The morning arrived too quickly at the Todt Hill mansion, with grey light and a thin mist hanging low among the pine trees. The cold air still bit, carrying the remnants of a winter unwilling to leave. A thin layer of snow clung to the iron fence and the stone-lined grass of the front garden, making everything seem quieter than usual.
Inside, the warmth from the heating system spread slowly, creating a stark contrast with the outside world. For Domenico Cassano, that warmth was merely cosmetic. Something installed to keep the walls from cracking, not to soothe the heart.
He had been awake since five in the morning. His hair was damp after a cold shower—a ritual he performed only on certain days, days when he knew blood would be demanded, or loyalty tested.
Domenico sat alone at the dining table.
His white shirt was neat, the top button still unfastened. Black trousers of lightweight wool swept over perfectly polished leather shoes. On the table, there was only black coffee, boiled eggs, and a piece of untouched toast.
His left hand held a torn piece of a candid photo of Joey. In his other hand, a small wooden envelope had just been opened.
Inside it, a pair of Alessandro Carbone's hands. Stitched back together, embalmed. Sent in an old wine box from the ship Sole in Naples—a Cassano family ship. Written on a slip of paper: A Belated Inheritance.
Domenico's expression showed no emotion. Nevertheless, his eyes—dark brown, usually calm—today looked like the eyes of a beast beginning to hunger again.
Quiet footsteps sounded from the long hallway. It was Fabio.
"Don," he said softly.
Domenico raised his hand slightly, beckoning him closer.
"Send a message to Luca. Use a clean line. Just one sentence."
Fabio waited.
Domenico spoke quietly, sharply. "The wind from the west has reached the port."
Fabio nodded. "And Joey?"
Domenico did not answer immediately. His eyes returned to the photo. Then to Alessandro's hands.
He said softly, "Prepare someone to infiltrate Joey's apartment security system. Replace his tracker. Start from the inside—friends, colleagues, even the janitor."
Fabio nodded again, understanding the hidden message. It wasn't just about protecting Joey, but beginning to spy in return.
"Who do we suspect is the mole inside?"
Domenico turned his head. "Not certain yet. But Bravetti has been moving too quietly lately. And if Vescari starts staying silent, it means he's choosing his words carefully."
"If they touch Joey again, Don?"
Domenico stood, staring emptily out the window. "If they touch him," he said slowly, "then they will learn one important thing about me."
Fabio waited.
Domenico raised his head, his voice deeper. "I will not retaliate. I will erase them. Their entire bloodline."
A moment of silence.
"And Fabio..."
"Yes, Don?"
Domenico sighed, unusually. "If I die... make sure he does not fall back into their hands. Even if it means—"
Fabio bowed his head. "I understand."
Domenico looked out the window. The day still seemed ordinary. Yet in his mind, the wheels of power were beginning to turn. Deep, slow, and unstoppable.
*
The studio felt colder than usual the day after Valentine's Day, even with the heating on. Joey walked in with Sheira, his hair slightly damp from the mist, a dark hoodie covering part of his face.
"Joey!" Alice's voice pierced the atmosphere like a bullet. She ran towards him from the hallway, breathless.
"What is it?" Sheira asked warily.
Alice didn't answer. She just grabbed Joey's hand and dragged him past the door towards the crew break room, where an old TV hung in the corner. Several crew members were already standing there, silent and tense.
The TV screen showed the face of an NBC reporter with a Breaking News logo in the background. Beneath it, a red running ticker tape.
Jacob Doyle's killer found—linked to drug cartel.
Joey felt his pulse stop for a moment.
"This just came in," said Alice. "You need to hear this yourself."
On screen, a female reporter spoke quickly, accompanied by images switching between Jacob Doyle's face and the crime scene location.
"The NYPD has released the identity of one of the suspected shooters involved in the death of Jacob Doyle. A man of Latin descent named Luis Mendoza, age 29, was found dead last night in his Queens apartment. His body was frozen in front of the television, with no signs of struggle. Preliminary suspicion: a professional execution."
Joey did not blink. The screen changed again, showing images of a Mexican cartel.
"Mendoza was recorded as having worked as a logistics driver for Colombian and Mexican drug cartel networks. Police found several documents and cash under the wooden floorboards—indicating that Jacob's murder may be related to internal conflicts over cross-country drug distribution."
The reporter paused briefly before lowering her voice, as if moving into the darkest segment.
"And now, internal sources from the investigation confirm that Jacob Doyle himself was an active drug dealer among celebrities since the 1990s. Transactions occurred at elite locations, including private parties, shooting trailers, and even during closed interview sessions."
Sheira glanced at Joey, who now showed no reaction.
"However, most surprising of all, Jacob suddenly halted all distribution activities in early December of last year. Without a clear reason. And only three weeks later, he was shot dead outside an upscale casino—with Joey Carter, the young star of A Genius Criminal, present at the exact location of the incident."
The screen changed—showing a blurry clip of Joey being escorted by police that night, the dark blue sweater over a flannel shirt he wore soaked by rain, his expression unreadable.
The reporter's voice now became a faint echo in Joey's ears.
"Was Jacob Doyle trying to leave the network? Or did he know something that made him have to be silenced?"
The TV was finally turned off by one of the crew members.
The silence in the room felt louder than the broadcast.
All eyes were on Joey.
But he just stood there—straight, stiff, and trapped in his own thoughts. His gaze pierced through the now-dark screen, as if fragments of time from the past were spinning in his mind.
A penthouse in Tribeca, thumping EDM music shaking the glass walls. Spotlights spun, dazzling. A celebrity party—an exclusive invitation Joey wasn't even sure why he had received.
Sheira had persuaded him that night. "Just one hour. Networking. Smile a little. Then we go home."
Joey entered, trying to look casual. But his gaze immediately fixed on one corner of the room, where Jacob Doyle stood surrounded by several pop singers and MTV models laughing too loudly.
Jacob seemed on top of the world. His shirt open, a thin chain glittering on his neck, his left arm around the shoulder of a newly viral young singer. In his right hand—a quick, subtle movement—he slipped something into the hand of another man who grinned slightly, a clear plastic bag the size of a fingertip.
Joey almost looked away, but their eyes met.
Jacob smiled at him. A thin smile, like a secret that didn't need to be spoken.
Then he raised his glass, toasting from afar. And turned back to the crowd that wouldn't stop laughing.
Back in the studio room.
Sheira approached carefully. "Joey... You—"
"I don't know anything," Joey finally whispered. His voice wasn't defensive.
Rather,it sounded like a confession from someone trying to convince himself he really wasn't involved.
Sheira stared at him silently.
Joey knew—what he saw that night should have been warning enough. But like many others in that party room, he chose silence.
And now, one gunshot made all that silence too loud to bear alone.
Sheira placed her hand on Joey's shoulder, trying to calm him. But Joey's body felt tense beneath her touch.
"I just...," Joey murmured, "... was in the wrong place, with the wrong people who turned out to be hiding something darker than I thought."
Alice seemed about to say something more, but held back.
Joey slowly turned and walked out of the room, through the narrow hallway that suddenly felt like an interrogation corridor. His eyes were empty, his mind busy rearranging memories that once seemed ordinary.
*
Trattoria Fioretta closed early that night. Only two men of different ages sat at the table by the window, like two foreign shadows amidst the scent of roasted tomatoes and fresh basil. The chandelier above the round table cast a warm yellow light, making the wine glass look like a pulsating ruby liquid.
Joey sat with his hoodie removed, his blonde hair messy and eyes tired from shooting, still carrying the residue of the morning's news. Before him, a plate of Calabrian-style lasagna still steaming, red-orange with a layer of melted cheese beginning to stick to the sides of the plate. Spicy, warm, heavy—like something meant to fill a void larger than just the stomach. Made with choice ingredients and cooked with love—though the chef was reluctant to admit it.
Domenico sat facing Joey. Without a jacket, only his white shirt rolled up to the elbows, the apron he wore while cooking already removed. His muscular arms rested casually on the table, a contrast to his gaze.
Joey ate quite heartily. Not trying to hide that he was hungry. His knife and fork worked quickly, slicing through layer after layer of pasta and meat, as if trying to split apart a reality too dense to digest.
Domenico observed in silence, then said flatly, "Don't they feed you?"
His tone was light—or at least trying to sound that way. But Joey knew. Domenico wasn't the type to toss out random sentences without meaning.
Joey didn't answer directly. He just swallowed, shrugging slightly. "I need lots of energy," he mumbled, without looking up, "to deal with them."
He meant the media, reporters, production crew, and everyone who now suddenly wanted to dig up Jacob Doyle's corpse down to the bones.
Domenico gave a small nod, touching the side of his wine glass though his eyes never left Joey. His gaze was deep—as if weighing whether the young man still belonged to him, or was beginning to drift away in secret.
Joey kept eating, then paused briefly. His tongue swept the taste lingering on his palate. The spiciness crept slowly, not sharp, more like an ember inserted with full attention.
"You cook like a man cooking for his lover before going to war," Joey commented softly.
His tone was light. Half-joking, half-serious. But also like he was suppressing something in his chest from exploding.
Domenico didn't answer immediately. His fork stopped moving, and his gaze didn't change—still fixed on Joey. Like the surface of a lake hit by a pebble. Still, then rippling.
"Do you feel I'm going to war?" Domenico finally asked. His voice was low.
Joey lifted his eyes, looking back. For a moment, the two pairs of eyes held each other—one full of obsessive protection, the other full of questions not yet dared to be spoken.
Domenico and Joey lived in different worlds—and both were aware of it. Joey now stood on the threshold of two worlds, one bright, full of cameras, spotlights, and scripts. The other submerged in the shadows of power and blood, where Domenico was the king quietly feared.
Different like the story of Hades and Persephone, Domenico didn't truly drag Joey into the world where he reigned. Not entirely. That underworld remained hidden a few steps behind the door, close enough to smell, far enough not to be directly touched.
Joey didn't like the world the man lived in. He didn't like the word "family" that meant silent loyalty and bloody rituals, didn't like the whispered names that, if spoken too loudly, could make someone disappear. Despite his dislike, it didn't mean Joey was indifferent. The young man still watched, still listened, and more than that—Joey harbored curiosity.
He didn't mind if Domenico told him stories. About who betrayed whom, about how two families could slaughter each other, or a man willing to spill blood because his was touched by another.
Yet Joey also knew, stories like that weren't his. They belonged to the 'Ndrangheta. Belonged to men who swore oaths in the dark, under the altar of Saint Michael. And Joey was not part of them.
Still, it felt unfair.
Unfair if Domenico knew every detail about him—about his favorite food, the sound of his breathing while asleep, the scar on his back he never talked about. While Joey knew nothing about the contents of the man's mind, except that Domenico's eyes could always see further than they should.
Their relationship was indeed unbalanced. Even imbalance has its limits of tolerance. And that night, sitting at the small table filled with the scent of home and unnamed threats, Joey felt something vague in his chest.
Longing. Not for depth, but for openness.
Something almost impossible in their relationship—yet he still hoped for it. And Joey always had the bad habit of holding onto hope for things he knew could turn into a knife.
The lasagna on Joey's plate was down to one last spoonful. Domenico speared it slowly, then lifted the fork towards Joey's face.
The gesture wasn't forceful, nor did it give a choice.
Joey looked at him briefly, then opened his mouth, letting the last piece pass his lips. He chewed slowly. It still tasted good, but this time it felt heavy in his throat.
As heavy as something he wanted to say but couldn't get out.
After the last piece of lasagna passed through his throat, Joey took a slow breath. He was about to reach for the napkin, but before his hand could move, the long fingers of the man across from him touched his face first.
Gently.
Without a word.
Just a small movement at the corner of his lips—wiping away the bit of tomato sauce clinging there, with Domenico's right index finger, cold and slow like time had stopped.
Joey held his breath. He couldn't move. Didn't know where to look.
Domenico didn't speak. Didn't look into Joey's eyes. He just looked at the tip of his finger, then—without excessive expression—licked the sauce off slowly, as if it were normal. As if it wasn't about the sauce, but about something deeper and unexplainable.
The gesture wasn't about cheap sensuality. He wasn't flaunting it.
But precisely because of its calmness—its silence—the act felt like the ghost of a kiss that wasn't given. A confession never spoken. A bond that didn't need discussing but was already rooted too deep.
Joey looked down, his chest beating slow and heavy. There was a feeling without a name. A feeling that surfaced every time the man touched him without intent, yet always left a mark as if on purpose.
Domenico laughed softly. Without sound. Just a slight shake of his shoulders, and a thin curve at the corner of his lips that never truly warmed.
"The boy who keeps saying he hates me," he murmured, "is also afraid of being left behind."
Joey let out a small snort, but didn't deny it. His voice came out softer, more fragile than he intended.
"I'm not afraid of being left," he said. "I'm afraid you won't come back."
There was a brief silence. Not long, but enough to change the air temperature between them.
"You're afraid I won't come back," Domenico repeated in a deeper tone, "while you've run from me countless times."
His words weren't delivered with anger. On the contrary—calm, almost gentle.
Joey stared at the table. His hands clenched slightly under the linen tablecloth.
"Because every time I leave, I want to know what it's like not to be under your shadow."
"And what did you find?" asked Domenico, without pause.
Joey slowly lifted his face.
"That even your shadow follows me to the brightest places."
That answer changed something in Domenico's face—just for a moment. Like a reflection of light on the surface of cold marble.
The man didn't answer.
He just looked at Joey, as if weighing something. Not the truth of the statement, but what he should do after hearing it.
Joey knew—in the end, it wasn't him who could decide the meaning of this dependency.
At the small table in the restaurant, with the dim yellow light and the last remnants of lasagna on the plate, witnessing that even wounds could gently feed other wounds.
For now.
[•°]