The old wall clock in his study showed 2:47 AM, but for Domenico Cassano, time had lost its meaning. Only one thing pulsed in his mind: finding Joey.
His satellite phone rang once, then went silent. That was the code. Domenico answered without preamble.
"Parla," (Speak) his voice was hoarse yet full of authority.
The voice on the other end was deep and rusty, like scrap metal being rubbed. Ciro 'Il Sordo' Mancini, an old man whose eyes had been Domenico's ears at the port for years, spoke in a code they both knew by heart.
"Il vento è cambiato. Le onde sussurrano a Bay Street, non più a Port Newark." The wind has changed. The waves now whisper at Bay Street, no longer at Port Newark.
Domenico listened, while his eyes inadvertently fixed on the newspaper lying on his desk.
The headline of the New York Post was spread there: Indie Actor Joey Carter Missing After Mysterious Crash - His Volvo 240 Found Wrecked at the intersection of 6th Avenue and Little West 12th.
"Il corvo ha sentito i gabbiani parlare di un magazzino abbandonato. Dicono che un uccello biondo è in gabbia, in attesa della nave fantasma." The crow heard seagulls talking about an old warehouse. They say a blonde bird is caged there, waiting for the ghost ship. Ciro's voice whispered, referring to his informant's report about the old warehouse at Bay Street Pier where Joey was moved, waiting to be transferred by ship.
Domenico's face remained statue-like, but a vein at his temple pulsed slowly. Ciro continued, "Uno dei nostri si sta facendo strada tra i lupi. Ma il branco è diffidente." One of ours is infiltrating among the wolves. But the pack is wary. Someone—Domenico's mole—was trying to infiltrate Morales's inner circle, but the risk of being caught was very high.
Domenico didn't respond verbally. He exhaled slowly, smoke from a forgotten cigarette in the ashtray sending a thin plume into the air.
"Basta così," Enough, he cut in shortly. "Il silenzio è la tua unica preghiera stasera." Silence is your only prayer tonight.
He ended the call, and for the first time that night, the silence felt so heavy. Domenico stared at Joey's photo on his laptop screen, then at the newspaper headline that didn't know half the truth of what was happening.
Sleep? That was a luxury he couldn't afford. Fatigue? That was a weakness he couldn't show. Even the air in the mansion seemed to freeze, afraid to disturb the absolute concentration of the Don. The guards outside patrolled in silence, aware that their master was in his most dangerous state—a strategic genius who had lost the only card he never wanted to play.
He stood and approached the window, gazing into the darkness shrouding Staten Island. His voice broke into a whisper, only for himself, filled with terrible determination. "I will take you back. And then I will drown their world in blood."
*
Inside the van, Joey's world was the bone-rattling vibration of the engine and the nauseating stench of rotting rubber. The blindfold pressed roughly against his skin, soaking up the sweat streaming from his wounds. Every turn, every sudden brake, threw him helplessly, his bound body only able to roll on the cold van floor.
The low voices of his captors spoke in rapid Spanish, occasionally interrupted by short laughter. Joey didn't understand every word, but the condescending tone and the occasional mention of "Cassano" hit him like lightning strikes in his darkness. They were talking about him. Like merchandise. Like bait.
One of them kicked his shin with a boot, not with full force, but enough to send a message. "Sleep, puto. Long trip still."
Joey clenched his teeth, holding back a groan. He focused all his concentration on his hearing, trying to map the journey. The echoing engine sound suggested they were passing through a tunnel or bridge. Then, the sound of increasingly busy traffic, horns—maybe they were entering a highway. Pulaski Skyway? he thought, trying to recall a map of New York he'd once seen.
Suddenly, the van sped up, then turned sharply right, entering a smaller, rougher road. The vibrations changed, bumpier, noisier. The sound of large truck engines and dogs barking in the distance. They were leaving the port area. Heading where?
Panic began to creep in, but Joey quickly strangled it. Domenico would be looking. Domenico was already looking. That belief, though fragile, was his only shield.
*
The journey from Port Newark, New Jersey to Bay Street Pier on Staten Island on a deserted midnight took about 45 minutes to an hour. The black van travelled via Route 1 & 9 North, crossing the desolate Goethals Bridge, before finally exiting and entering the increasingly dark and remote streets on the north side of Staten Island.
At 1:15 AM, the van finally stopped. Its engine was cut, leaving behind a thick silence smelling of sea rust. Joey, almost carsick and having nearly lost all orientation, heard the van's sliding door open. Cold, damp sea wind hit him, replacing the stuffy air inside the van.
"He's arrived. Get him out," ordered one of Santiago's men in English.
Joey was dragged out and led into an old building. As soon as they crossed the threshold, his blindfold was finally removed.
Joey blinked, trying to look around in the minimal light coming from a makeshift lamp placed on an empty drum. They were inside an old, long-abandoned ship warehouse. The air felt heavy with dust, rotting wood, and the scent of salt. In the distance, the sound of water lapping against dock pilings.
Santiago stood before Joey, his face cold. He spoke to his three men on guard in rapid Spanish, full of border narcotics slang.
"Órale, escúchenme bien, cabrones," Okay, listen carefully, bastards, he said, his voice low and hard. "Este pinche puto rubio no es un juguete. Es nuestra feria para los puertos de Cassano." This blonde fucker is not a toy. He's our "ransom money" for Cassano's ports.
He stared at them one by one, ensuring they understood. "El Jefe is already negotiating. If you touch him, if there's one more fucking scratch, old man Cassano won't negotiate. And if this "ransom money" is ruined, I myself will skin you and send your heads to your mothers in Sinaloa. Do you understand?"
His men nodded quickly, their previously relaxed faces tensing. Santiago's tone was not joking. This wasn't about lust; this was about a multi-billion dollar business.
Santiago then approached Joey, this time in broken English, deliberately ensuring Joey also understood. "You hear that, guero? You are merchandise. High-value merchandise. You stay alive, clean, you are worth something. You cause problem ..." He shrugged, making a throat-slitting gesture with his hand. "... you become worthless. And we dispose of worthless things. Understand?"
Joey stared back, trying not to show how scared he was. He understood now. This was pure transaction. He was currency in this cartel's eyes. That knowledge gave him a sliver of relief and a deeper horror simultaneously.
Santiago quickly checked the bindings on Joey's wrists. "Pónganlo en el cuarto trasero. Y que no vea ni oiga nada." Put him in the back room. And make sure he doesn't see or hear anything.
With that command, Santiago turned and walked out. The sound of a 1990s diesel Chevy Suburban started and then drove off quickly, leaving Joey with three guards who were now much more alert and disciplined.
One of the guards, sporting a Santa Muerte tattoo on his neck, pushed Joey towards a metal door in the corner of the warehouse. "Vámonos, mercancía." Let's go, merchandise.
Joey was shoved into a small, dark, damp storage room. There was only a rickety wooden chair. The smell of oil and saltwater stung his nose.
The metal door slammed shut heavily, and Joey heard the sound of a large padlock being locked from the outside.
He was alone, trapped in darkness. But now he knew the game. His life depended on his exchange value. That was his only protection. And it was something he could calculate. He listened to every footstep, every murmur of his guards, searching for weaknesses, waiting for an opportunity. The war of nerves had begun, and he was in the middle of it.
*
Pale fog shrouded the forgotten old dock around Bay Street Pier, obscuring the dark shapes of cargo ships lined up like sleeping giant creatures. The damp, salty sea air was biting, mixed with the smell of engine oil and rotting wood long surrendered to the salt. In the almost perfect silence, only the sigh of small waves licking the dock pilings and the distant screech of a lost seagull could be heard. The world seemed to hold its breath.
From within the fog, two dark sedans emerged like ghosts. A 1992 Lincoln Town Car and a perfectly maintained black Cadillac Fleetwood. Their engines were cut, leaving a deeper silence.
Santiago Morales stepped out of the black Lincoln Town Car. He wore an expensive linen suit in ivory, a stark contrast to the rundown, rusted port environment. His suit was paired with a slate-colored silk shirt, open at the collar, revealing a thin gold chain around his neck. His posture was upright, confident. His jet-black hair was slicked back, accentuating his sharp jawline and perfectly chiseled face.
His gaze immediately fixed straight ahead towards the Cadillac, full of confidence and challenge. His movements were subtle, filled with pent-up energy, like a snake coiling to strike. He was the perfect image of an arrogant, dangerous young cartel boss, believing the world was in his grasp.
From the Cadillac, Domenico Cassano stepped out. His height and broad shoulders were evident even under his black wool suit, which looked custom-made for his posture. His face was a mask of ancient Greek serenity—hard, chiseled, with a jawline that could cut glass. Nothing could be read in his thoughts. His dark brown eyes swept the surroundings in one quick movement, noting every corner, every shadow, every potential threat. Giuliano, his loyal consigliere, followed him like a shadow, silent and vigilant.
No greetings. No handshake. Only two poles of power measuring the distance and intent between them.
"Cassano," Morales uttered, his voice hoarse and flat, like rubbed stone. "The night sky isn't big enough for two eagles, is it?" There was a subtle tone of sarcasm in his voice, a subtle mockery.
Domenico didn't change his expression. "Morales. We both know why we're here. Speak." His voice was low, authoritative, cutting straight to the point.
Morales smiled thinly, a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Straight to the point. I appreciate that. You have something I want. Your sea routes." He paused, savoring the tension. "I have something you want. Your pretty boy." The word "boy" was uttered with a condescending tone, almost like referring to a toy.
Domenico's face remained like stone. "His body, no marks. No scratches. That's the condition."
Santiago Morales shrugged, a graceful, indifferent gesture. "He's a little bruised. The kid is stubborn. But his breath is still misting. For now." The threat was subtle, but clear.
Domenico ignored the provocation. "I'm retired from that business. Those routes are now for legal cargo. Diamonds. Technology." It was his official reason, which he knew Morales wouldn't buy.
Morales chuckled, his voice crackling like gravel. "And I'm Santa Claus. Every port has two faces, Cassano. You built an empire with Neapolitan cocaine. Now you want to retire and play in the sand on the beach? It's not that easy." His voice suddenly hardened. "Those routes are your legacy. And legacies must be respected, or taken over."
Domenico was silent for a moment. His eyes stared at Morales, analyzing him like a grandmaster chess player seeing several moves ahead. The silence felt heavy.
"So, the offer is," Domenico finally said, his voice like cold steel. "I give you the keys to my kingdom. And in return, you return what you have stolen."
Morales grinned. "It's not stealing. It's... asset acquisition, due to previous owner negligence. A fair enough offer."
Suddenly, Domenico took two steps forward, approaching Santiago Morales. Morales's guards tensed slightly, but Morales raised a subtle hand to hold them back.
"This isn't business, Morales," Domenico hissed, his voice now almost a whisper, but containing deadly danger. "This is an insult. You think by kidnapping a young man, you can force me to my knees? You think that makes you strong?" He paused, his eyes burning. "It makes you look desperate."
Domenico was now very close. "I built this with blood and loyalty. You think a little threat from a Mexican cartel can make me tremble? New York is mine. Those seas are mine."
Morales's face contorted, his fake smile finally vanishing. "Be careful with your words, Don Cassano. Your boy's life is very fragile."
Domenico didn't back down. "If a single hair on his head falls out, Santiago," he whispered, so softly only Morales could hear, "I won't just kill you. I will take everything from you. Every ship. Every port. Every peso you hide in the dark alleys of Ciudad Juárez. I will burn your kingdom until only ashes remain, and then I will kill everyone who ever spoke your name." He drew a breath. "That's not a threat. That is a promise."
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