The clock was almost showing one in the morning when the black car came to a slow stop in front of Joey's West Village apartment. The spring air still had a bite to it, but not as sharp as last season. The city was almost silent, save for the distant sound of exhausts and the occasional shadow of a taxi passing at the end of the street.
Domenico turned off the engine. His hands remained on the steering wheel, but his eyes shifted to the young man beside him.
Joey opened the door, but didn't get out. The streetlight glimmered faintly in his eyes, which were swollen with fatigue. His hoodie half-covered his hair, and his left hand still clutched his backpack.
His lips carved a thin smile—a substitute for a thank you for the lasagna and the ride home.
Domenico smiled back. A faint smile he reserved only for Joey. His gaze remained fixed on the young man's face, observing every minute detail—the weary shadows under his eyes, the bite mark on his lower lip, and the lines of exhaustion that couldn't be hidden even in silence.
"Get enough sleep tonight," the man finally said, his voice low but firm. "You're too thin."
Joey let out a soft snort. "You always say that every time we part."
Domenico was silent for a moment, then spoke in a soft tone, like someone choosing his words too carefully.
"I'll be gone for a few days."
Joey immediately turned his head.
"Where?"
"Calabria. A meeting that can't be avoided."
"Suddenly?"
"Not suddenly. I just decided to attend it."
Joey turned his face away. His eyes stared out the window, at the deserted sidewalk and the flower shop with its lights already off.
"Why didn't you say something earlier?"
Domenico didn't answer. He just looked at the profile of Joey's face, now refracted by the dashboard light. Silently, he wanted to touch the nape of that neck—to brush it with his thumb, just to make sure the young man was still there, but he didn't move.
"I won't be long," he said finally. "Three or four days. Fabio will be on guard, he won't enter unless you allow it."
Joey remained silent.
"If anything happens, you know where to go."
Joey stared at the man without saying a word.
Domenico spoke almost in a whisper, "If I don't come back on time... don't panic. But don't wait for me either."
That sentence made Joey's eyes widen, he stared intently at the man.
"What do you mean?"
Domenico gave a small smile—a faint smile that looked more like a wound.
"Sometimes... absence is also a form of protection."
For a moment, the world felt very narrow. There were only the two of them, inside the dark car, surrounded by the shadows of a city that never truly sleeps.
Joey wanted to speak. Wanted to get angry. Wanted to say don't go, or at least—give me a reason to believe you'll come back. But he knew, if he pleaded, he would lose. And Joey Carter didn't like to lose. Even to his own feelings.
So all that came out was one short sentence. "If you die, Dom… I will hate you."
Domenico chuckled softly. "That's not what I fear most."
"What, then?"
"If I die... and you start learning to live without me."
Both of them fell silent. Until finally Joey took a slow breath, opened the door, and got out of the car.
Before entering his apartment building, Joey glanced back one more time. Their eyes met.
There were no goodnights, no hugs. Just a gaze that held too many words and not one successfully spoken.
Domenico started the engine, the Jaguar pulled away slowly, disappearing around the corner of the street.
Joey stood in front of the entrance to his apartment hallway. Hands in his pockets, chest tight with something too heavy to define.
The sky above West Village remained grey, as if unwilling to bear witness to two souls who never knew how to part properly.
.
The kitchen light was on without a sound. The golden yellow light swept over the cold wooden floor, forming long shadows from untouched chairs and tables. But no footsteps followed.
Joey stood still in the doorway, half of his body still in the shadows of the living room. The grey hoodie covered part of his messy hair. He didn't move for several seconds—just standing like someone who hadn't decided whether to enter or go back out.
The air inside the apartment felt colder than outside. Or maybe it was just the silence.
He finally stepped inside, slowly, as if afraid to disturb the silence that had settled overnight. His hand opened the refrigerator door. Inside was only a half-full water bottle, strawberry yogurt that was starting to lose its original color, and a box of leftover yakitori from last night—wrapped neatly in aluminum foil, untouched.
Joey stared at its contents for a few seconds. Then he closed the refrigerator without a sound. No appetite. No reason to sit.
His phone was placed casually on the kitchen table. The screen was blank. No blinking. No sound.
He stared at the object for a long time, as if waiting for something—a ring, a vibration, a notification, a name appearing on the screen. But there was nothing. Not last night. Not this morning.
The digital clock in the kitchen showed 05:32 AM.
The sky outside was still dark. The shadows of buildings clawing at the sky were faintly visible through the window curtains. A taxi passed far below, reflecting light that briefly lingered on his living room ceiling.
Joey pulled his hoodie off over his head, tossing it onto a chair without folding it. Then he walked toward the bedroom. His shoes were placed haphazardly near the wall, and he entered the bathroom.
Cold water hit his face. He didn't complain. Didn't rub his eyes. Just stared at the mirror for a few seconds, measuring the figure staring back from the glass.
The face was still young. But the eyes weren't.
Joey wiped his face with a small towel, took a slow breath, and prepared for a day that felt heavier than yesterday. And somehow, it was already predictable that it would be colder than tomorrow.
The clock on his small bedside table showed 5:45 AM.
Work hours awaited. The world would soon wake up. He had to keep moving, even when parts inside him hadn't truly come home.
---
The air was still biting at Teterboro Airport, New Jersey, even as the sun slowly rose on the eastern horizon. On the deserted private tarmac, a black jet was parked like a predator ready to awaken. The morning air was filled with the sound of heater engines and the hum of electrical generators from the hangar.
Domenico stood motionless under the wing of the plane, his long wool coat lifted slightly by the wind. A neat black shirt, a matching ash-grey tie, and leather gloves only half put on. No entourage, no crowd. Just Fabio behind him, one black leather suitcase, and Matteo De Luca waiting at the plane's door.
"The meeting schedule with Capobastone is locked in. Reggio tonight, Palermo tomorrow, then back to the Luca house," said Matteo, handing over a brief document.
Domenico signed one file without much talk.
"Bring two men from Palermo to guard Villa Cassano. Make sure they're clean. I don't want any leftover Cosa Nostra sniffing the wind," he said flatly.
Fabio nodded, sending instructions through a small radio in his ear.
Domenico's eyes looked to the eastern sky. Morning fog hung low, as if hiding something not yet willing to be seen. For the man, a sky like that wasn't an omen—just a reminder that the world always holds one threat behind every pause.
"Is Joey up yet?" he asked softly.
Fabio answered, "He just left the apartment. Now heading to the studio with Sheira."
A small smile flitted across Domenico's lips—almost invisible, just a brief flash of something too deep to be called longing.
One step, two steps, Domenico climbed the small metal stairs and entered the cabin. Matteo followed. The door closed slowly, the sound of outside air cut off.
Inside, the cabin interior looked calm. Dark brown leather, cherry wood table, two large chairs facing each other with a small unopened wine bottle.
Domenico sat down, took off his gloves, and opened a folder containing photos of a burnt-out warehouse in Queens, initial investigation results, and one black envelope.
He opened that envelope last. Inside were two severed human hands—a polaroid photo with a bloodstamp in the corner. And a scrap of old yellowed paper.
A late-delivered inheritance.
Matteo looked at him from the opposite seat. "A sign from Morales?"
Domenico didn't answer. He slowly tore the photo, folded the paper scrap until it was bullet-sized, and placed it in his breast pocket.
"From now on, we don't receive messages," he said coldly. "We send one answer."
The plane began to move. Outside the window, the overcast sky enveloped New York like a shroud of death.
---
Joey stood under studio lights that were on too bright. Light makeup on his face, hair combed in a messy style—not too neat, not too indifferent. Camera rolling.
"Action. Episode 8. Scene 14. Take two."
He became Kevin Richardson again. A different walk, a deeper voice, shoulders slightly hunched forward. Kevin's gaze today—sharp, full of burden. Too real. Too close.
Charlie watched from behind the monitor, one hand gripping a mug of now-cold coffee. His breath hitched for a moment as Joey delivered a line with a piercing intensity—unlike usual.
Sheira, sitting nearby while noting camera blocking, murmured softly, "He's sharper today. Too deep into the script..."
Charlie answered, his eyes not leaving the screen.
.
At lunch, Joey sat alone in the dressing room. The bento box lay open but untouched. On his lap, three scripts for the final episodes.
His hand stopped on one page. A line from Detective Eli Voss made him pause.
"Some monsters protect what they love. Others destroy it first."
His index finger touched that line, as if trying to touch an inexplicable meaning. Silence hung in the air.
Two soft knocks were heard before the door opened.
"Jo."
Charlie entered, carrying two cans of soda and a pack of muffins in a napkin. "Laura made these this morning. She said, 'give it to the kid who likes to skip lunch.'"
Joey gave a faint, almost invisible smile.
Charlie sat in the chair opposite, offering the soda and placing the muffin on the script.
Joey spun the soda can in his hand, not opening it.
Charlie leaned back. "You look like someone who just left someone and isn't sure yet, whether they should be waited for, forgotten, or forgiven."
Joey sighed. "I'm too tired for all three."
"Last night, what time did you sleep?"
"Three o'clock. Maybe later. Didn't sleep, just... sat still."
Charlie looked at that face for a long time. "Joey, I know I don't have the full right. But if there's one thing I've learned from being a parent—sometimes, you don't need answers. You just need someone to stay."
Joey looked down. Nodded, slowly.
"Anything I can do?" Charlie asked, softer this time.
Joey shook his head.
A few seconds of silence. Then Joey spoke without looking at him, "Have you ever... been afraid to lose someone, but also afraid if they come back?"
Charlie raised an eyebrow. "You talking about that someone who hurt you?"
Joey lifted his face, and for a moment, there was no more Kevin, no more character. Just a boy who'd lost his way.
"I'm talking about someone who made a space inside me. A space I didn't even know was there before. And now, it feels like... it just won't close."
Charlie looked at him for a long time. Then, with a slow movement, he reached out his hand, ruffling Joey's hair—like back then, when they first worked together five years ago. A simple gesture, but it made Joey freeze. Didn't blink.
"Joey..." he said softly, "...you don't have to love everyone who leaves a mark inside you."
Joey held his breath.
"And you don't have to be a victim just to stay feeling close."
Joey nodded. Just briefly. But in his eyes, something was melting—a little. Not gone, but enough to get him through the day.
Charlie got up. But before leaving, he glanced back again.
"Oh, and one more thing," he added lightly, "That muffin is banana. I know you prefer strawberry, but banana helps you sleep better, they say. Or at least, keeps your stomach from yelling."
Joey raised an eyebrow. "You researched that?"
Charlie chuckled. "I'm a dad. Our research starts when our kids stop eating."
The door closed softly.
Silence filled the room again.
But this time,it wasn't a silence that swallowed—but one that gave space to breathe.
Joey looked at the muffin on top of the script, then opened the wrapper. One small bite, then he looked at the script page again.
"Some monsters protect what they love."
This time, the line still hurt. But not as sharp as before.
.
Evening approached.
The studio gradually quieted down—overhead lights turned off one by one, leaving only the sound of the crew's footsteps fading away and distant metal doors closing. Outside, the temperature slowly dropped. The February air bit, sharp and silent.
Joey drove alone. The old grey Volvo moved quietly on the now-emptying streets. Radio off. Just the sound of tires on asphalt and the faint hum of the old engine to keep him company.
He drove along the Hudson River, crossing bridges and winding roads he knew by heart. The glow of city lights reflected on the water's surface, dancing without a definite rhythm. NYC looked distant outside his car window—majestic, foreign, almost like someone else's city. Like someone else's life.
A red light shone at the turn onto Joralemon Street. Joey stopped the car.
And there—in the silence that was too clean—memories came, like uninvited whispers.
"If I die... don't wait for me either."
"If you die,Dom… I will hate you."
"That's not what I fear most."
"If I die...and you start learning to live without me."
The voices came with painful detail. Their tone, the pause between sentences, and the way Domenico drew a breath before saying 'if'. As if it was all recorded in Joey's soul, played back like a broken tape—over, and over, and over.
Joey's hands gripped the steering wheel tighter. His knuckles whitened. Something trembled in the back of his throat—not a cry, not anger. But a kind of bitter awareness.
That he was being—and always had been—trained for loss.
Not ordinary loss. Loss that came silently, without permission. Loss that planted wounds in the body before one could even say no.
The green light came on. The car moved forward again.
The sky above was dark. But not completely black. There was still a faint light in the distance—from a clock tower, a billboard, or from a heart that was still holding on.
Joey drove slowly among old buildings and nighttime traffic that was starting to ease. The shadows of lights passed over his face in turn—bright, then dark, then bright again.
The night continued on, leaving invisible traces along the road.
Leaving behind one young man who was too silent, in a city that was too harsh,
with a love too complicated to be saved.
[•°]
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