"Well, Mr. Cassano? Surely you're interested," said a man as he adjusted the hem of his unbuttoned black suit. He was seated on a sofa facing the man he addressed as Mr. Cassano, separated only by a sleek black glass table inside a Bauhaus-style room—cold and elegant.
His full name was Domenico Cassano, the king of high-end nightlife. Arrogant, charismatic. His presence captivated women and men alike, even as he entered his forties. But what the world saw was only the surface. Domenico was more than that. He was the Godfather—the supreme leader of an organized crime syndicate born in Calabria that had since expanded its reach to many countries, including the United States.
With calm hazel eyes and an expression carved in stone, Domenico Cassano replied,
"I'm afraid not, Mr. Morales."
The man—Santiago "El Lobo" Morales—narrowed his eyes. His voice low, laced with threat.
"And why would you turn down an offer from me?"
Domenico's face remained impassive, like a marble statue granted breath.
"You've invested heavily in that port. You hold power. It would be far more profitable if you worked with us. No need to imagine—you know exactly how much we'd gain if that port were used for cocaine trafficking."
There was a faint clicking sound from a man standing behind Domenico. Silent like a shadow, he was completely ignored by Santiago, who kept talking.
"My decision hasn't changed," Domenico said firmly.
Santiago scoffed. "Afraid of getting sniffed out by the government?"
"I no longer deal in cocaine," Domenico stated bluntly.
Santiago gave a dry, mocking smile—as if he were about to laugh but couldn't find the humor.
"You must be joking." His eyes narrowed, locking onto Domenico's steady hazel gaze.
Domenico didn't flinch. He let Santiago rant, let the man reveal himself.
"Is this the end of Mister Domenico Cassano? Capo di tutti capi from Calabria? The head of 'Ndrangheta choosing to run nightclubs for miserable fools instead of dominating international trade?"
A slight glance was exchanged with the Consigliere standing behind him. Calm—but razor sharp.
Santiago Morales—of Mexican-American descent—was more than a smuggler. He was a direct heir of the Morales family, a powerful cartel rooted in Guadalajara and now prowling the U.S. East Coast. He had been sent personally by Don Rafael Morales, the head of the Mexican side, to negotiate a partnership with Cassano.
Santiago narrowed his eyes.
"Is it because of him?"
His tone now held something personal.
"What's his name? That rising young actor from the last two years?" Santiago turned to one of his bodyguards.
Domenico's hazel eyes blinked—just once, almost imperceptibly—but enough for Luciano, who had known him for years, to recognize the exact moment Santiago struck a nerve.
"Joey Carter," the guard whispered.
"Ah, Joey. What's your relationship with him?" Santiago sneered, not waiting for an answer. "Your son from some streetwalker? Or maybe—"
"Don't even think about touching him."
Santiago smirked, satisfied he had poked the beast.
"You have interesting taste."
Domenico's hand clenched against the armrest. His face remained blank, but his eyes now gleamed like a sharpened blade.
"Fine," Santiago said, rising slowly. "If the deal isn't for you, then how about offering us the boy instead?"
"What do you mean?" Domenico's voice dropped an octave—low and cold.
"Don't act stupid, Mr. Cassano. You've used the boy enough. How about just once—lend him to us? If Don Rafael's pleased, we'll give you a full hectare of land in Las Vegas. Build your own casino, whatever you like."
"This conversation is derailing," Luciano, Domenico's right hand, cut in.
Santiago ignored him. "So what's your answer, Mr. Cassano?"
Domenico gave a small smile. One that was far closer to a threat than amusement.
"Leave. Before I have you dragged out with a bullet through your head."
For a moment, silence thickened around them like smog.
Santiago "El Lobo" Morales didn't blink. He kept that half-smile, a mockery of politeness.
"Old threats from an old man," he murmured as he brushed off a crease in his jacket. "You must have forgotten, Mr. Cassano. We're not the Colombians from the '80s you could intimidate with two bullets to the knees. This is a new era. We're not Pablo's boys. We are the heirs of hell."
Domenico said nothing. He simply tilted his head slightly—and with that subtle motion, the room turned from cold to dangerous.
Santiago glanced briefly at Luciano.
"You're funny, right-hand man. Don't let your tongue out-sharp your boss. Could get it cut off if you talk wrong."
Luciano remained still. But his right fingers began curling near a grip hidden beneath his coat. A small weapon. Not the time yet.
Santiago turned to go, but paused at the threshold.
His steps halted, like a handbrake suddenly pulled. He turned just enough to cast a smirking shadow.
"By the way, Mr. Cassano," he said lightly, "starting next month, we'll be controlling the sea route from Veracruz to Miami."
Domenico slightly turned his head. Silent—but attentive.
"That route used to belong to one of your old friends, didn't it? Old man Carbone from Naples?"
Luciano growled low. That name was known—and not one meant to be tossed around lightly.
Santiago continued with misleading calm,
"He didn't respond to our offer. So we streamlined the shipping structure."
"He's dead?" Domenico asked flatly.
Santiago didn't answer directly. He merely shrugged.
"What matters is, the route is clean now. No taxes, no conflict. If you change your mind, there's still space in one of the containers for your goods. You don't need to touch coke. We know you like diamonds. Swiss watches."
Luciano gave a mocking laugh. "You selling timepieces now?"
Santiago grinned.
"There are more valuable things than cocaine, Mr. Luciano. The world's changed. We're not just drug peddlers anymore—we're building empires."
He looked straight at Domenico.
"If you still find comfort in club lights and pretty boys in your lap, that's fine. But don't blame us if one day, when you open your curtains, the entire city already belongs to us."
Domenico remained silent. But his expression stiffened ever so slightly.
Santiago gave a final nod, then stepped out.
Once the sound of his footsteps vanished down the hall, Luciano approached.
"He's challenging you, Don."
"He's showing us who we're at war with."
Domenico inhaled deeply, then shut his eyes for a moment.
"Send a message to Marseille. Activate the French network. If Morales wants to play on the sea, then we'll close the sky on him."
---
"Where are you spending Christmas Eve?" asked a honey-blonde woman, her tone light as she dabbed powder on her cheeks. The question was directed at her two friends in the makeup room.
"Home, with family," said the woman with black hair, checking her eyeliner in the mirror. "What about you?"
"I want to go to Prima Neve Miracles."
"That place..." murmured the third woman, who had been silent the whole time, "...always reminds me of Mr. Cassano."
The question lingered in the air before the second woman turned.
"What do you think he's doing on Christmas Eve?"
"Sipping expensive wine in a warm lounge," the blonde grinned flirtatiously, "...with one or two gorgeous women by his side."
"If only I were one of them," whispered the third woman, and the three giggled.
Not far from them, Joey was putting on his coat. He heard the conversation but had no intention of joining in. His expression was blank. Apathetic.
To the public, Domenico Cassano was just a wealthy, charismatic man—owner of an exclusive, glamorous chain of nightclubs. A mysterious figure that lived in countless fantasies.
But Joey—who had seen him up close, who knew the darkness behind the tailored suits and aged wine—knew that image was a façade.
Cassano wasn't just a nightclub owner. He was the boss of 'Ndràngheta—and no one near him was ever truly safe.
Joey zipped his coat to his neck. The cold air outside awaited.
His assistant, Sheira, had already gone home. Per his own request.
Tonight, Joey had another matter to attend to. One he intended to handle alone.
---
A Volvo 240 pulled up in front of a glass-covered high-rise, rising proud among the many buildings of Manhattan. Inside was a world of premium entertainment—nightclubs and lounges reserved for the upper-middle class and selected VIPs.
The driver rolled down the window halfway. A pair of icy blue eyes scanned the scene calmly. Luxury cars and limousines bustled in and out, marking the city's lively night scene.
Just a coincidence, Joey thought, as he spotted a very familiar figure stepping out—flanked by a bodyguard and a stunning woman clinging to his arm.
Domenico Cassano.
Dressed in a dark suit, the man headed toward a black Cadillac Fleetwood already waiting at the curb. A driver in formal uniform promptly opened the door.
Joey watched from his Volvo.
Domenico leaned in, whispering something to the woman. Seconds later, she turned and walked away, clearly disappointed—perhaps dismissed.
At that exact moment, Joey's Motorola MicroTAC cellphone began to ring from the passenger seat. He glanced at it, but didn't move to answer.
Across the street, Domenico looked down at his phone.
No need to guess—Joey knew who he was calling.
Instead of answering, he grabbed the phone and expertly popped out the battery in one motion.
Out there, Domenico lingered for a moment. But not for long. He finally stepped into the Cadillac, followed by his driver. A black escort car with tinted windows trailed behind.
Joey remained still inside the Volvo. His gaze pierced the night, though his thoughts drifted far away.
---
The digital clock in the kitchen read 11:12 PM when Joey unlocked his apartment door. The cold air entered with him, carrying the scent of snow and the faint trace of laughter that hadn't quite faded.
He removed his coat, hung it up, and walked into the kitchen.
The light was already on.
Someone was there.
"Merry Christmas, Joey."
"Dom..." Joey sighed.
"You're late. I thought kids nowadays celebrated Christmas by going to bed early."
"I'm not a kid, Dom."
Domenico crossed one leg over the other, half-smirking.
"You'll always be a kid to me."
Joey ignored him.
"Make me a coffee," Domenico requested, his eyes never leaving Joey's movements since he'd entered.
"You didn't even ask permission to come in."
"You haven't changed the locks in two years."
Domenico raised a brow—challenging.
Joey wasn't in the mood to argue tonight. He grabbed a cup from the cabinet, spooned in some coffee, added sugar, poured hot water. He placed it on the table in front of Domenico and made himself green tea. No cream, but Domenico had never complained—he never minded the coffee when he barged in uninvited.
"Still using the same brand?"
"If you don't like it, stop coming. Or bring your own barista."
"Maybe someday. But I still prefer coffee made by your hands."
Joey shot him a glare. "That's a terrible pickup line."
"Wasn't a pickup line. Just nostalgia."
They sat facing each other. Joey brought his tea and some biscuits. Domenico stirred his coffee.
"You know," Joey started, "your name came up twice today. Once by a rookie actress who said you were her dream man, and once by the director—who called you a devil in a suit."
"That actress has good taste. And the director? Probably jealous."
"Jealous that you steal the spotlight without even filming?"
Domenico chuckled. "Or that I can sit in your kitchen at eleven at night and still get served coffee."
Joey smirked. "Did you forget? I brewed it with hate."
Silence.
"You should get married. What are you now, 40? That's old." Joey said, answering his own question.
Domenico replied casually. "What if I don't want to? Marriage doesn't stop aging."
"Who's going to take care of you in your old age?"
"I don't need that. I can hire a nurse."
"Old age's already here—you're forty–"
"Forty-one, actually," Domenico corrected.
Joey narrowed his eyes. "You could have any beautiful woman out there."
"But the one sitting in front of me is the most beautiful."
Joey shook his head, scoffing as he sipped his tea.
"Asshole," he muttered.
"You always know how to make me feel flattered and sick in the same sentence."
Domenico grinned. "It's a talent. Or maybe a side effect of loving someone for too long."
"You don't love me. You loved my mother. You couldn't have her, so you settled for me."
"What you just said… is true. But not completely true." Domenico stood.
"I'll be in Sicily for a month. Business. Take care of yourself. Don't make a scandal while I'm gone."
He turned to leave.
Joey snorted, watching him with a look that was almost soft—almost.
"And stop shooting people in churches. It's not elegant."
Domenico chuckled.
"But it's effective."
As he reached the door, a hand caught his sleeve.
"What?" Domenico asked softly.
Joey didn't answer. He only looked—those blue eyes full of pain, and just a bit of courage.
A crooked smile touched Domenico's lips.
And then—he pulled Joey into a fierce kiss, a wild tangle of lips and hunger.
---
¹ Boss of all bosses.