, neatly hung on the chair. He wore only a dark grey undershirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The old bullet scar on his left jaw was faintly visible in the firelight—like a stamp from the past that never truly healed.
In his hand, a glass of wine, freshly poured, remained untouched.
Fabio stood at the door, still silent. Loyal like a hunting dog waiting for a command. His eyes never looked directly at the Don, but were always alert to the surroundings.
"Has Santino reached Palermo yet?" asked Domenico, still looking at the fire.
"Just landed an hour ago. Gallo will meet him tonight," answered Fabio.
Domenico gave a small nod. "Tell him, don't use the old ways. Morales wants us provoked. We'll give them the impression that we're ignoring the wound... until they think we're weak."
Fabio nodded once. Then remained silent.
After a long pause, Domenico turned around. The firelight reflected in his dark brown eyes—eyes that held so many wars, yet never grew tired.
"I once drowned a man for one word," he said softly. "and tonight ..., all I need is silence."
Domenico sat down slowly in the large chair behind the desk. Before him, a map of international shipping routes lay open wide. There was a faint wine stain on the corner of the paper—a sign from the nights before, when he himself had redrawn the world.
"Five routes can be rebuilt," he murmured, "but one fallen flag will awaken the wolves."
His hand slowly stroked his chin. Domenico's mind wasn't still, tracing possibilities one by one.
"Joey?" he asked suddenly.
Fabio answered quickly, "Still at the studio. Finished filming at a little past nine. Now back at his apartment. Alone."
Domenico closed his eyes briefly. A faint movement at his temple—like an emotion that must not be named.
"Make sure he doesn't go out tonight," he ordered curtly. "If he refuses, you know what to do."
Fabio nodded and left without a sound.
Once the door closed, Domenico opened the right drawer of his desk.
Inside, an old cloth was folded neatly—the flag of Naples that once flew on the stern of the ship 'Sole' in Naples. The cloth was sent without a note—only a black ribbon and a pinch of ash tucked within its folds. A gift from the enemy.
Domenico touched it slowly. His hand was hard, but his fingers gripped it as if it were a fragment of a brother's own flesh.
He remained silent for a long time. Then, with a decisive motion, he folded the cloth again, neater than before, and tucked it into a small wooden box. On the inside of the box, a faded handwritten script.
"Perdona chi dorme, punisci chi sveglia."
Forgive those who sleep,punish those who awaken.
Domenico closed the box calmly. Yet, behind that calmness, a decision was born. Not revenge today. Something bigger, more patient, and more punishing than mere death.
Because for Domenico Cassano, a trampled honor wasn't just a reason for war. It was a violation of the world he had built with blood and time.
That Valentine's night ended in silence. In Todt Hill, a lion had opened its eyes.
*
Inside his quiet apartment, Joey sat hunched on the edge of the sofa. Only one light in the room was on—dim and warm, illuminating a small table holding a cup of cold lemon tea and a half-closed box of chocolates. Its blue ribbon was half undone, dangling over the edge of the table.
His hand gripped a Motorola phone tightly, a small black flip phone with numbers he knew too well. He hadn't pressed anything yet, just staring blankly at its small screen.
Outside, snow fell slowly, muffling the sounds of the city. The orange glow of streetlights reflected off the window, forming long shadows on the wooden floor.
Joey took a slow breath, then began pressing the numbers one by one without looking. An unsaved number, but embedded in his body like an old scar.
Domenico's number.
Joey pressed the call button, pressing the phone to his ear.
First ring, second, and third.
Click.
No greeting. Just a cold silence and heavy breathing on the other end. As usual.
Joey didn't speak immediately. His eyes stared at the blank white wall, while his other fingers clutched his pajama pants.
Several seconds passed before he whispered, almost inaudibly. "I don't know why I can never sleep on February 14th."
No response. Joey didn't expect one.
"This isn't a request, not a confession either," he continued softly, "just ... I thought, maybe if I hear your voice, everything doesn't feel so ... foreign tonight."
Silence again. Long.
"I don't need an answer," he added quickly, almost nervously. "I know you're busy. I know ... I'm not supposed to be part of this anymore."
Still no sound. But Joey knew—Domenico was listening. Always.
"Damn it," Joey whispered, his voice growing even softer, "it still feels like back then, though."
The pause that came this time felt deeper—like a chasm between two islands that would never reunite.
Then, that heavy voice was finally heard. Calm, deep. Not offering warmth, but not cutting the tether either.
"Go to sleep, Joey. The day has been long enough."
Joey closed his eyes. Through his voice—he could tell for sure Domenico was in a bad mood.
"It's been long enough for a while now," Joey replied softly.
Click.
The connection was cut.
Joey slowly lowered the phone, staring at the blank screen in his hand. No words remained. His body felt heavy, as if sinking into something inexplicable. Between longing and awareness. Between old wounds and the routine that kept going.
Outside, the snow kept falling. The world slowly froze. Joey—still sitting there, hugging his knees, leaning his head against the wall, letting time pass without a sound.
.
.
At the other end of the line, not a single word came from Domenico's mouth. The man sat in his heavy chair in the quiet, cold Todt Hill study. The phone pressed to his ear. His eyes stared blankly at the window, but his mind was not still.
No expression was on his face. Only a calm that seemed indifferent, almost inhuman. As if Joey's voice was just passing wind, unimportant.
However, his silence was not ignorance.
In fact, Domenico knew exactly—from the moment Joey dialed that number, from the moment his breath hitched, even from the thirty seconds the young man stared at the white wall before pressing the call button.
He knew Joey hadn't eaten dinner. That the young man sat on the sofa, wearing worn-out grey pajamas, with only half the room light on.
Joey had missed one of the surveillance system's cameras. There was one left that never went dark. Then there was the GPS tracker, and one of I Silenti's men always within a two-block radius of Joey's apartment, let's say a new neighbor, right next to the elderly Mrs. Lauren.
Domenico never stopped knowing;he only stopped speaking. Because for him, knowing was a form of ownership deeper than words. In that silence was how Domenico guarded—in a way that could never be called love, but too deep to be called mere surveillance.
His hand clenched slowly on the dark wood table.
On the other side, Joey's voice still echoed faintly in his memory.
"Damn it ... it still feels like back then, though."
For a moment, Domenico's eyes closed before he ended the call.
*
Located at the old port, Newark, New Jersey. Warehouse number 14 was nearly empty. The smell of old metal and dust filled the air. Its roof was high, with neon lights hanging at intervals, creating a dim light that left more shadows than illumination.
In the center of the room, an old steel table stood alone, surrounded by three chairs. A map of Northeast logistics was spread on it, full of red ink lines and small notes in Spanish and Italian.
Santiago Morales sat reclining casually in one of the chairs, legs crossed, an unlit cigar pinched between two fingers. His white linen suit stood in stark contrast to the space full of rust and decaying wood. Beneath that white shirt, the skin on his neck appeared damp with cold sweat—not from nervousness, but because bloodlust still steamed from his thirst for something grand.
Before him stood two men—a former Colombian marine now his right-hand man, Valdez, and a logistics broker from Brooklyn, Nico Bravetti, a former Cassano subordinate who had now turned in secret.
Santiago looked at the map before him for a moment before speaking, "How long before Cassano's route from Rotterdam is completely crippled?"
Bravetti licked his dry lips. "Three weeks max. If we pinch from Baltimore and south of Boston, their containers will start getting stuck. Their trucks use route codes we hijacked yesterday."
Santiago nodded slowly. "We need more than routes. We need a warning that spreads like bad news."
He stood up, then lit his cigar. Smoke slowly rose into the cold air, drifting through the flickering neon light.
"I want every small family head to start doubting Cassano. One by one. Allies aren't killed; they're starved first. Then they choose a new table."
Valdez nodded. "Do we start in New Jersey first?"
Santiago grinned.
"No. We start in Queens. There's an active warehouse of theirs there. Tomorrow morning, that place will burn. But before that..."
He looked sharply at Nico Bravetti. "We send a letter to Don Cassano."
Bravetti swallowed. "A letter?"
"A pair of Alessandro Carbone's hands. And a bottle of old wine from their ship. Put it in a wooden crate, labeled 'An Overdue Legacy.' Send it directly to Todt Hill."
Valdez chuckled softly, but Santiago didn't join in. His eyes remained cold.
"He should know," he continued, softly, "that we aren't challenging the throne. We're burning the altar."
Silence for a moment.
Then, Santiago walked slowly towards a high window overlooking the dark harbor. Container ships looked like shadows in the distance, barely moving.
He opened the window, breathing in the salty, cold night air.
"They've lived too long on fear," he said, half-whispering. "Now, it's time for them to feel something more destructive: shame."
Santiago was still standing near the window when he spoke again—his tone calm, but undeniable.
"Valdez. Bravetti. You will go to Queens tomorrow."
Valdez looked up sharply. "Who leads in the field?"
Santiago turned his head slowly, his gaze now like the glint of a knife. "You will join someone."
Valdez frowned. "Who?"
Santiago answered without looking. "You'll know him when you see him—and if you're smart enough, you won't ask too much."
Valdez grunted lowly. "I don't like working with someone whose allegiance is unclear."
Santiago took a step closer, his cigar now half gone, his gaze cutting directly into Valdez's eyes.
"The person you will meet isn't 'unclear.' He is the only one who can kill and make it look like poetry. You will follow his direction. He is not from here, not from us. But he understands one important thing..."
Valdez and Bravetti were silent, waiting for the next sentence.
Santiago lowered his voice. "He knows how to plant fear, then harvest chaos."
Valdez asked softly, almost reluctantly, "Is he working for us now?"
"No. But he hates Cassano, and that's enough." Santiago walked closer, his fingers tapping the steel table.
"And now," he continued, "there's a new target. Not to be killed. Not yet. But observed, studied, broken down slowly."
Bravetti and Valdez exchanged glances.
Santiago said the name softly, like murmuring a dark incantation.
"Joey Carter."
Valdez furrowed his brow. "The actor?"
Santiago gave a small smirk. "The face from the TV series you find entertaining. But he's not just a celebrity. He is the weakness Cassano hides most deeply."
Bravetti hissed, "Damn ..., the Don's pet cat can talk."
"More than talk," Santiago said sharply. "He laughs, cries, and if touched the right way, can open the door to Don Cassano's personal hell."
Santiago took a worn photo from an old folder. A picture of Joey walking out of the studio, wearing a thick hoodie and looking tired.
"We don't kidnap him. Not yet," said Santiago. "We study him, approach him through his reflection until the crack appears."
Valdez clenched his black gloves. "And then?"
"Then," said Santiago, "let the world know that Cassano can be defeated—not by bullets, but by feelings."
He looked at the harbor window again, this time with a thin smile.
"The king will remain on his throne. But if the kitten he hides starts meowing, the world will begin to look."
Silence. Only the groan of a cargo ship far at sea.
Santiago finally walked away from the window. He left Valdez and Bravetti standing frozen under the neon light that now felt colder than before.
The lights went out. The empty warehouse sank back into a darkness waiting for the next footstep.
[]