A December night in Manhattan cut to the bone. From within the warm Jaguar XJ6, Joey watched the first sleety raindrops hit the window, melting into water before they could form a white layer. The black car glided smoothly into the basement of a magnificent skyscraper, The Aethelstan Hotel, a place more resembling a fortress of steel and glass for oil kings and tycoons than a mere lodging.
The elevator they rode in moved silently, shooting upward nonstop. Joey, wearing only fine cotton pajamas and the thick coat Fabio had tossed over his body, felt as if he was being taken to the top of the world—or perhaps into the most luxurious birdcage. Fabio, with his stone-carved face, remained silent, avoiding Joey's questioning and irritated gaze.
Ding.
The elevator doors opened directly into a private foyer. Ahead, there was only one solid, old mahogany door, painted a dark brown with a faintly gleaming carved handle. Fabio reached out to knock, but Joey, with a sudden rebelliousness, pushed the door open himself. He was too annoyed to heed protocol.
He entered an immensely spacious penthouse. The interior was dimly lit, illuminated only by minimalist spotlights highlighting abstract artworks on the walls and the twinkling lights of New York City outside the giant floor-to-ceiling glass walls. The floor was made of glossy black marble, reflecting light like a pool of oil. The air felt cool and smelled of expensive sandalwood and leather.
Across the room, standing with his back to the door, was a man. His silhouette was sharp and authoritative against the backdrop of the living urban canvas. His strong hands elegantly held a crystal glass filled with deep ruby wine as he gazed at the dozens of skyscrapers glittering like jewels in the darkness.
Hearing footsteps, the man turned slowly. His face was handsome with a strong jawline adorned by perfectly groomed stubble, adding an air of maturity and danger. The sharp gaze of his dark brown—almost black—eyes immediately pierced Joey, as if able to read every complaint within him. His nose was perfectly straight, his full lips forming a symmetrical line that now regarded Joey, who was also looking at him with a flat, weary gaze. Without needing to ask, Domenico knew the young man was furious with him.
"Keep me company while I drink!" his baritone commanded, his voice like velvet wrapped around steel, echoing in the soundproofed room. It was met by an annoyed click from Joey's lips, which were already blue from the cold.
"You had Fabio pick me up in the dead of night, wake me from sleep, just to keep you company while you drink?" Joey's voice was full of fatigue and irritation, ringing loud in the luxurious silence.
"Why? It's not as if it hasn't happened before," Domenico answered coldly, indifferent. He turned and walked towards a long, soft black leather sofa, placing his glass on the low black marble coffee table. On that table, several wine bottles awaited. One was particularly striking: Château Lafite Rothschild 1968, a legendary Bordeaux wine whose price could match a new sports car. With a graceful yet precise movement, like an ancient ritual, he poured the deep ruby liquid into a new crystal glass. Every drop was history worth thousands of dollars.
"Sit down and take off your coat!" he commanded, his tone not raised but authoritative, leaving no room for refusal.
Joey remained rooted to the spot, fists clenched at his sides. "Dom, I'm tired. I just fell asleep. I want to rest," Joey said, his voice rising, containing an unbearable whine.
Domenico raised his gaze, his brown eyes narrowing slightly, emitting a subtle threat beautifully wrapped. "In that case, why didn't you obey my order? I could make you much more tired than you feel now."
The sentence hung in the air between them. Joey let out a long, desperate sigh, surrendering to the power play he never won. With a rough motion, he took off his thick coat and tossed it carelessly towards a single armchair, leaving his body clad only in thin, light blue cotton pajamas. Reluctantly, he sat at the farthest end of the sofa, keeping his distance.
However, Domenico's strong, muscular arm soon encircled Joey's shoulders, pulling him gently but firmly closer until their sides touched. The warmth of the man's body contrasted with the cold still clinging to Joey's pajamas.
"Want a drink?" He offered Joey, fully aware the young man disliked wine. It was all part of the power play, a subtle reminder that in Domenico's world, Joey remained a boy more suited to warm chocolate milk before bed.
Joey stared at the expensive wine bottle for a moment, his mind racing; could a sip of this aged wine numb him and free him from this torturous night?
"Give it!" he snatched the glass from Domenico's hand without ceremony. His nose immediately wrinkled at the complex aroma of oak, blackcurrant, and earthy undertones that to his untrained palate tasted like bitter medicine. He took a sip—the smooth yet textured liquid flowed down his throat, leaving a strong tannic taste and a long aftertaste. Joey almost choked, not because of the wine's exceptional quality, but because of his deep-seated dislike for alcohol.
Domenico chuckled softly, a low, amused sound. He took back the glass still holding the precious wine. He drank it down, savoring every layer of flavor with his eyes closed for a moment. Then, with a swift, unexpected movement, he gently but firmly grasped Joey's jaw and covered his mouth with his own lips. The remaining wine in Domenico's mouth flowed smoothly into Joey's, a kiss that was more an act of possession than affection.
Too tired to resist, Joey accepted it unwillingly, choking slightly again as he swallowed the last forced gulp. His small hands clutched Domenico's shirt sleeve, the fine fabric, trying to find an anchor amidst the confusing onslaught of sensations.
But tonight, Domenico was in a good mood. He did nothing else but let the tired, dizzy, and slightly drunk Joey fall into a deep sleep in his lap. Joey's blonde head drooped onto the man's firm thigh, used as a pillow. Joey's expression in sleep was finally peaceful, though still hinting at profound exhaustion. Domenico's left hand moved, with unexpected gentleness, his muscular fingers combing through and caressing Joey's shampoo-fragrant blonde hair, while his right hand poured and savored another of his expensive wines.
The night wore on, within the silence of the luxurious penthouse at The Aethelstan atop Manhattan. Domenico sat like that, like an unshakable king on his throne. He gazed out through the large glass wall, observing the kingdom of the never-sleeping metropolis below, while holding tightly to his most fragile prized possession, finally calm and entirely his, at least for tonight. The sleet began to freeze on the glass, forming ice crystals that reflected the city lights, enclosing them in a luxurious, isolated bubble above the world.
---
"Zeus abducted Ganymede, the handsome prince of Troy, in the form of an eagle to be his lover and cupbearer to the gods on Mount Olympus. Ganymede was gifted immortality and his honorable position, replacing Hebe. Their story is often interpreted as homoerotic love, a common aspect in ancient Greek society, and Ganymede was later placed among the stars as the constellation Aquarius."
"Zeus is a fuckman. Turns out his hobby isn't just mating with women, but also with men," Alice scoffed, a hint of amusement in her tone. The girl used 'man' because Zeus was ancient.
"What are you reading?" Joey had just sat in the empty seat next to the girl, holding a cup of warm tea.
Alice showed him the last page of the magazine she was reading. Joey glanced at it, not too interested in what was written there. Still, he listened to what Alice said next.
"I was just reading the story behind my star, Aquarius," she said, turning to look at Joey as he sipped his warm tea.
Joey raised an eyebrow. "Your star? Don't tell me you're going to blame your bad luck on set on constellations next."
Alice chuckled, closing her magazine. "No. But come to think of it, my life is much more boring than Ganymede's. He was picked up by an eagle to Olympus, I'm just picked up by a production car to the filming location."
Joey pretended to think. "If Zeus had his eye on you, maybe he'd disguise himself as a TV station director. Easier to get in."
"And you'd be the eagle?" Alice glanced at him with a sly smile.
"Me? I'd rather be the one who stole the horses from Tros," Joey answered casually, sipping his tea. "The job's easier, don't have to fly carrying people."
Alice held back a laugh, then pointed towards the camera being set up by the crew. "Well then, in the next scene, try bringing that horse thief expression. Boost the ratings."
Joey nodded slowly, his lips curving. "As long as you're ready if the fans start rooting for the thief instead."
A crew member passed in front of them, glanced over, while the two remained engrossed in their conversation, undisturbed by the set's hustle and bustle.
Alice was then called by her assistant. The girl placed the magazine she was reading on the chair, stood up and said briefly, "Save my seat."
Joey just raised his chin, watching her walk away among the cables and spotlights.
He glanced at the magazine, initially just out of curiosity. But a large headline on the cover of New York Magazine caught his attention.
Bedloe's Island Rises Again: Port Project Saved by Mysterious Investor
After a long delay due to an embezzlement scandal involving former mayor Will Scots, construction on the port at Bedloe's Island resumed this week. An injection of funds from private investors, including Domenico Cassano—a prominent figure in Manhattan business circles—has provided a fresh breath of air while also raising questions about transparency and long-unexposed legal records.
Joey leaned over, slightly turning the page so the fold wouldn't hide the photo next to it.
The photo was sharp and declarative—Domenico Cassano, a neat Armani suit wrapping his frame, dark sunglasses reflecting the New York sky, stepping out of a black Jaguar. His hand was slightly raised, as if signaling to someone off-frame. His face wasn't turned towards the camera, but his aura of power felt palpable through the print.
Joey let out a small snort, a faint smile appearing. There was something in his gaze—a mix of personal memory and awareness of the world Domenico played in. A world that… was also partly his.
He closed the magazine slowly, tapping its cover with his finger, as if storing something for later.
Joey sat alone, gazing at the magazine Alice had left behind. Amidst the low hum of spotlights and the sounds of busy crew, the atmosphere suddenly felt like a vacuum. He sipped the warm tea slowly, trying to calm his relentlessly churning thoughts. Sometimes the night became his greatest enemy, the time when ideas and worries mixed into one like an overly strong cup of coffee.
In a world full of drama and stages, Joey felt like an extra trapped behind the curtain—watching the grand play but rarely getting the spotlight. Yet, behind his calm face, there was a soul wandering between dreams and reality, searching for a gap to survive and move forward.
He tapped the magazine cover slowly, as if reminding himself that this world was full of mysteries waiting to be solved—or at least acknowledged.
Joey was still sitting lost in thought, half-consciously holding the magazine, when Charlie appeared near him. His steps were light, but full of concern.
"You look sleep-deprived," Charlie said, leaning against the back of the chair, his eyes scrutinizing Joey's face with attentive care, like a father checking on his child who came home late.
Joey shrugged casually. "Not really. I just have trouble sleeping at night," he answered softly, bending one leg on the chair, still with a half-asleep expression.
Charlie chuckled softly. "Well then, do you need sleeping pills? I have some. Doctor's prescription, safe, non-addictive."
Joey smiled faintly, looking at Charlie with a gaze half-serious, half-teasing. "No need. When I'm utterly exhausted, I can definitely sleep on my own."
Charlie raised his eyebrows, grinning. "Pass out, you mean?"
Joey laughed softly, retorting, "Well, obviously not."
Charlie chuckled lightly, then patted his shoulder. "Alright. Take care of your health, kid."
"Thanks, Charlie."
"We start in one minute. Get ready!" he called out as he walked away. Replaced by an Assistant Director handing over a pistol.
"This is a real gun," Joey said less than a second after holding the object.
The Assistant Director smiled. "You could tell at a glance."
"Heavier than usual." He estimated its weight at 1.145 kg. Joey saw the logo on the grip. Beretta, it said.
"Beretta M9, complete with flashlight attachment, standard US Army holster. Perfect for your fight scene, and don't worry, there's no ammo in it." That's what the Assistant Director said as Joey checked the chamber.
The metal of the Beretta M9 was cold to the touch, feeling heavy and solid in his grip. He slipped it into the inside pocket of the dark duffel coat he'd been wearing since morning blocking rehearsals.
Around him, the crew began final preparations. The 35mm film camera was repositioned carefully, set on a short dolly track that would follow the actor's movement along the alley. Tungsten lights were shifted, creating the characteristic dim shadows of 90s noir action films.
Director Charlie sat in his chair, wearing large wired headphones and holding a script clipboard worn by folds. He glanced at his digital Casio watch, then gave the cue.
"Assistant Camera—roll film."
"Sound Assistant—standby. Tape rolling."
"Assistant Director—cue talent!"
Silence fell. All focus.
Kevin ran into the narrow alley, his leather shoes bouncing on the wet pavement from last night's rain. Behind, two CIA agents pursued him relentlessly. The alley was dark, with dull red brick walls and dim yellow streetlight filtering through closed shop windows.
Footsteps grew faster, their echo bouncing between old buildings.
Kevin jumped over a pile of torn, slick garbage bags, his breath ragged, face tense. In his heart, he knew—the alley's end was likely a dead end. But he was too far in to stop.
The next second, his body stopped abruptly.
His hand shot to the inside pocket of his coat.
The Beretta M9 was drawn.
As the two agents appeared at the alley's mouth, Kevin twisted his body and—bam! bam!
Two gunshots echoed, bouncing hard off the brick walls. The bullets hit the agents' heads before they could draw their weapons.
Their bodies collapsed simultaneously.
Dark red blood spread quickly on the cold snow.
Joey remained in a crouch, thin smoke wafting from the Beretta's muzzle. His hand didn't tremble. His breathing was heavy but controlled. He looked at the two corpses lying in the snow, the blood blooming like red flowers on a white canvas. Then, he quickly glanced towards the other end of the alley, ensuring no further threat. His gaze was like a laser—cold, focused, and distant.
Charlie watched the small monitor intently. "Cut!" he shouted, breaking the silence on set. "Excellent! Kevin's soul came through, Joey. That's what I wanted."
The tense atmosphere suddenly dissolved. The crew moved, checking cameras, assistant art directors hurried with sponges and bottles of fake blood for the next take from a different angle. Joey slowly stood upright, still holding the Beretta, his fingers reflexively releasing the magazine to ensure it was empty—a habit he'd learned from someone he desperately wanted to forget.
Alice walked over, her face still slightly pale from the intensity of the scene she'd just watched from behind the monitor. "Wow," she whispered, her eyes sparkling with a mix of admiration and a bit of awe. "You really... looked like you actually know how to use that thing."
Joey shrugged, trying to look casual. "Just acting." He handed the pistol to the waiting prop assistant, his hands gloved. As the object changed hands, he felt slightly lighter.
"Not just acting," Charlie countered as he approached, pulling a cigarette from a Marlboro box in his jacket pocket. "There's authenticity there. As if you're intimately familiar with that danger." His eyes, usually friendly, now observed Joey sharply. As a director and also a father-like figure to him, Charlie had an instinct for reading people—and Joey was a book whose pages were often locked.
Joey avoided his gaze, bending to pick up a cold bottle of mineral water left on the floor. "I watch a lot of gangster movies, Charlie. Scorsese, De Palma, that's enough for reference."
Charlie lit his cigarette, exhaling smoke into the cold, foggy air. "Hmm," he murmured, not fully convinced. "Yeah, maybe. Or maybe there's a private tutor who's very... persuasive."
The sentence hung in the air like Charlie's cigarette smoke. Joey froze for a moment, the water bottle in his hand stopping halfway to his mouth. He looked at Charlie, trying to read if it was just an offhand comment or something deeper. But the director's face just looked tired and satisfied with the shoot.
Sheira appeared just in time, like a guardian angel in a thick parka jacket and a cup of warm green tea in her hands. "Break time, superstar," she said with a forced cheerfulness, slipping between Joey and Charlie's too-observant gaze. "I ordered chicken soup from your favorite deli. Plus, there's a slight schedule change for tomorrow's interview we need to confirm."
Joey sighed with relief, turning to Sheira. "Thanks, Shei." He accepted the tea, its warmth seeping through his thin gloves.
As Joey walked away with Sheira, leaving the busy set, Charlie remained silent, watching him. His eyes followed Joey's slender back wrapped in the duffel coat, then shifted to the New York Magazine still lying abandoned on the folding chair. Its cover featured the headline about the port project and the blurred photo of Domenico Cassano.
Charlie took a deep drag from his cigarette, his eyes squinting. He remembered a night five years ago, when he found a thin, wild, terrified boy sleeping in the trunk of his car in a grimy Brooklyn alley. The boy was like a wounded animal—trusting no one, jumping at every loud noise, and his blue eyes holding a storm too big for his age.
He also remembered last year, when Joey won his first Emmy. The party at the West Village apartment. Everyone cheered, champagne flowed. But amidst the joy, Charlie saw Joey standing on the balcony, gazing into the city darkness with an empty expression—like a prisoner looking at freedom from behind bars, knowing those bars might never truly disappear.
"Everything alright, Charlie?" the assistant director asked, interrupting his reverie.
Charlie nodded, stubbing out his cigarette under his worn boot. "Yeah. Everything's fine." But in his heart, a long-harbored unease lingered. He knew Joey carried ghosts from the past—ghosts that sometimes looked too real, like in today's shootout scene, or in his blank stare amidst a crowd.
[.]