The cafe was open twenty-four hours, but it felt like a transit lounge for people who didn't want to go home. It was located at the end of the block, wedged between a Chinese-owned laundromat and an old pharmacy that only stayed open until nine. Its name wasn't important—the neon letters in its window were partially dead, leaving only the word COFFEE blinking lazily. But Leonhart always chose this place.
The interior was simple; faded red vinyl chairs, round wooden tables that had lost their shine, and a small jukebox near the cash register playing old cassette tapes of instrumental jazz. The room was enveloped in a blend of smells; burnt coffee, cheap floor cleaner, and cigarette smoke, which was still allowed back then. A middle-aged waiter in a faded cream uniform paced around, carrying a large coffee pot from table to table.
Leonhart was already seated when Joey arrived.
His table was in the corner of the room, facing the window, with his back to a partially peeling brick wall. A dim pendant lamp hung low, providing just enough light without making eye contact too obvious. On the wall, a round antique clock had long stopped ticking—as if time had deliberately been frozen in that corner.
Leonhart wasn't wearing a jacket. Just a greyish-white long-sleeved shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hands were clenched on the table, touching a cup of black coffee that seemed to have gone cold.
Joey arrived without a sound. His steps were slow, his green sweater still on, his hair more disheveled from the wind. He sat across without ceremony.
They didn't greet each other.
A waiter came over with a small order pad and a pencil behind his ear. He didn't say much.
"Regular drip, no cream," said Leonhart, as usual.
"Cherry coke on ice," Joey said softly—his voice almost drowned out by the sound of an espresso machine from the back kitchen.
After that, silence. A quiet hung in the air like condensation on the windowpane. Not awkward, but not comfortable either. Like two people who both knew: tonight's conversation would not be ordinary.
The sound of the espresso machine from the back kitchen was faint. From the old speaker on a shelf, instrumental jazz played—truncated saxophone notes that were far from romantic.
Joey leaned back in his chair, his eyes watching Leonhart.
Leonhart kept staring out the window, though his eyes weren't really seeing—as if imagining another world not involving blood and decisions.
The waiter placed two cups on the table. A thin steam rose from the surface, slipping between them like a silent signal.
Joey gripped his glass but didn't drink immediately. His face began to lose its casual lines—a seriousness slowly emerged, like a fog creeping from the edge of his mind.
Leonhard observed the change. He knew the young man across from him didn't like small talk. He wasn't good at it and had no interest in it.
Then that sentence fell, calm and sharp.
"How long are you going to keep being an actor to cover up your real identity?" Joey's voice was almost flat, but the glint in his eyes was like a clear mirror forcing his interlocutor to look at his own reflection.
Leonhard didn't answer immediately. He sipped his coffee slowly, letting the silence hang longer than necessary. Then he sighed.
"I didn't expect to be found out this quickly," he finally said, without irony.
Joey didn't react.
"But let me clarify," Leonhard continued. "Being a hitman isn't my identity. It's my job. There's a difference. If someone mistakes your job—of course, that's annoying. But if they think it's your identity … that hurts, doesn't it?"
Leonhard repeated. "How long are you going to keep being an actor to hide the fact ... that you are 'Don's personal property'?"
Joey's jaw tensed. It wasn't very noticeable, but it was enough for eyes as observant as Leonhard's to catch it.
Leonhard's voice was now softer, almost as if talking to himself.
"So being (Don's personal property) is another part of your job, but people think it's your identity, and you hate that. Or perhaps ... secretly, you enjoy it?" Leonhard didn't wait for Joey to answer. "Just like you. Being an actor is just a side job, my main job is what you already know."
"Our main jobs are what we don't talk about." Leonhard was so relaxed. In stark contrast to Joey.
The young man stared sharply at Leonhard, his gaze piercing—as if wanting to penetrate the dark brown eyes of the man across from him and dig out what hadn't yet been said.
Leonhard held his gaze. Then said, slowly but firmly,
"I know... it's too late to apologize for indirectly dragging you into that murder case. I couldn't back out that night—you just happened to be with Jacob."
Joey didn't blink.
"You don't regret it."
Leonhard didn't evade. He didn't try to defend himself.
"It's part of my job. Whoever was in that place, they were just ... unlucky." He looked at Joey without flinching. "And inevitably, I had to eliminate all potential loose ends. Including any evidence that might have stuck to you. Even if it meant I had to accept the consequences later."
Joey gave a small, flat nod.
"So that's why you infiltrated my apartment."
"Correct."
"And why didn't you just shoot me then?" Joey's tone sounded more curious than accusatory.
Leonhard took a slow breath.
"Because it turned out my target belonged to Cassano. If I had pulled the trigger that night, you can be sure I wouldn't be sitting here now."
The meaning of that sentence hung clearly: he would have been hunted to death by Domenico.
Joey murmured flatly, almost like a mutter to himself.
"I don't belong to anyone."
For the first time, a flicker of surprise passed faintly across Leonhard's face.
A brief pause slipped between them. Not awkward—more like a breath held before another reality was revealed.
Then it was Leonhard's turn to ask. His voice was quieter, almost curious.
"I'm curious, how did you know I was the one?"
Joey raised an eyebrow slightly.
"Because of your expression during filming. There was something too real—your body movements when handling the prop weapon, your breathing during the chase scene. But what confirmed my suspicion," he stared intently at Leonhard, "is that you're the only actor who ever came to my apartment. And I remember your expression when you saw me entering the door code. You might have just stolen a glance ... but I did too."
Leonhard let out a short chuckle—not mocking, more like acknowledging his opponent's keen observation. The glint in his eyes softened, a little more amicable.
They weren't friends. But before the murder case, there had been a sort of unspoken respect between them.
From the remnants of drinks that were no longer warm, from breaths not voiced, they knew—this wasn't the end of their conversation. Just the first pause in a conversation that would become more honest.
"Once you leave this cafe," he said softly, "make sure you keep yourself safe. I can't refuse my job as a hitman, and of course, I know the consequences."
He stood up. The chair scraping back made a soft sound on the old tiled floor. For a moment, Leonhard looked at Joey once more—not as a fellow actor, not as a killer, not as an opponent either—but as the only person who had ever seen the almost human side of him.
"See you," he said quietly. "Maybe not under circumstances like these again."
Then he left. His steps were calm, unhurried. His body dissolved into the night, dampened by streetlights and the lingering February wind. Within seconds, his silhouette disappeared around the corner—like a shadow that never truly stayed.
Joey didn't move. He just sat in his chair, his hands still wrapped around the now-empty glass. His eyes looked out the window—past the reflection of himself—to the street that was beginning to empty.
Watching the spot where Leonhard had vanished.
Outside, the world continued. Cars passed. The wind lifted paper from the sidewalk. Inside the small, quiet cafe, time seemed to stand still.
Joey knew, after tonight, nothing could go back to the way it was.
The wind from the western valley carried the damp scent of fir trees and the nearly neglected olive groves. The morning sun was still dim, its light filtered through the mist hanging between rocks and wild shrubs.
Unconsciously, he had already been in Calabria for three days. Domenico walked slowly through the stone corridor towards the Cassano family altar—a small chapel beside the villa, with old stone walls and a rusty iron cross hanging silently above the door. Each step created a small echo, blending with the chirping of birds and the gentle rustling of leaves.
Inside, there was only one long bench and old candles casting restless shadows on the walls. Beneath the altar, the names of three of their deceased ancestors were carved—Don Giovanni Cassano, Don Enrico, and Don Filippo. The space was never crowded, but it was never truly empty either.
Domenico lit a single candle, did not pray. He just sat, closed his eyes, and let the silence touch him for a moment before rising slowly. Glanced at the altar once, then left.
.
The old wooden table was covered with maps, files, and two new communication radios to be sent to Palermo and Toronto.
The table was surrounded by Domenico's men. There was Giuliano Ferretti, the old Consigliere with his neat suit and sly smile; Claudio Mancini, the treasurer who rarely spoke except about cash flow; and Vittorio Anselmi, who leaned his pistol on the table as if it were a regular pen.
Domenico himself stood at the head of the table.
"Starting tomorrow, all inter-regional communication channels are to be re-encoded. The old VHF system is to be burned. Use the Swiss satellite lines arranged by Mancini," he said firmly.
Giuliano spoke up, his voice soft but cutting. "This is a good protective move, Don. But ... is this also a signal that the New York position will be restructured after the Emilio incident?"
Domenico looked at him. "New York hasn't lost its leader. We've just cleaned out a rat."
Vittorio chuckled softly. "Funny thing, rats are smarter than men when it comes to survival. Unfortunately, Emilio wasn't a rat."
Claudio interjected, "The laundering funds from Queens have entered cleaner channels. I've also diverted real estate investments to the Astoria and Jersey City areas. Safe from FBI radar."
Domenico nodded. "Good. After today, you all return to your respective territories. From then on, surveillance will be layered; no one moves alone."
Giuliano narrowed his eyes, "Including Luca?"
Domenico didn't answer. He just closed his map and said, "Meeting adjourned."
*
Luca was waiting under the old tree as the evening sun blazed on the western horizon. His clothes were casual—a linen shirt and gray pants, not like a Don, more like an ordinary man who had once tried to live a normal life. Still, his eyes held the weight of the world.
Domenico approached slowly, his hand touching the trunk of an olive tree with peeling bark.
"I thought this grove was dead," he murmured.
Luca smiled faintly. "Some of it is dead. But the rest—still grows. Like the Cassanos."
They sat on a simple wooden bench facing the valley.
"Francesca called this morning," Luca said. "She said she's coming next month. She says she wants to see the old olive trees. Or maybe... wants to make sure her children haven't killed each other yet."
Domenico gave a small, cynical laugh. "She cares more about trees than Father."
"She cares about you, Dom. But she doesn't know how."
"Like Father?" Domenico murmured softly.
Luca sighed. "Father is still in the old house. He knows you're in Calabria. You know he's waiting, right?"
Domenico didn't answer. His gaze pierced the horizon, toward the sea not visible through the trees but felt in the salty wind coming from there.
"I went there, in late December," he finally said. "Then left for New York earlier than agreed because Joey got caught up in a murder case that made him a witness."
"Father knew about that," he continued. "He didn't stop me, just sat there, like an old, bored god statue tired of human chaos, and that was enough."
Domenico didn't want to discuss his father at that time—who had clearly seemed to be judging Domenico's decision—though the middle-aged man conveyed it with a calm, aristocratic tone. His speaking style wasn't explosive, but loaded with judgment, sharp sarcasm, and a moral superiority frozen by time.
Enzio Cassano had conveyed many harsh judgments indirectly: that Domenico was disloyal, that Domenico's love for Joey was invalid, that Joey was nothing more than a weak object threatening the family's dignity, and that Domenico's decision was a form of weakness or betrayal of their blood.
"To him, everything is measured by time. Even love, which for him is just another form of control," Luca murmured as if reading his brother's thoughts now.
Domenico took a deep breath, then said, "I hesitate to see him again."
"Why?" Luca asked softly.
"Because I'm afraid not only of becoming him, but worse—repeating him, and calling it love. That everything I do for Joey—protection, power, even affection—isn't love, but possession. The way he did with his family."
The evening wind passed through the olive leaves, creating a rustling sound like ancestral whispers.
Luca finally said, "You haven't made Joey your shadow. You haven't created fear, Dom. You even let him go."
"Not because I'm better," Domenico countered. "It's because I'm afraid of losing the only person who makes me want to be better."
Luca looked down. "That's enough."
The sky began to darken. The shadows of the trees lengthened on the dry ground. In the distance, a church bell tolled three times.
The two men sat in silence, with the awareness that between them stretched two generations of a family that never truly knew how to love each other without hurting.
The Calabrian sky that evening was cloaked in low-hanging gray clouds, carrying the salty air from the Ionian Sea. Waves crashed against the rocks below the cliff, cycling like the heartbeat of the ancestral land—old, stubborn, and never truly calm.
In the sitting room of the left wing of his old villa, Enzio Cassano sat like a living statue. A heavy olive wood chair supported his aged body, though the sharpness in his eyes remained as it was. Beside him, a small table with a daily newspaper, chamomile tea no longer warm, and an old pocket watch that never changed its place.
On the bookshelf, a small radio played static-filled local news, its voice half-drowned by the roar of the waves. But that wasn't what held the old man's attention that afternoon.
An old servant, Paolo, entered with careful steps. In his hand, a formal letter stamped with the seal of the Cassano Family—an old symbol only used in federation matters. Paolo didn't say a word. He just placed the letter on the table, bowed, and left.
Enzio stared at the envelope for a long time. His thin, veined fingers slowly opened the red wax seal, almost with reverence.
Its contents were brief. A copy of closed minutes.
"Il Leone Dormiente has summoned all Capobastone to Calabria."
Location: Villa Cassano.
Agenda:Restructuring of power, cessation of cocaine routes, and identity security.
Authorized by Don Domenico Cassano.
Enzio raised his head. His eyes narrowed.
"He returns to this land ... and doesn't come to see me."
His trembling hand picked up the teacup, then set it down again before it touched his lips. Not from weakness, but because his chest suddenly felt too heavy.
Several minutes passed in silence. Only the cry of seagulls from outside the window occasionally shrieked—resembling the mocking laughter of nature.
Finally, he spoke, not to anyone, just to the room and himself. "That boy can kill anyone. Bring down half of New York's underworld. Yet, he's still afraid to look me in the eye."
He laughed—dry, soft, and bitter.
"Because he knows. His blood is still mine. And I can see all the lies he tells himself."
Enzio stood up slowly. His body was still fit though his old bones creaked. There was nothing weak in the way he looked out the large window, where sea and sky met in gray shadow. The middle-aged man who shaped the monster named Domenico Cassano—took the pocket watch from his table. Watched its hands keep moving, then gripped it tightly.
"He thinks he can create a new world from these ruins. Every building still needs a foundation. And the Cassano foundation is me."
The sun didn't truly set that evening. It just sank quietly behind the clouds, leaving a dim light and a shivering air.
[]
Francesca, the mother of Domenico and Luca.
[•°]
Have you ever fallen in love until you lost yourself?
LIMERENCE is a story about quiet love, unspoken obsession, and feelings too deep to be ignored.
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