Outside, the snow was still falling slowly. The sidewalks were beginning to accumulate white, and the air cut to the bone. But inside Yakiniku West - 218 E 9th St, nearing midnight, the warmth was palpable—emanating from the charcoal grills at each table, the retro-style pendant lights casting a dim yellow glow, and the aroma of grilling meat and sesame sauce filling the room.
Yakiniku West was about to close when its last two customers arrived. The restaurant owner, a middle-aged Japanese man, recognized them and gave a brief nod, immediately ushering them to a corner table near the fogged-up window.
The round grill sizzled as thin slices of lamb began to change color. The special Japanese sauce, a blend of shoyu, mirin, sugar, sesame oil, garlic, and roasted sesame seeds, was carefully applied, releasing a tantalizing aroma.
At the table, two men of different ages sat facing each other. Charlie wore his tweed coat draped over the back of his chair, while Joey, in a dark blue sweater over a shirt, sat slightly hunched, staring intently at the grill.
The atmosphere was calm. Only the sound of the grill and occasional whispers from the kitchen in the back.
Charlie began, "I watched your interview earlier on The Jeremy Show."
Joey mumbled low, "Hmmn..." Brushing away a little steam from the meat beginning to brown.
This dinner was a sort of routine for them—though not on a fixed schedule. Amidst the increasingly crazy filming schedules and production meetings nearing year-end, they always made time. Usually, they were accompanied by Sheira, Janet, even some crew members. But tonight it was just the two of them—director and actor—in a small space that felt like their own world.
"Is it true you're not ready to act on the big screen?" asked Charlie, his tone light but carrying intent, his eyes fixed on the small fire in the center of the grill.
Joey shrugged. "I don't know."
"You don't know?" Charlie raised an eyebrow, glancing over. "The decision is ultimately yours. And your acting quality is more than enough. You know that."
Joey glanced at Charlie, then looked back down at the half-cooked meat. His hand picked up the tongs. "So, you want to invite me to star in a feature film?"
Charlie smiled faintly. "For the future? Yes. But right now, I still have commitments to a few series projects." He watched the young man silently. Joey's blue eyes seemed focused on the meat, but there was a small restlessness he couldn't hide. "If I ask later, will you accept?"
Joey sighed softly. "Right now, I'm interested. But in the future, I can't promise I'll still feel that way."
"Tch." Charlie clicked his tongue. As the meat began to look perfectly cooked, he quickly grabbed it first with his tongs.
"My meat!" Joey exclaimed, annoyed but not seriously, watching his favorite slice glide into Charlie's mouth.
"You were too slow," Charlie retorted with a wry smile.
But as that smile faded, his gaze fixed on something. Around Joey's left nape, there was a faint reddish-bluish mark not fully covered by his sweater collar.
"...Did you see him again?" Charlie asked, his voice flat but deep.
Joey instinctively adjusted his collar, his hands quickly buttoning the top two buttons.
"He came to my apartment last Sunday," he said quietly.
"Did he hurt you again?" Charlie's voice hardened.
Joey shook his head. "No. Not really. Besides..., I started it."
That sentence made Charlie fall silent. Joey looked down, his gaze fixed on the wood grain of the table.
"If you want, I can find you a new apartment. A safer place to live."
"Thank you, Charlie. But I don't think it's necessary," Joey declined with a faint smile. "No matter how many times I move, he always knows. He once said my feet are chained to his hands. Now I think he's right."
Charlie shook his head. "No. He just has many men. And you're too famous to hide in a city as small as Manhattan. But that's not a chain. You are no longer his. That's just the hallucination of someone who can't relinquish control."
Joey looked at Charlie in silence.
"If I were your biological father, Cassano wouldn't dare touch you. Not a single finger." Charlie let out a heavy sigh. "Unfortunately, reality is not on my side."
Joey forced a thin, bitter smile. "Do you think the name Douglas fits after mine?"
Charlie didn't answer immediately. But then he said it in a low voice, "Joey Douglas."
Joey laughed softly. "Doesn't fit."
Charlie gave a small laugh in return. "What's in a name, anyway?"
A brief silence floated between them. Charlie quickly grabbed five pieces of yakiniku from the grill and placed them on an empty plate.
"They're almost burnt. Here, eat." He pushed the plate toward Joey.
Joey tried a piece. "Are you treating me to all this, Dad?"
Charlie gave him an annoyed look. "That pleading smile is truly irresistible."
Joey laughed contentedly, his mouth already full of yakiniku. "Alright, I'll finish it all."
"In that case, I'll order two more servings," Charlie muttered, calling over a waiter who was cleaning a table at the other end of the room.
.
The night sky was crowded with clouds, blocking the moon's rays in a starless expanse. The slippery asphalt hindered the traction of rubber tires on every car traversing the city streets. Midnight in the early part of the year, the sidewalks were still animated by warmly dressed pedestrians.
Joey exited the now-closed yakiniku restaurant, tightening the collar of his shirt layered under a sweater and the beanie he wore. Charlie followed after paying. Both walked toward the old gray Volvo 240 Wagon parked beside the restaurant.
The cold air made Charlie reluctant to stay outside long. The man quickly got into his car, sat in the driver's seat, and turned on the heater.
Charlie opened the passenger-side door. "Joey, get in!" he urged.
Instead of getting in immediately, Joey remained rooted in front of the car door.
"What's wrong?" Charlie asked, confused by Joey's stance, seemingly immune to the bone-chilling cold.
"Go ahead without me, I have something to do," Joey replied, turning his feet toward the right side of the street, opposite the direction of Charlie's car.
"What?" The man's brow furrowed, his mouth puffing out vapor.
"See you, Charlie!" He gave a brief wave, a smile still lingering on his lips.
"Hey Joey! Want a ride?" Charlie offered as Joey began to walk away.
The young man just shook his head and continued his steps through the beginning snowfall toward his destination.
·
The piercing cold air seemed unfelt by Joey as he walked along the East Village streets growing quiet. His genuine smile from earlier with Charlie had faded, replaced by the restlessness gnawing at him since the conversation about Domenico. Charlie's words, "you are no longer his," echoed, but felt like empty hope compared to the reality of the grip he felt.
He had no clear destination. His feet just carried him forward, away from the warmth of Charlie's car, away from the concern that made him feel guilty. His mind focused on one thing: confirming. Confirming that the man who haunted him had truly left, departed from New York, giving him at least a little breathing room.
With quick steps, Joey headed toward a public telephone at the intersection of St. Mark's Place. His trembling, cold hands inserted a coin and dialed a number memorized by heart—the direct line to Giuliano Ferretti's office. A brief, firm conversation in Italian. "Has he left?"
The short answer on the other end confirmed that The Siren's Call had left US waters. A relief that tasted bitter. Domenico was gone. But as always, his departure left a strange emptiness and a vigilance that never truly disappeared.
Joey hung up the receiver, leaning against the phone booth for a moment. Now what? Return to the silent apartment, where Domenico's scent might still linger on the pillow? Or face his loneliness amidst celebrating crowds?
From a distance, the sound of music and laughter from a nightclub—Prima neve Miracles—caught his attention. The place was bustling with people preparing to welcome the new year, trying to forget their problems in the thumping bass and bottles of drinks. An idea contrary to his entire personality, but tonight, the desire to escape his own thoughts was stronger.
He decided to at least pass by the front of the place, feel a bit of the celebratory energy from outside, before finally turning back and surrendering to the solitude of his apartment. That was the plan. Until a familiar voice, full of the mocking tone he hated, cut through his steps amidst the swirling snow.
·
Joey stepped forward, about to cross, but before that...
"Joey!"
The voice came from behind, halting his third step.
Joey didn't need to turn to know who owned that voice. He clicked his tongue, turning his body as footsteps approached amidst the traffic noise. Jacob Doyle stood there, his cheeks red from the night wind or perhaps the effects of alcohol, with his characteristic smug smile.
"What a coincidence meeting you here," Jacob said, flashing a crooked smile that was too irritating. His eyes swept over Joey's body clad only in a thin sweater, as if assessing.
Joey only responded with a faint smile and turned, planning to continue walking. Initially, he just wanted to check if Domenico had left for Sicily. Now, with Jacob here, all his desire to merely 'feel' the crowd vanished.
"Hey, don't you want to drop in?" Jacob asked, his arms folded across his chest with high arrogance. "Why so hurried? Afraid your famous 'owner' will find out you're having fun?"
Joey just shook his head, trying to walk away. But Jacob's voice chased him again, striking right at its target.
"Going home to your real daddy?"
Joey's steps halted. He stared sharply at Jacob, full of bubbling anger. Those words were like a knife tearing open all his hidden secrets.
"That's right, come here and face me," Jacob challenged, his smile widening seeing Joey's reaction. The cold night wind seeped into their pores. Joey gave in to his anger, walking quickly toward Jacob.
"Tell me, Joey," Jacob whispered in a low voice, meant only for Joey, "how does it feel to be 'the Don's private property'?"
Joey's hands grabbed Jacob's coat collar and slammed the man's body against the wall of a luxury boutique across the street from Prima neve Miracles. The streetlight's glint reflected in his angry, gleaming eyes. The whoosh of traffic and music from the club seemed to dampen, covered by the roar of blood in his ears.
"You better shut your mouth, before I tear it apart with my own hands!" Joey threatened, holding back anger before it reached its peak.
"Turns out you're easily provoked, huh..." Jacob taunted. There was no fear of Joey's threat. Instead, he poured oil on the fire. "What would people, your fans, think if they knew Joey Carter is a crime lord's sex slave."
It was then that a black Chevrolet Caprice drove slowly from a distance. Inconspicuous. An old car, but its engine hummed steadily. In the front seat, a man in a ski hat rolled down the window.
His left hand gripped the steering wheel. His right hand raised a Colt M1911, aimed at Jacob's head.
Joey only had time to glance. Meanwhile, Jacob continued to mock.
"Whose only job is to spread their legs under—"
BANG.
A deafening gunshot rang out.
Joey's face paled. Blood sprayed from Jacob's head, like a red flower suddenly blooming. His mouth was still moving, uttering one last silent word of mockery, before his body slammed onto the asphalt. Dead on the spot.
The black Chevrolet Caprice had vanished at the intersection. No clear license plate. Only the sound of an engine now fading away.
Trembling, Joey stepped back. Several people who happened to be not far from the scene suddenly became animated with various expressions. Clubgoers who also heard the commotion grew curious. Some came out and were treated to the sight of a young man sprawled with blood from the hole in his head caused by hot lead.
They knew exactly who that young man was: Jacob Doyle. And another young man standing not far from the body: Joey Carter. Two actors often seen on TV screens.
The piercing cold suddenly felt different. No longer just the usual winter chill, but something deeper, more primal. The air Joey breathed felt like shards of glass in his lungs.
BANG.
That sound. Louder than he imagined. More... wet. Like a water bag falling from a height and bursting on the asphalt.
Joey watched, transfixed, as the side of Jacob Doyle's head—right above his left ear—seemed to explode outward. A spray of pink, gray, and dark red decorated the stone wall of the luxury boutique behind him. Jacob didn't fall immediately. For a split second, his body remained upright, propped by the wall. His eyes—moments before full of slyness and triumph—were now empty, startled. His mouth, which had been uttering vile words, now hung wide open, forming a perfect, silent O.
Then, like a puppet with its strings cut, the body slid down, leaving a dark red smear and a few strands of hair on the cold stone wall.
"DOWN! EVERYONE DOWN!"
A harsh voice shouted the command before Joey could process what happened. His hands, which still held Jacob's collar, were now empty but felt wet. When he looked down, specks of blood adorned the back of his hand, still warm despite the freezing air.
Two NYPD patrol cars stopped roughly, tires screeching on the wet asphalt. Four officers jumped out, hands already on their pistol grips.
"STEP AWAY FROM THE BODY! HANDS ON YOUR HEAD!" an officer yelled at Joey.
Joey slowly raised his hands, still in shock. His eyes couldn't leave Jacob's body now lying stiff, a pool of blood slowly expanding around it, mixing with the falling snow.
"I... I didn't..."
"SHUT UP! DON'T MOVE!"
A young officer pushed him against the wall, hands roughly patting down his waist and legs searching for a weapon. Joey felt the cold of the stone through his thin sweater.
"Clean," the officer reported.
A detective in a thick coat emerged from an unmarked car, his face wrinkled at the sight. "Miller, NYPD. You're Joey Carter?"
Joey nodded, still fixated on Jacob's body. The metallic smell of blood was now stronger, mixed with the scent of vomit from someone in the gathering crowd.
"We need you to come to the precinct, Carter. Now."
The ride to the Midtown South Precinct felt like being in a fog. Joey sat in the back of the patrol car, hands in his lap, still staring at the blood on his hands. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the red spray from Jacob's head again.
·
The room at the precinct was small, brightly lit, and smelled of stale coffee and disinfectant. The pale green paint was peeling in places. Detective Miller sat across from him, while his partner typed on an old, clattering IBM typewriter.
"Start from the beginning," Miller requested, his voice flat. "What brought you to the front of Prima neve Miracles tonight?"
Joey told them everything. Dinner with Charlie. His desire to see the casino. The chance encounter with Jacob. The taunts that made him snap.
"So you initiated physical contact?" Miller asked.
"I... yes. I pushed him against the wall." Joey looked at his hands. "But I didn't... never wanted this."
"Do you recognize that car? Black Chevrolet Caprice?"
"No. Only saw it briefly. The driver wore a ski hat."
The process took hours. They brought a book of firearm photos. Joey was asked to repeat his story multiple times, from different angles. Sometimes Miller left the room, returning with new questions.
Around 3 a.m., an assistant DA arrived. A middle-aged woman with sharp eyes.
"We have a problem, Carter," she said, placing a file. "You're the only witness who interacted with Doyle before he was shot. And there's history between you two."
"He's hated me since we filmed a commercial together two years ago," Joey explained wearily. "But I have no reason to kill him."
"We know," Miller interjected. "But a hit like this—one precise shot, getaway car—this is professional work. And now you know something you maybe shouldn't know."
At 4:30 a.m., they finally let him go—with conditions.
"We'll have a unit in front of your apartment," Miller said as he escorted him to the back door. "And you will check in every 12 hours. Understood?"
Joey nodded, too tired to protest. His face was pale, eyes baggy, and the smell of blood still lingered in his nostrils despite washing his hands repeatedly.
A patrol car took him home. As they passed the crime scene, Joey saw forensic technicians still working under spotlights. Yellow police tape swayed in the night wind, and the bloodstain on the sidewalk had been cleaned, leaving a faint dark shadow.
Joey entered his silent apartment, locked the door, and slumped to the floor. Only then, behind the closed door, did the tremors he had held back for hours finally release. His body shook uncontrollably, and for the first time since the shot, Joey Carter cried—not for Jacob, but for himself, and for the reality that once again, violence had found its way back into his life.
[.]