The air in the underground room was heavy, damp, and smelled of old whiskey, Cuban cigars mixed together with damp oak. The Vault, that's what it was called in certain circles, was not a place listed on any map. Accessed through a hidden steel door behind a false wall in an old Tuscan-style Italian deli, this room was where kings and consiglieri met far from the eyes of the government and rival spies.
Dim lights cast a yellowish glow on the exposed brick walls and polished concrete floor. Shelves filled with rare wine bottles and expensive liquors lined one side, like a library for alchemists of sin. The low hum of classic jazz from hidden speakers was almost drowned out by serious whispers emanating from tightly sealed oak booths. Here, deals were made, alliances forged, and wars declared—always wrapped in grim luxury and absolute secrecy.
In the rearmost booth, separated from the others by a heavy curtain, sat Domenico Cassano. He had not touched the glass of deep red wine poured for him. His suit, custom-made by a tailor from Naples, looked perfect even in the low light, a stark contrast to the raw, unadorned environment. His ice-like, dark brown eyes that were almost black swept the room, noting every detail, every shadow, before finally settling on the man across from him.
Santiago "El Lobo" Morales sat relaxed, his posture deliberately challenging. His black Armani suit was unbuttoned, revealing a white silk shirt and a small gold medallion depicting Santa Muerte—the personification of death revered in folk Catholicism—around his neck. It was a bold statement, even for a place like this. Smoke from his Cohiba cigar formed a grey cloud between them.
"Entonces, Don Cassano," Santiago said, his voice hoarse from cigars and too much tequila. "Our proposal must have piqued your interest."
Domenico didn't react to the Spanish. His hand, adorned with the family capo ring, rested on the table, unmoving. "Unfortunately not, Señor Morales," he replied, his language fluent, his flat tone cutting the air like a knife.
Santiago's eyes narrowed, his fake smile fading. "¿Estás seguro?" Are you sure? His voice was now lower, more dangerous. "Your port in Baltimore... it's a pearl. And pearls should not be wasted."
"My interests have shifted," Domenico answered, remaining calm.
"¡Qué conveniente!" How convenient! Santiago grinned, tapping his cigar ash aggressively. "You've invested heavily there. You have control. It would be profitable for us to cooperate. You don't need to imagine—surely you already know—how much profit would flow if we used your port for... mercancía especial." He emphasized the words 'mercancía especial' —special merchandise—with a sleazy tone.
From behind Domenico, Giuliano Ferretti, his Consigliere, let out a barely audible soft click of his tongue. His cold, bespectacled gaze was fixed on Santiago, observing his every gesture.
"The decision is final," Domenico said without emotion.
Santiago snorted, leaning forward. "¿Tienes miedo de la DEA? ¿Del gobierno?" You're afraid of the DEA? Of the government?
"I no longer sell cocaine," Domenico replied firmly.
"¡No me jodas!" Don't fuck with me! Santiago let out a short, cynical laugh. "The León Durmiente of the 'Ndrangheta? No longer selling cocaine?!"
Domenico was silent. Only a nearly imperceptible glance toward Giuliano was necessary.
Santiago narrowed his eyes, trying another provocation. "Or perhaps because of him?" His tone changed, becoming more personal, more malicious. He glanced at his impassive personal guard. "What was his name? The new little actor shining so brightly in New York these past few years?"
"Joey Carter, Jefe," the guard answered in a flat voice.
"Ah, sí. Joey," said Santiago, looking back at Domenico. "You have a connection with him, Don Cassano? Is he your son from a one-night stand with a woman at your mother's casino in Las Vegas?"
Domenico's hand on the table clenched. His face remained mask-like, but his voice dropped to a low, dangerous vibration. "Don't even think about touching him."
Santiago smiled crookedly. "Your taste isn't bad either."
Domenico's fist clenched at his side, his facial expression still flat, but his eyes now glinted like the surface of a sharp blade.
"Alright," said Santiago, rising slowly. "Well then, if this cooperation is not for you, how about offering that young man to us instead?"
"What do you mean?" Domenico's voice became low and heavy.
"Don't play dumb, Don Cassano. You've used that young actor often enough. How about just once—you lend him to us? If Don Rafael is satisfied, we'll give you one hectare of our territory in Las Vegas. Build a casino to your heart's content."
"Your conversation has strayed," Giuliano interjected, Domenico's right-hand man.
Santiago ignored him. "So, Don Cassano?"
Domenico smiled faintly. A smile more akin to a threat.
Giuliano's steps moved forward an inch, his voice cutting sharply. "This conversation is over."
Santiago ignored Giuliano completely, staring fixedly at Domenico. "¿Entonces, Don Cassano?" So, Don Cassano?
Domenico stood up slowly. His movements were smooth, full of menace. A thin, terrifying smile appeared on his lips. "Leave here, before your body is dragged out lifeless."
A piercing silence ensued.
Santiago gave a short, tense laugh. "Amenazas de viejo." Old man's threats."
Domenico still had control tonight.
Santiago continued, "You forget, Cassano. We are not 80s Colombian narcos you can scare with two bullets to the knees. This is a new era. We are not Pablo's thugs. We are the heirs of hell."
"By the way, Don Cassano." Santiago turned to leave, but at the threshold, stopped. He did not turn around. "Next month, we will control all maritime routes from Veracruz to Miami. That route used to belong to your associate in Naples, didn't it? Carbone."
Giuliano growled softly. That name was a warning.
"He refused our offer. So... we simplified his operation. The route is clean now. Very clean. Free of interference. If you change your mind, perhaps we could empty a container for your goods. You don't need to touch cocaine. We hear you like diamonds and Swiss watches."
Giuliano, with piercing sarcasm, asked, "¿Ahora también venden joyas?" Now you sell jewels too?
Santiago turned, his smile wide and cynical. "Muchas cosas son más valiosas que la cocaína, amigo. El mundo cambia. Y ya no somos solo traficantes. Estamos construyendo un imperio." Many things are more valuable than cocaine, my friend. The world changes. And we are no longer just traffickers. We are building an empire.
He stared sharply at Domenico one last time.
"If you feel more comfortable with small investments and a pretty boy in your lap, stay that way. But don't be surprised if one day, when you open your window curtain, this entire city belongs to us."
The door closed with a loud click, leaving a silence that felt heavier than before.
Giuliano approached, his voice low and serious. "He didn't just refuse, Don. He declared war."
Domenico took out a linen handkerchief and slowly wiped the tips of his fingers. "No, Giuliano. He told us who we will be at war with." He took a deep breath. "Send a message to Marseille. Activate our French network. If Morales wants to play at sea, then we will close the skies for him."
***
The December air in the West Village bit with a damp cold, carrying the scent of roasted pretzels from street carts and the musty smell of old heaters rattling in apartment windows. The cobblestone streets of Perry Street were bathed in golden light from vintage streetlamps, creating long dancing shadows on the red brick facades of old buildings.
A black 1992 Jaguar XJ6 came to a stop with a smooth engine hiss across the street from a Greek Revival-style apartment building. Domenico Cassano stepped out, his tall 192 cm frame wrapped in a five-thousand-dollar cashmere wool coat. He wore no gloves; his strong left hand, adorned with the Cassano family capo ring of gold set with a black onyx, held the car keys.
He did not look toward his driver, Fabio Moretti, who remained at the wheel, alert. A subtle nod was enough.
Domenico crossed the street with determined steps. His Bruno Magli leather Oxford shoes made almost no sound on the sidewalk. He entered the small, dimly lit lobby of the building. There was no doorman here. His large hand did not hesitate; his dexterous fingers pressed a four-digit code on the keypad beside the ornate iron door. A soft 'click,' and he entered.
The solid wooden door on the third floor was no obstacle either. He turned the key smoothly. He entered a dark room smelling of coffee, old books, and a faint scent of sandalwood clinging to the coat he had just hung on a hook near the door.
He did not turn on the main light. Only the city glow filtered through the large window, illuminating dancing dust motes and silhouettes of furniture. The room radiated a life that felt familiar to him: cluttered but with its own pattern. Film scripts were scattered across a reclaimed wood table, their covers full of pencil scribbles. Stacks of books—from plays to slim novels—formed a small tower near a sofa.
Domenico walked past it all, towards a small dining area tucked into a corner of the main room. A simple oak dining table with four chairs. He chose the chair farthest from the window, with his back to it, and let the darkness cloak his back. From this position, his gaze was fixed directly on the entrance.
As he sat, his large, muscular body merged with the surrounding shadows. His hands, with their deep black onyx rings, rested on the table surface, still and patient. In the silence, only the faint hiss of the heater and the rhythmic tick of an old wall clock could be heard.
***
The air outside tried to pierce with a biting cold, but inside the book-and-film-poster-filled Chelsea studio apartment, warmth was created from laughter and boisterous chatter. Chelsea Scott's messy apartment felt like a time capsule from the grunge era. Its walls were plastered with posters of the newly released Pulp Fiction and The Silence of the Lambs. Piles of cassettes by Nirvana, Pearl Jam, and The Smashing Pumpkins were scattered beside a Sony boombox playing All I Want by The Cure loudly enough to create atmosphere, but not so loud as to disrupt conversation.
Joey Carter, with his signature look—his slightly long, messy blonde hair, wearing a dark grey thin sweater and faded jeans—leaned against the window frame overlooking the city view. His hand held a cup of warm chamomile tea, his conscious choice to stay clear amidst a sea of cheap alcohol. He smiled slightly, enjoying the anonymous freedom amidst this crowd. It was the total opposite of the silence of the Todt Hill mansion or Domenico's covert surveillance.
Alice, with her short red-dyed hair and wearing a black overall, suddenly appeared beside him. "Still counting the city lights or preparing a monologue for the next scene?" she teased, leaning against the wall.
"Swimming between both," Joey answered with a lazy smile. "Sometimes it's easier to act like a happy person than to actually feel it."
"You know, for an Emmy winner, you think too much," Alice retorted, sipping cheap red wine from a plastic cup. "Tonight, the rules are simple: no script, no director, and no Charlie watching over you like a mother hen."
From the corner of the room, a loud noise erupted. Mark, the burly stuntman who doubled for Joey in dangerous scenes, was demonstrating a trick of spinning a beer bottle on his hand before opening it without a bottle opener. "Voilà! More useful than method acting!" he declared, met with applause and small cheers from some of the attending film crew.
"Look at that," Alice whispered to Joey. "Maybe you should learn that trick. Could be useful for a bar scene in the next film."
"Or for escaping a boring party," Joey replied in a low voice, meant only for Alice, who immediately burst out laughing.
The conversation in the room swirled like a tape on loop. One group was heatedly debating the meaning of the ending of the recently released film The Shawshank Redemption. Another was gossiping about a famous director caught having an affair with his assistant. A makeup artist, Sarah, with short purple hair, talked about her plan to move to LA to try her luck in Hollywood.
"You're not coming, Joey?" asked Mark, the stuntman, who approached with two beer cans in his hand. He offered one to Joey, who just shook his head gently and raised his teacup.
"New York is crazy enough for me," Joey answered. "LA feels like a giant film set where everyone is playing a part."
"At least there's sun there," Sarah chimed in. "Not snow and eternal melancholy like here."
"Snow is honest," Joey argued softly. "It doesn't pretend to be warm."
The conversation flowed. They talked about how hard it was to find a decent apartment at a reasonable price, about the new director's penchant for making things difficult for actors, and about each other's dreams of being involved in a 'meaningful' project. Amidst all that, Joey quietly observed. He saw how Mark blended in effortlessly, how Alice with her sharp quips became the center of attention, and how Sarah innocently shared her dreams. They were pieces of normal life he had always observed from afar, and for a moment tonight, he felt part of it.
By eleven at night, the atmosphere began to wind down. Several people started saying goodbye, hugging and promising to meet on set next week. Joey helped Alice clear away some plastic cups and empty cans.
"You alright getting home alone?" Alice asked as Joey put on his worn-out coat.
"West Village isn't too far. I need the air," Joey replied.
"Don't forget, script rehearsal tomorrow at ten. Charlie will be furious if we're sleepy," Alice reminded him, hugging him tightly.
"Charlie is always furious. It's part of his charm," Joey replied with a smile.
He stepped out of the Chelsea apartment, leaving the warmth and noise to enter the quiet of a Manhattan December night. The sky was pitch black, starless, illuminated only by city light reflecting off low clouds. Small snowflakes began to fall, swirling in the cold wind before landing on his coat and the deserted sidewalk.
Joey walked. His breath formed warm vapor clouds in the freezing air. This tranquility was different from the earlier crowd, but it gave him the same space to breathe. He passed closed restaurants, dark shops, and a few bars still lively with laughter and music.
*
The 'click' of the apartment door opening sounded loud in the silence. Joey stepped inside, inhaling the familiar scent of his own space—coffee, old books, and a hint of wood—yet tonight, a foreign element was immediately palpable, like a dissonant note in a symphony he knew by heart.
His steps halted for a moment. His eyes, accustomed to the dimness, caught a large silhouette sitting upright on the dining chair in the corner of the room. The silhouette was too solid, too authoritative, to be just a shadow. Joey took a deep breath, his heart thumping once, hard, before calming again. This wasn't the first time. The shock had worn off, replaced by a kind of deep fatigue.
He took off his coat and tossed it onto the sofa without looking, then walked to the small kitchen area. The kitchen light he switched on illuminated Domenico's face, half-hidden in shadow. The man sat calmly, his hands clasped on the table. His onyx ring absorbed the light, pitch black.
"Merry Christmas, Joey," Domenico's voice, a deep, familiar baritone, echoed in the silence of the studio apartment.
Joey didn't answer immediately. He took a cheap can of coffee from the cupboard, pouring it into a faded cartoon-printed mug. "Make me coffee," the man's earlier words were not a request, but a gentle command.
With automatic movements, Joey poured hot water from the kettle into the mug, mixed in cheap granulated sugar, and stirred it with a small clinking spoon. The harsh smell of instant coffee filled the air, a stark contrast to the aroma of selected coffee beans that always hung in the Todt Hill mansion. He didn't use a machine; this was a silent statement, a small rejection of the luxury the man represented.
Joey made a cup of chamomile tea for himself. As he returned to the dining table, carrying both mugs, Domenico did not move. Joey placed the coffee mug in front of Domenico and sat across from him, clutching his warm tea as if seeking protection.
Domenico took the mug, his long, strong fingers encircling the ceramic object that felt alien and fragile in his grip. He sipped it. Instantly, his thick eyebrows furrowed, feeling the roughness and bitterness of the liquid on his tongue, accustomed to smooth, complex coffee. Yet, no protest escaped. He swallowed and sipped again, accepting this small insult with the demeanor of a king receiving tribute from commoners.
A tense silence enveloped them, punctuated only by Joey's sipping of his tea. City light from the window sliced across the table between them, separating two worlds that never truly merged.
It was Joey who broke the silence, his voice flat, almost like a challenge. "Get married, Dom." He paused, as if choosing his words deliberately. "How old are you now? 40? That's old."
"41, to be precise." Domenico did not raise his gaze from the coffee mug. "What if I don't want to?" he answered indifferently. "Besides, getting married won't hinder aging."
"What will your father say then," Joey prodded, intentionally poking at the complex family matter he knew about.
For the first time since Joey entered, Domenico raised his eyes. That dark brown gaze pierced, cold and sharp. "My father," he said slowly, meaningfully, "long ago lost the right to advise me on whom I should love."
The sentence hung heavy with unspoken meaning. Joey felt his chest tighten. He took a breath, and then released his final arrow, a sarcasm he had held onto for a long time, filled with bitterness and confusion.
"You don't love me," Joey uttered, his voice trembling despite his hard effort to stay steady. "You loved my mother. You couldn't have her, so you settled for me instead." He looked straight into Domenico's eyes, challenging, waiting for the Don to deny or get angry.
Domenico was silent for a moment. His face was like an unreadable mask. Then, a faint, sad smile—very rarely seen—appeared at the corner of his mouth. "You've always been wrong about that, Joey," he said, his voice suddenly very soft, almost like a whisper. "I never saw Roxanne in you. She was a wild fire that eventually burned itself out. You..." he paused, his eyes probing Joey's face with an intensity that made Joey want to flee, "...you are the shadow left by that fire. Colder, deeper, and harder to grasp. And you are the only shadow I wish to hold."
Joey was stunned. That answer was not a denial, but a deeper, more terrifying admission than he had imagined. It was an admission that Domenico's love—if it could be called love—was for him, Joey himself, with all his complexity and wounds, not as a substitute for anyone. It felt even more frightening.
Domenico then drained the last of his bitter coffee, leaving black residue at the bottom of the mug. He placed it slowly on the table. The sound of ceramic touching wood sounded like a period.
"I'm going to Calabria," he said suddenly, drastically shifting the mood.
Joey frowned. "Why? Is there trouble?"
"Business," Domenico answered succinctly, standing up. His large body seemed to fill the entire room. He looked at Joey, still seated, his face a mix of confusion and jumbled relief. "Take care of yourself, Joey."
That was all. Without further farewell, without a touch, Domenico turned and walked towards the door. The sound of his footsteps had almost reached the end of the hallway when a touch stopped him.
Joey, with a spontaneous movement that even surprised himself, grabbed the man's arm. His smaller hand clutched the sleeve of Domenico's fine suit jacket.
Domenico stopped. His body tensed beneath the touch. Slowly, he turned. His dark eyes swept over Joey's face, turbulent with emotion—anger, confusion, need, and a desperation that finally overflowed.
It was an unspoken invitation, a surrender Domenico had not forced tonight.
With a swift, unstoppable movement, Domenico turned back. His large hand gripped Joey's waist tightly, pushing him back several steps until Joey's back hit the still-open apartment door hard.
Bang!—the impact echoed in the silence of the apartment.
Joey gasped, not from fear, but from the intensity in Domenico's eyes. He was trapped between the man's hard body and the cold wooden door. With a desperate courage boiling from within his soul, Joey grabbed the collar of Domenico's jacket and pulled the man's face towards him.
He was the one who initiated the kiss.
It was not a gentle or questioning kiss. It was wild, full of hunger and pent-up anger from years past. It was a battle, an attempt to shatter the invisible wall between them, or perhaps to fortify it. Their teeth almost clashed, their breaths became one, mixing with the taste of bitter coffee and sweet chamomile tea.
Domenico, after a momentary shock, responded with equal force. His hands squeezed Joey's waist, pulling them closer until there was not a sliver of space. One hand traced Joey's back, feeling his spine through the thin pajama fabric, reminding him of old, invisible scars.
This kiss was not about gentle love. It was about possession. It was about two wounded souls trying to conquer and be conquered, to punish and comfort in the same motion. Joey bit Domenico's lower lip, a small punishment, and Domenico retaliated by thrusting his tongue deeper, claiming every corner of Joey's mouth as his territory.
The outside world seemed to vanish. The sound of traffic, the ticking of the clock, all drowned out by the sound of ragged breaths and pounding heartbeats. Joey surrendered to this current, to the sensation of the large body pressing against him, to the taste of the man filling his senses.
[]
The direct call for the position of Capo Crimine, meaning "Crime Leader."
Il Leone Dormiente (The Sleeping Lion) A code name for Domenico.