The kiss between them continued, slowly shifting from nervous to something deeper, more certain. Joey's breath hitched as Domenico slipped a hand under his hoodie, touching the cold, not-fully-dry skin. The touch made Joey's body jolt softly—not from surprise, but because his body remembered, and did not resist.
Domenico lifted Joey's hoodie up, his fingers tracing the slender waist, then touching the subtly protruding ribs. He kissed Joey's lips once more—slower, deeper—before the sweatshirt finally came off Joey's body and fell to the floor, quietly like a secret.
Joey didn't speak. He looked into Domenico's eyes, for a moment seeming like he wanted to stop, but the hesitation lasted only a second. His hands rose to the man's shoulders, grasping the half-open shirt collar, then pulled him close again. This time, his lips were the ones seeking.
The kiss was no longer gentle.
Domenico dropped the notebook onto a nearby table without looking at the object. His hands were now on Joey's back, exploring the line of his spine, moving up and down with a gentle pressure that broke Joey's breath into short fragments. They hunted each other, demanded from each other. The longing that had only lived in silence had now found a place to burn.
Joey was pushed backward until his feet touched the bed. He fell into a sitting position, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his eyes still aflame with something more than just desire. He unbuttoned Domenico's shirt one by one with hands that weren't entirely steady—but were sure. Each opened button brought memories, wounds, and feelings that never seemed to end.
When the shirt was fully open, Joey touched the skin of the man's chest with his palm. The heart beneath it beat strongly. So alive, so close.
"Don't make this a game," he whispered softly, almost like a prayer.
Domenico answered only by kissing Joey's forehead—an unexpected gesture, gentle, almost... painful. Then he slowly pushed Joey onto the bed, laid him down, and followed him with his own body, encircling, protecting, and claiming all at once.
Joey closed his eyes. His hands rose to Domenico's neck, pulling him down. Their breaths merged, forming a new rhythm. Not rushed. No rough insistence. There was only a quiet intimacy, like a song only to be savored by two souls equally broken.
The remaining clothes came off, one by one, without words. Only sighs replaced sentences, only touches spoke. Skin met skin, wound met wound.
In the warming New York afternoon, they found each other among the cracks that had long held them apart—surrendering to each other, but not in the sense of losing.
Joey didn't know if this was love. All he knew was that in Domenico's embrace, for a while, he felt alive enough to not feel shattered.
---
The sky over West Village was covered in pale clouds, the remnants of snow melting on the wet sidewalk. A cold wind from the Hudson River seeped through Joey's apartment window, leaving a faint dew on the glass. The day was cold—but not freezing. Winter had not fully departed, though spring was beginning to signal its arrival slowly.
Joey sat in a wooden chair by the window, one leg raised onto the windowsill, a bag of potato chips lying in his lap. He chewed slowly, his blue eyes unfocused. Fixed in the distance—a black Jaguar parked not too close, easy enough to recognize. Its license plate was blurry from afar, but the car's silhouette and its deeply tinted windows were enough.
It belonged to Domenico.
Or more precisely, to Fabio. He was the one who usually drove. But if Fabio was here, then the others likely weren't far.
Behind his shoulder, the faint sound of fabric rustling was heard. Domenico was standing in the middle of the room, fastening the cuffs of his navy blue shirt. The fabric fell neatly on his body, the contours of his firm shoulders and chest creating a perfect silhouette even though he barely moved.
Domenico glanced toward Joey—a fleeting look, almost like a reflex. His breath was calm.
When Joey turned, Domenico had already finished the last button, then picked up the Patek Philippe Calatrava watch from the table.
"Your car," Joey murmured. "The kind of car that's too conspicuous for something supposedly 'quiet'."
Domenico approached, taking the coat draped over the back of the chair. He didn't deny it. Nor did he explain.
Joey turned, finally looking away from the window. "You're always like this, aren't you?"
Domenico raised an eyebrow slightly, answering unhurriedly. "Like what?"
"Pulling away, but never truly leaving," Joey said as he stood up. He walked slowly closer, the chips still in his hand. "You show up at my apartment, then your car watches from afar. You said you wouldn't interfere, but in reality your men are still monitoring. You never truly leave my life, Dom."
Domenico stared at him, for a long time. "Because you never truly want me to leave."
Joey fell silent. That sentence felt like an echo of his own thoughts. Uncomfortable, undeniable.
He averted his gaze, then offered a single potato chip to the man.
"This is toasted cheese flavor. Try it."
Domenico accepted it. His hand lightly touched Joey's, enough to make them both pause for a moment.
"Don't try to replace my bodyguards with snacks," Domenico murmured.
Joey chuckled softly, bitterly. "But they're never this sweet."
Silence for a moment. Then Domenico leaned lightly against the table, his watch already on, but he hadn't moved to leave yet.
"Where are you going?" Joey finally asked, trying to hide the tone that was slightly softer than he intended.
Domenico didn't answer immediately. He retrieved leather gloves from his coat pocket, then turned to face Joey.
"A meeting," he said briefly. "Port business. I need to talk to someone."
Joey nodded slowly. He looked down, twisting the remaining chips in his hand. The atmosphere suddenly grew quieter, like a pause in a song that lasted too long.
Domenico stepped toward the door, then stopped. He glanced back, looking at Joey with a gaze that was both locking and non-demanding.
"I'll be back tonight."
Joey lifted his face quickly, as if he couldn't believe he'd actually heard that sentence come from the man's mouth.
"Promise?"
Domenico looked at him for a moment, then slowly stepped closer again. He took Joey's chin with two fingers, lifting it slightly.
"If I don't come back," he whispered almost like a gentle warning, "it means something is wrong. But as long as I'm still alive..."
His fingers slowly left Joey's chin. A brief touch, but enough to convey a promise not spoken with words.
"...I will always come home to you."
Domenico turned, opened the apartment door, and stepped out—and as usual, only the sound of the closing door signaled that he was truly gone.
Joey stood there, still. Then he turned back towards the window, looking out.
The black Jaguar was already moving away.
And in his chest, one thing remained: the man would return.
Tonight.
---
In the Todt Hill mansion, hidden behind thick bookshelves in Domenico Cassano's private library, there was a narrow stone passage that ended at an old iron door. Behind it lay the most secret room in the organization.
The Aula Strategia.
The walls of this room were built from volcanic Italian stone specially imported by Cassano himself two decades ago. Its ceiling arched like an ancient church dome, high and somber, adorned with iron vines and an antique chandelier that cast a dim yellowish light. In the center stood a round walnut wood table, dark and full of intricate carvings of thorns and flames. Six high-backed chairs surrounded it—one larger, positioned on the east side, facing a large painting of Saint Michael trampling the devil.
That was Domenico's chair. And that morning, the Capo Crimine occupied it.
Sitting across from Domenico were Matteo De Luca, Luca Cassano, and a new man, Donato Ferri—the former Cassano diplomatic envoy in Switzerland, now returned to serve as the third hand—uomo della parola, the official spokesman and strategist for the Cassano Family's external diplomacy.
Behind them stood Fabio and Santino, guarding in silence. No weapons were on this table. All the Capobastone and regional representatives present had surrendered anything sharp or heavy to I Silenti at the outer gate.
Domenico looked at the large map of Cassano territory in the center of the table. Old bloodstains were still faintly visible on its surface, remnants of the night of betrayal last year—a sign that this table was not just for meetings, but also for executions.
"Starting today," his voice was heavy, deep, "I will no longer be the hand for all affairs. However, do not mistake this for weakness. This is a transition of power."
Domenico turned to Matteo.
"Operations—tactics, escort, ambush, and discipline—are yours. Not a single port moves without your signature."
Matteo nodded, his face upright and firm as always.
"Luca." Domenico looked at his brother. "Finances, exports, legal fronts—we are not just a mafia, we are a system. Companies, restaurants, port logistics... all clean, under you."
Luca didn't speak much. He only touched his chest briefly as a sign of respect.
Domenico turned to Donato Ferri, a man in a gray suit with a black tie, his hands soft, in stark contrast to his sharp gaze.
"You will represent the voice of Cassano to the outside. Europe, the Middle East, even the UN—if they want to talk to the 'Ndrangheta, you will speak first."
Donato smiled thinly. "It will be an honor, Don."
The atmosphere in the Aula Strategia was unlike a normal meeting room. It was a cathedral of power. Here, voices hardly dared to rise. Every announced decision echoed off the stone, as if the walls stored oaths and blood. The aura of the room was intensely formal, sacred, and threatening—a place where men decided who lived, who fell, and who would be quietly burned in a cage.
Domenico stood, and all those present rose with him.
"We live in a world waiting for us to slip up," Domenico said softly and firmly. "They say I've gone soft because of love. But love hasn't weakened me. It has only made me more cautious, and that is more dangerous than cruelty."
He glanced once more at the painting of Saint Michael, then looked at the table.
"Carry this to all territories. Every Capobastone must sign a new letter of loyalty. And only those who swear in blood... will be able to sit at this table in the future."
Steps began to leave the Aula Strategia, one by one, heavy and slow. Beyond the door, the world waited. War, perhaps. Or change.
---
The night air in West Village still held the chill of a sun that had set too quickly. Inside Joey's small apartment, a warm yellow lamp illuminated the scattered piles of script papers on the table. Joey sat cross-legged on the sofa, a thin hoodie clinging to his slender frame, his blond hair messy as he bowed over the script he was reading.
His eyes read, but his mind wandered—to the independent film script Cloud Nine High.
And that's when the sound of the door closing was heard behind him. Without a knock. Without a signal.
As usual.
"I'm home," said the familiar deep voice. Calm, but resonant. Like a statement of ownership.
Joey turned quickly. His eyes narrowed for a moment before softening.
"You came in silently again," he murmured as he stood up. "I thought your meeting would run late tonight."
Domenico stood on the threshold of the living room, his long coat still on his shoulders, his tall frame seeming to fill the space. But before Joey could step closer—another figure appeared behind the man.
Luca Cassano.
Six years younger than Domenico, with warm brown eyes and a calm smile. An olive wool jacket covered his neat build, contrasting with his older brother's dark aura.
"Long time no see, Joey," Luca said, his soft voice still carrying the distinct Calabrian accent.
Joey was startled, his eyes widening for a moment. But only for an instant, because in the next second, Joey had already stepped quickly and hugged Luca like a younger brother embracing his sibling returning from afar.
"Luca!"
Luca returned the hug with one arm, warm and sincere. "I arrived in New York this morning with Domenico, didn't he tell you?"
From within the hug, Joey shook his head while smiling—something that rarely appeared purely, without irony.
Domenico, standing a few steps behind, raised an eyebrow. His eyes narrowed slightly seeing the way Joey lit up while greeting his brother. He wasn't jealous—not literally. But there was something in that expression that scratched slightly at his chest. Subtle, almost imperceptible.
He never greets me like that, he thought for a fleeting moment.
Even though he always gives more than just a hug.
Joey released the hug and looked at Luca, his eyes shining. "How's Calabria? Giulia must be so big now. Does she still like drawing horses?"
"She does. Now she has a new obsession—airplanes. She says she wants to fly to New York one day."
Joey laughed softly, "Bring her in the spring. So she's not shocked by the city's snow."
The light conversation halted when a soft but very deliberate cough was heard from the direction of the door.
Domenico, who had now removed his coat, leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, his expression flat.
Too calm. And precisely because it was too calm—it was clearly a sign.
Joey glanced over and immediately understood. He smiled slightly, then turned to Luca, murmuring loud enough to be heard by the person behind him.
"Excessive jealousy will age your face quickly, Dom."
Luca couldn't hold back a laugh, short but tickling. "You're starting to bite back, I see," he said to Joey, patting his shoulder.
Domenico simply raised an eyebrow, then stepped inside without saying a word. Letting the two people he cared for have their reunion.
.
.
Joey's apartment window was slightly open, letting the night wind seep in along with the aroma of cooking wafting from the small kitchen. The wooden dining table in the middle of the room was neatly set. There was a bowl of salad, a plate of warm fettuccine, three glasses of red wine.
Luca Cassano was sitting with his legs crossed, still in his semi-formal attire. Joey walked from the kitchen carrying a small baking dish of lasagna—the result of Domenico's guidance—and placed it on the table proudly.
Domenico followed from the window, after checking something outside—as usual, ensuring the world out there was safe enough for the small world he was protecting in here.
"I have to admit, Joey," Luca said, raising an eyebrow, "you're not just an actor, you also have a decent hand in the kitchen."
Joey just smirked, glancing at Domenico.
"He learned from the best," Domenico interjected flatly, but couldn't hold back a slight smile at the corner of his lips. He sat beside Joey, facing Luca.
Luca turned to his brother. "Speaking of the best places, you didn't tell me that the Fioretta restaurant is yours."
Domenico just shrugged slightly, as if it were no big deal. "Not something that needs to be announced."
Joey chimed in, "He just told me too. On the night he took me there. Amsterdam Avenue. Trattoria Fioretta. The place is like a clean version of his world—without blood, without armed guards. Just lasagna and a chandelier from Tuscany."
Luca nodded, slightly impressed. "And you cooked?"
Domenico picked up his wine glass, swirling it slowly. "I only cook for him."
"So romantic, Dom." Joey's response was sarcastic as usual, followed by a sweet smile.
Luca laughed. "Well then, if I come by, would you mind cooking for me too?"
Domenico slowly turned to his brother. His gaze was calm, but meaningful. His tone didn't change as he said, "You're my brother. But you still have to get in line when it comes to Joey's table."
Luca raised his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright. But I still have a request. Shrimp pasta with lemon cream, like Mama used to make."
Joey nodded. "I want that too. Sounds delicious."
Both Cassano men turned to Joey simultaneously. Domenico's face immediately changed.
"Not for you," Domenico said firmly.
Joey glared. "Come on, Dom. Just this once—"
"No," Domenico cut in quickly. His gaze was piercing, not out of anger, but because of the bad memory that surfaced instantly. "I don't want to see you in the ER again covered in a red rash and your body shivering. You know what happened last time."
Joey went quiet. He remembered. That memory wouldn't fade—the night he struggled to breathe during a small gathering at Todt Hill, and Domenico's pale face holding his hand until the ambulance arrived.
"If you insist," Domenico added, more softly, "I'll lock you in the restaurant. And you can only smell it from the kitchen."
Joey let out a small, resigned chuckle. "Little dictator."
Domenico looked at him, his expression gentle and unyielding. "For this, yes. I'm a dictator."
Luca raised his glass. "Alright then. I'd say this dinner is a success. There's love, there's a strict prohibition, and there's almost lethal food."
Joey raised his wine glass too. "Here's to Fioretta. A restaurant that only opens for a certain someone, in a city too busy to have time to love."
They toasted lightly. The night went on. Outside, West Village remained cold. Yet, inside Joey's small apartment, three people from worlds that shouldn't fit—sat at the same table—sharing dinner and a bit of warmth that almost felt normal.
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Have you ever fallen in love to the point of losing yourself?
LIMERENCE is a story about a quiet love, unspoken obsession, and feelings that grow too deep to escape.
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