The sky above Brooklyn is like a sheet of grey fabric torn from the north. The wind stabs sharply, sweeping over the dark, gently undulating water surface—like the slow breath of a sleeping giant.
The dock lights glow dimly. The shadows of containers loom like giant coffins. The salty scent of the sea mixes with oil, rust, and the faint smell of blood that hasn't had time to dry.
Matteo De Luca stands atop an open container, his long black coat fluttering slowly. His arms are crossed over his chest, his sharp eyes fixed on the crate's contents—supposed to be pure Antwerp diamonds, shipped from a private port in Europe. But tonight, all that remains are wood splinters, a few balancing sandbags, and a fake label slapped on haphazardly.
Below him, three of Cassano's men from the local New York division lie prone—not from injuries, but from fear. They already know—when Matteo is summoned directly by the Don, it means someone is going home as just a name.
In front of Matteo, two port workers are shackled at the knees. One's face is battered, his left eye swollen like a rotten tomato. The other, still young, trembles silently. His pants are wet at the thighs. He hasn't spoken a word since earlier. Just bows his head.
Matteo descends slowly from the container. The sound of his shoes touching the iron dock floor is like the ticking of a death clock.
"They think we're on vacation," he murmurs softly, to the air. "They think Cassano is old. Tamed. Because we no longer shoot up the docks like in '89."
He crouches in front of the first, badly injured man.
"What's your name?"
"G... Gianni..."
"Wrong," Matteo answers softly. "Your name now is: failed witness."
He stands up. Turns to one of his men. A single nod.
Gianni is dragged to the edge of the dock. His legs kick at the air. "Wait! Wait, I can help! I was just—"
"Do you know who Santiago Morales is?" Matteo asks flatly.
Gianni nods quickly. "Yes! Yes! But I was just a middleman—I was told to send that container to Newark, I—I didn't know what was inside! I swear—"
A single bullet is fired into the water behind the man. Water sprays into the air, cold as a threat from hell. Gianni screams.
"Tonight, you'll forget your own name," Matteo whispers into the man's ear.
One push. The sea water swallows Gianni's body in a wave of blackness. His scream echoes once before he drowns.
The second man faints on the spot. His face turns blue. One of the men checks his pulse. Still alive—but just skin and fear.
Matteo stands again in the middle of the dock. He pulls off his leather gloves, takes a small satellite phone from his coat's inner pocket.
He dials a secret number.
The voice on the other end answers immediately.
"Donato," Matteo says coldly, "they've started opening the door to the east. Santiago is using Balkan people. You know who to talk to."
A pause. Only the sound of the sea around him.
"And one more thing, this news must not reach Joey's ears. The Don hasn't authorized it."
He closes the phone.
Then he looks across the dock—over there, Cassano's disguised surveillance boat, posing as a fishing vessel, is already moored. Its red light flashes three times, the code that they've found the fourth container, at the end of Pier 12.
Matteo silently boards the deck of that boat, accompanied by two men dressed in black. One of them carries a crowbar.
The night air feels sharper here. Quieter. As if the harbor knows that something inside that container must not be opened—but will be opened anyway.
The fourth container stands alone. No label. No shipping origin. Its color is deep red, its door locked with a rusted steel chain seal.
"Break it!" Matteo orders.
One swing of the crowbar. Two thrusts. The chain snaps. The door opens with a long, squealing sound, like the groan of metal that knows its contents don't belong to this world.
The smell assaults them first.
Blood, plastic, and rot.
Not ordinary contraband. This is a warning.
A flashlight beam sweeps inside. Three bodies wrapped in thick plastic. Still wearing port worker uniforms. Mouths duct-taped. On each forehead, glowing red letters are written with waterproof marker.
MORALITO.
In the corner of the container, tightly bound to a steel rack, is a wooden box with a Colombian cartel emblem seal.
On the other side of the container, a metal suitcase lies open. Counterfeit money. Large denominations, neatly stacked. On one of the bills is a stamped ink symbol of an eagle with crossed swords—the mark of the Balkan network.
Matteo stands, his gesture calm.
"This isn't about diamonds anymore," he says flatly. "This is a message."
With a practiced movement, Matteo takes the satellite phone from his inner coat pocket. A secret number is dialed. Two seconds, and the connection is made.
"Don..."
"Turn on the video."
Matteo switches on the camera, slowly panning over the entire contents of the container. The corpses, the suitcase of fake money. Then his own face.
"They've stepped into our house. And they're targeting your son."
A candid photo is stuck to the dark, cold wall of the container, a shot of Joey sitting in a cafe at night.
"Burn the rest," Matteo utters softly afterward. "Clean this harbor like an altar. I don't want a single drop of outsider's blood spilled without reason."
*
The sky over the West Village slowly turns grey. Cold air seeps through the cracks of old windows, carrying the faint scent of a season not yet fully gone. The reading lamp in the corner of the room is still on, illuminating a bookshelf mostly filled with film scripts, journals, and one blurry photo from a summer shoot location last year—Joey laughing, holding a plastic cup, half out of focus.
Joey slowly opens his eyes.
He doesn't get up right away. His body still feels heavy, the nape of his neck sticky with cold sweat. His hair sticks to his forehead, messy as if last night was too hard, too long, too silent.
His right hand gropes the side of the bed.
Empty.
No warm touch. No heavy breathing and the scent of skin and tobacco that usually greets him when he stirs in his sleep.
Domenico is not there.
Joey stares at the ceiling. Silence.
No sound of heavy footsteps from the kitchen, no trickle of water from the bathroom. Even the silence feels like something abandoned, not an ordinary absence.
Joey rises slowly, pulling on a worn hoodie hanging on the chair. His bare feet touch the cold wooden floor. Every movement feels like an echo from the remnants of the night—breath, kisses, and small explosions within a body too accustomed to being pulled between gentleness and wound.
On the kitchen table, a cup of tea, untouched, its steam already gone along with a mug containing coffee dregs.
Joey touches the rim of the mug with his index finger. Still warm, but almost dead. He knows what time the man left—about an hour ago. With leather shoes that never make a sound and a coat picked up from the hook behind the door.
No note. No voicemail.
Just the quiet departure as usual.
Joey walks towards the window, gently parting the curtains. The world outside is still foggy. The street is empty, only a mail carrier passes on the sidewalk. Sunlight hits the glass and reflects onto his face—framing blue eyes that look older than his years.
He closes his eyes for a moment, then leans against the window frame.
"Someone is preparing for war," he murmurs, barely a whisper. "And I... am still here."
His hand rubs a small old scar on his wrist—a leftover from old handcuffs, or perhaps just a habit. A wound invisible to anyone on the outside, but feeling like a signature that can never be erased.
He knows. The man didn't leave for just a meeting or a business lunch.
Last night Joey heard whispers on a phone that was accidentally left on behind the man's jacket—words in Italian only spoken by the Cassano family when the world starts burning from below.
"Durres... Morales... your son..."
Your son.
That word slaps the hardest.
Joey lets out a short laugh. Dry. Bitter. One part of him wants to punch the wall. Another part just wants to smoke and forget. But he just sits in the chair by the window. Stares outside.
"I'm not yours, but it feels like I have to keep waiting for you to come home."
Joey doesn't move. He just sits, letting the morning and the man's departure settle within him like a poison too familiar to reject.
*
The sky is still grey in Todt Hill, the winter air creeping slowly through the large windows.
Domenico Cassano's office never truly sleeps. The large glass desk in the center of the room is still covered with files, satellite photos, and notes from his men in the Balkans and Colombia.
Thin cigarette smoke hangs in the air, mingling with the scent of old wood and the leather fragrance from the executive chair positioned at the front.
Across from him, Claudio Mancini sits neatly in a charcoal grey suit, with a leather briefcase containing financial reports on his lap. Giuliano Ferretti, the advisor, stands near a map of Eastern Europe, holding a glass of espresso.
Matteo De Luca, still in his long black coat from last night, stands rigidly in a dark corner of the room—needs no chair, needs no signal.
Luca Cassano is not present that morning.
Not because he's not invited. But because this is not his table.
Domenico never verbally forbids Luca from interfering in matters like this—but they both know—Luca protects the family, not the war.
And if war has begun, then only hands stained with blood are allowed to touch the map.
The sound of footsteps is heard from the corridor. Slow, calm, and heavy.
Domenico enters.
Without a jacket. Just a black shirt and dark slacks. His hair is still slightly damp, a sign he woke early and prepared alone. His eyes are dark, deep, and leave no room for pleasantries.
"How many containers did we track last night?" he asks, sitting down without looking at them.
Claudio answers quickly. "Three, according to the manifest. One fake. The fourth container isn't in the port records, but—"
Matteo hands over a polaroid photo from the surveillance team's reconnaissance.
"This," he says softly.
The photo shows the Morales cartel symbol faintly etched on the corner of a wooden crate. But not just that.
Inside are stacks of industrial-grade chemicals that could be used to make synthetic heroin—something the Cassano family has always refused, deeming it too dirty and not 'elegant'.
And on the other side of the container—a thin blue blanket, folded and placed as if a personal message.
Domenico stares at the photo for a long time. His eyes don't blink.
"What does it mean?" asks Claudio, beginning to fidget.
Domenico speaks only to Matteo.
"Santiago already knows we know."
Matteo nods. "He's playing a silent threat. Not touching Joey directly, but sending a small symbol."
Ferretti speaks up softly, "Don, if they're starting to get personal—"
"They will not enter," Domenico cuts him off.
His tone is so flat it feels like a threat to the universe itself.
He rises slowly, walks to the large map spread on the side of the room—the Balkans region, Albania, Montenegro, Bulgaria—dotted with red marks and cross-port connections.
He points to one spot; the Port of Durres, Albania.
"They're starting from here. The fastest route to New York via Montenegro. We will cut their line. Matteo, contact Arakawa in Tokyo. Have him send people who can speak Serbian and know chemicals."
Matteo takes notes without question.
"Claudio," he continues, "set up ghost accounts for bait transactions. Make it look like we want to buy the product they're shipping. We'll trap one of their Eastern contacts."
Claudio nods quickly. "How much?"
"Enough to make them believe, not enough for us to lose if it fails."
No one speaks. No one sips coffee.
The orders are clear.
[•°°]
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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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