The clock in the kitchen ticks slowly. The chandelier is still on, illuminating the wooden table full of breadcrumbs, coffee dregs in a mug, and one cold, empty plate. The scent of skin and tobacco still clings faintly to the air—like the trace of someone who left without saying a word.
Joey stands still in the kitchen doorway. The grey hoodie he's wearing hangs loosely on his slender frame, the sleeves rolled up a bit revealing old scars on his wrists. His hair is messy, bangs falling into eyes not fully awake.
Joey takes a slow breath, then walks to the small shelf in the corner of the living room. There, he turns on an old tape player and inserts an old tape—soft jazz flows from the dull speakers, filling the room like morning mist.
He takes a disposable camera from the desk drawer. His hands move slowly, as if this ritual isn't just about taking pictures, but preserving something fragile—memories that could vanish at any time.
Click.
One shot aimed at the window, where morning light sneaks through the lace curtains.
Click.
Another towards the old sofa where Domenico usually sits reading the newspaper silently while sipping coffee.
Joey sits cross-legged on the floor, camera placed beside him. He opens the book—the one Domenico tried to snatch from him to read yesterday—from under the table, its pages already filled with handwritten notes, script annotations, and small newspaper clippings pasted with glue.
Today, he writes slowly.
March 1, 1995
11:06 AM
I woke up with the scent of his body still on the pillow. He didn't say anything last night, just slept as usual, held me as usual, then left as usual.
But why does this morning feel emptier than usual?
I know he won't talk about anything before it's time. But his silence always holds something more... something biting from within, like a bullet never fired but already burning in the chest.
I want to be angry, but instead I sit here, writing this. As if it could stop the world that's slowly starting to crack.
Joey stops. Closes the journal slowly, placing his hands on its cover.
Outside, the world moves as usual. For Joey, time feels like it's postponing something—as if there's a distant explosion waiting, and he isn't ready to hear it.
Then he picks up his camera again.
Click.
A self-portrait in front of the mirror—blue eyes that look empty, a worn hoodie, and remnants of the night still not fully gone from his face.
*
A purplish sky hangs over the Hudson River, a thin mist rises from the water's edge framing the city's horizon. The Morelli family's Rooftop Bar is on the top floor of an old hotel, a Beaux-Arts style limestone building owned and protected since Prohibition in Upper Manhattan.
Behind the transparent glass, two silhouettes sit across from each other. Santiago Morales wears a pristine white suit contrasting with the dark sky. Across from him, Don Ernesto Morelli sits calmly, a dark grey suit framing his slender yet still sturdy frame in old age. A Cuban cigar glows in his right hand, and a book of classic Italian poetry lies open on his lap.
Don Ernesto Morelli is one of the Five Families, a holder of power in the shadows. He's known as the Don who whispers, a strategist who almost never speaks in a raised voice. He doesn't need to threaten—his name is enough to make people think twice.
"What are you offering, Santiago?"
Ernesto's voice is heavy and low, like a stone slowly rolling inside a marble room.
Santiago smiles slightly, stirring reposado tequila in a crystal glass. His gaze briefly rests on the cityscape before returning to the old man before him.
"Not an offer, Don. An opportunity."
Ernesto raises an eyebrow slowly, waiting for the young man to explain.
"Cassano rejected us. He thinks the Bedloe's Island harbor is too sacred to touch cocaine. He talks about principles."
Santiago sneers.
"As if, in this world, principles only last as long as profits keep coming in."
Ernesto blows smoke, letting it rise like a curtain of haze between them.
"And you want to bring him down?"
"Not alone."
Santiago leans in, his voice lower but sharp.
"You and I know, Don. Cassano has crossed a line. He's not just a Don. He's a legend. That's the problem."
He slips a small envelope onto the table. Inside: a photo of Joey Carter, walking alone in the rain after a shoot. Blurry resolution, but the message cannot be ignored.
"You know this, right? The kid? So precious."
Ernesto glances at the photo without touching it. He recognizes that young face. Not from the news—but from stories circulating like poison among gambling tables and church pulpits.
Santiago continues, "I've taken over the old Carbone sea routes—the old Naples lines. We're using the Marseille-Civitavecchia route, and one of Cassano's ships carrying diamonds from Antwerp vanished in the fog. No proof. No claims. But enough to make him realize we can touch his legal assets too."
"A small provocation. An early warning. And if he still refuses, we make him exit the stage."
Ernesto closes his book slowly. He looks at the young Mexican man, for a long time. The gaze of a man who has witnessed more blood and betrayal than the underworld can bear.
"You want to get rid of the old lion by burning his den first?" asks Ernesto, his voice like a heavy breath.
"I want him to know the world doesn't change just because he fell in love."
Silence.
"How long can the world bow to a man who refuses war, but keeps his lover in a gilded cage?"
"We can share the harbor. You get a share. You get European routes. And I'll make sure that lion never roars again."
Ernesto closes his eyes for a moment. Then looks at the photo of Joey, and slowly tears it in two. Not out of fear. But out of disgust. Because too many young Dons are starting to play dirty with things that should be left out of the war table.
"You made him human, Domenico...," he murmurs softly, almost to the shadows.
He stands, takes his coat from the back of the chair. The cigar in his hand is already extinguished.
He makes one call—a private red phone connected only to the old network.
"Send someone to Palermo. I want to know if Cassano already knows we're being targeted..., or is still busy hugging his boy."
The sky turns deep purple. In the distance, Manhattan's lights come on one by one.
"And don't touch the kid," Ernesto says coldly.
"Not yet. Let's see first, how brave Cassano is when his little heaven starts to burn."
Santiago remains seated. Smiles thinly.
"Of course. But even a lion can be shot from afar."
.
.
Don Ernesto Morelli stands alone on the glass balcony, his right hand holding the extinguished cigar stub. Behind him, the glass door is still half-open, leaving the trace of the Mexican man's breath who just left carrying threats wrapped in an offer.
Ernesto doesn't say anything. He just closes his eyes, lets the wind slap his wrinkled face gently, then heaves a long sigh—a breath from a past that never truly fades.
"Cassano..."
That name settles in his mind like old wine sediment at the bottom of a glass. Not just a name. But a legend. A wound. An ally. A threat.
He remembers first seeing the young Domenico in Palermo in '79—standing calmly while all the old Dons yelled in a meeting. The man's eyes were dark and cold like the Calabrian sea, but his mouth spoke softly and everyone listened.
Ernesto never liked Cassano's style—too quiet, too personal. But he respected one thing: Cassano's firmness never came from fear.
They once shared a table. Once removed Don Carbone together. Once bet on harbor routes that are now a source of conflict. But since that kid—Joey—appeared, Cassano changed. Not weaker. But flammable.
"Love, huh. Gives that lion a blind spot."
Ernesto stares at the horizon. Manhattan slowly lights up one by one. The world changes. Few old Dons remain. Those still standing today must choose: follow the new current or be buried with history.
He raises the empty cigar, then drops it to the street 30 floors below.
"If you come to me, Dom...," he murmurs. "I hope you come as your old self."
Because if not...
Ernesto knows, the bloodshed will start not from the harbor, not from weapons—but from a weakness planted by love.
And he, Don Morelli, will not be the first to pull the trigger.
But also not the last.
[]
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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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