As night fell, Domenico was finalizing calculations with Claudio Mancini, his treasurer, regarding a property investment in London. Financial reports were scattered across his large mahogany desk. But his mind wasn't fully there. Since Joey went missing 41 hours ago, every second felt like torture. His face remained a stone mask, but there was a deeper darkness in his eyes, a barely visible tension in his jaw.
Giuliano Ferretti entered without a sound, his face as usual—like someone constantly solving an unseen problem. In his hand, he held an ordinary cardboard box, like a shoebox, which looked completely out of place in that luxurious room.
"Don," Giuliano began, his voice hoarse and low. "This suddenly appeared. Left at the end of the driveway, near the gate. Found by Alberto."
Domenico raised his gaze, dismissing Claudio with a subtle nod. Claudio quickly gathered his papers, offered a nod of greeting, and left the room. As soon as the door closed, Domenico's composure cracked for a split second. He stared at the box as if he could set it ablaze with his gaze.
"The children?" he asked, his voice lower than usual, referring to the courier methods commonly used by cartels.
"No," Giuliano answered. "A man. But he was... a ghost. Security cameras only captured a shadow. He left this box, then vanished into a car with no plates that drove past without stopping. Professional."
Domenico studied the box. This wasn't the 'Ndrangheta way. They were more direct. This was a psychological game, something more typical of flashy, terror-spreading cartels. This was a response. A first move in a dangerous negotiation dance. And inside, Domenico hoped—with a burning rage—there would be a clue about Joey.
Carefully, Giuliano—already wearing thin leather gloves—opened the box cautiously, bracing for the worst. The contents weren't explosives.
Inside, nestled on crumpled newspaper, lay a decomposing owl's head. Its empty eyes stared at the ceiling. A pungent, sweet stench immediately filled the room. Domenico ignored the animal symbolism. His eyes immediately sought something else, something personal. A strand of blonde hair. A torn piece of fabric. A sign that Joey was still alive.
Tightly wrapped in plastic beside it was a pristine, unfired Barretta 9mm pistol. And a piece of paper.
Domenico didn't react to the smell or the gruesome sight. He picked up the paper with his index finger and thumb. The writing on it was computer-printed, plain Times New Roman font, untraceable.
To Don Cassano,
El Buho (The Owl) sees everything. He knows when to fly, when to strike. But the eagle? The eagle is blinded by the sun.
We have something very precious of yours. The Young Poet. His breath is still warm. For now.
We offer an exchange. Open your port—Bedloe's Island. Full access. All routes. This is not a request. This is the only offer.
We will meet at Bay Street Pier. The old dock. Two nights from now. At 4.30 am. Come alone. Speak alone. Bring your compliance.
If not, we will send more than just a message. We will send La Plaga (The Plague). We will send the Poet back to you, piece by piece.
"Los Morales"
The message was brutal, direct, and full of cartel symbolism. But for Domenico, only one sentence burned in his mind: "We have something very precious of yours." This was confirmation. Joey was in their hands. And this meeting was no longer about partnership. It was about ransom. Joey's soul exchanged for the sovereignty of his port, his legal masterpiece, his gateway to the legitimate world.
Domenico put down the paper. His eyes shifted to the Barretta pistol. It was an insult. As if Morales was saying, "We're even giving you a weapon to defend yourself, because you'll need it—or to end your suffering."
"These arrogant bastards," Giuliano muttered, his nose wrinkling at the foul smell. "They think they can extort us like this? Trade a boy for..."
Domenico raised his hand, cutting him off. He stood and walked to the window, looking out at the quiet, controlled grounds. His world. What he had built with blood and sweat. And now they were asking for its core. They were asking for a price no business could pay. But this wasn't business. This was Joey.
"This is not how we speak, Giuliano," he finally uttered, his voice calm yet laced with deep menace. "We don't send messages like naughty children. We speak directly. Or we act." But inside, a war raged. The Don versus the man. Strategy versus instinct. The port versus Joey.
He turned around. His face was hard, but a decision had been made behind those eyes.
"They think this is Mexico. They think terror works here." He let out a short, contemptuous breath. "They don't know Silentio. They don't know that what they're asking for isn't just a port... it's his future. And what they're holding isn't an ally, it's his soul."
He looked at the box again, now with profound disgust.
"Clean up this trash. Burn it."
"And the meeting, Don?" Giuliano asked, his voice full of caution. "We can't hand over Bedloe's Island. It's—"
"We will attend," said Domenico, his decision final. His voice was like steel. "But we will not come to surrender anything. We will come to take." It wasn't a choice. It was a certainty. "We will not come alone. And we will not come to speak. We will come to listen. To study our enemy. To find where they are hiding him. And when they show us who they really are..."
He didn't need to finish the sentence. Giuliano understood. The meeting wasn't for negotiation. It was a reconnaissance mission. A bluff. The beginning of a war that would be won by any means, at any cost, to get Joey back.
*
Santiago's hand reached for Joey's belt buckle, the metal clicking coldly in the silence of the warehouse. Joey held his breath, every muscle fiber tensing like steel wire. This was no longer about physical pain or the threat of a knife—this was a different violation, deeper, more personal, something that directly stirred memories of a past he had tried to bury deep.
"Don't touch me," Joey hissed, his voice lower, more tremulous than he intended. His eyes, previously cold and defiant, now blazed with an almost wild anger. There was something cracked inside them—not fear, but memory. Memories of luxurious rooms with gold-leafed walls, the scent of cigarillos and expensive whiskey, of cold hands that claimed him as property.
Santiago detected the change. He paused for a moment, his dark gray eyes narrowing, savoring every flutter of Joey's eyelids, every faltering breath. "Aha," he whispered, like an archaeologist discovering a hidden treasure. "So here is your limit, huh? Domenico trained you well, but he also left his marks."
With a sudden movement that made Joey gasp, Santiago drew a knife, then used it to cut his belt. The sound of denim ripping sliced through the air. Joey growled, trying to turn over, but Santiago's knee on his back was too strong.
"You think this is about lust?" Santiago leaned down. "This is about ownership. About showing Domenico that what he considers his can be taken, tampered with, and destroyed by someone else."
Joey turned his face away, his cheek scraping against the rough, cold concrete floor. He closed his eyes, trying desperately not to be here, not now. He imagined the set of A Genius Criminal, the warm spotlight on his face, the scent of matcha Sheira brought backstage, the audience's applause—not for his body, but for his art, for his acting.
Yet, the touch of Santiago's cold leather glove on the skin of his hip yanked Joey back to reality. His breath quickened.
"Don't," he murmured again, this time more like a desperate prayer.
Santiago laughed shortly, satisfied. "'Don't' is a funny word. Did Domenico teach you to say it? Did he stop when you said it?"
Suddenly, before Santiago could continue, the sound of his phone ringing shattered the tension. It wasn't a regular ringtone, but a special alarm. Santiago's expression changed instantly. All the cynical amusement and cruelty faded, replaced by a sharp, dangerous focus. He lifted himself off Joey, grabbing his phone.
"Morales," he said, his voice flat and authoritative, completely different from the condescending tone he used with Joey.
He listened for a moment, his eyes dark. Joey, still lying on the floor with his black hoodie pushed up, revealing faint bruises on his back, held his breath, trying to understand this sudden shift in dynamics.
"Okay. I'll be there in twenty minutes," Santiago said and ended the call.
He stared at Joey for a moment, as if weighing something. Anger and disgust still pulsed within Joey, but now mixed with confusing anxiety. What was happening?
Santiago gestured to his two men. "We have to go. Business with the Cassano family is more complicated than we thought. There's unexpected movement."
One of his men nodded. "What about him, Boss?" he asked, pointing to Joey who was still tied up.
Santiago glanced at Joey, his eyes like a taxidermist's examining an unfinished specimen. "We're taking him. He's Domenico's main weakness."
Roughly, they pulled Joey to his feet. The rope still bound his wrists and ankles tightly, making him only able to be dragged.
"Bastards, let me go!" Joey snapped, rebelling with all his might against his bonds. Shame and anger gave him new strength.
Santiago turned and swiftly pressed his knife against Joey's neck again. "Listen carefully, puto," he hissed, his cold tone returning. "I don't have time for your games now. You can walk nicely, or we can beat you unconscious and carry you like a sack of potatoes. Your choice."
Joey stared at him, his chest heaving with tumultuous emotion. He wanted to spit in the man's face again, wanted to fight, but his cold logic—the logic he learned to survive in Domenico's world—spoke louder. Survive first. Revenge later.
Joey gave a slight nod, his jaw still clenched.
"You made a wise decision," Santiago said, putting his knife away. "Take him to the van and blindfold him."
His men quickly covered Joey's eyes with a black cloth. Joey's world went completely dark. He could only hear the sound of footsteps, the creak of the opening warehouse door, and the gust of cold night wind from the harbor.
In the darkness, being dragged towards the vehicle, Joey steeled his resolve. This was no longer just about survival. It was about ensuring that this Latin man would pay for every touch, every threat, every humiliation he inflicted.
Santiago's two men dragged Joey towards a van. Not just any van, but a modified Chevy G20 Conversion Van. Its paint was a dull, matte black, deliberately unpolished to avoid attention. Its wheels were large, with thick treads for various terrains. The side mirrors were wide, and most distinctively: the side and rear windows had been replaced with nearly pitch-black tint, hiding everything happening inside. This was a typical cartel choice for transport operations—comfortable, inconspicuous, and a moving cell.
Joey was thrown onto the rubber floor of the van as the sliding door was slammed shut roughly. The mixed smell of oil, rubber, and cheap cigarettes filled his nostrils. The sound of a large V8 engine roared, and the van lurched forward violently, bouncing over the uneven asphalt within the port area.
Outside, Port Newark was a giant illuminated by orange sodium vapor lights that spread and left long shadows. Mountains of containers formed a metal labyrinth. The cold air from Newark Bay carried the sharp smells of saltwater, rust, and diesel. The low moan of a ship's horn occasionally split the silence. A perfect place to disappear.
From behind a stack of old, rusted dark green containers, Charlie Douglas gripped his car's steering wheel with whitening knuckles. His breath was short and misty in the cold air of the car whose engine he hadn't properly warmed up yet. He had arrived a few minutes ago, just in time to see Joey's shadow being dragged into that black van. His heart pounded like a war drum in his ears.
He saw the black van start to move. Without thinking, Charlie tailed it, trying not to turn on his headlights yet. His hands trembled but his grip on the wheel was strong, filled with the determination of a desperate father.
He navigated the container labyrinth, maintaining a safe distance. His eyes never left the van, every muscle in his body tensing as he pushed his car, catching up to the faster van. This unequal chase had just begun.
His goal wasn't to attack. Not now. His goal was to follow. To know where they were taking Joey.
[•°]