As soon as Joey entered the apartment, the bathroom became his destination without a word. Only the sound of the door closing and the rush of the shower told Sheira that Joey was washing away the fatigue, whether from the outside world or from within himself.

Meanwhile, Sheira began her routine tasks.

She opened the small suitcase she usually brought when visiting, taking out clean, ironed, and neatly folded clothes. She sorted the clothes in the closet—setting aside old, wrinkled shirts, matching outfits with the filming schedule she had memorized. A black blazer for a talk show, a white linen shirt for a photoshoot, a soft grey sweater that Joey liked to wear on cold days.

She checked the vitamin supply on the small table near the bed, rearranged the bottles, replaced the water in the small dispenser with fresh water. Then, she opened the window slightly to let the air circulate. In between her activities, she also glanced at Joey's work schedule on the clipboard she always carried.

Sheira noticed how this apartment felt more like a "stopover" than a home. The place was clean and orderly, but there was always a sense of estrangement—as if Joey never truly settled into himself.

A few minutes later, the sound of bare feet was heard.

Joey returned from the bathroom, his hair still wet and dripping onto the blue bathrobe hanging loosely on his body. He opened the freezer and grabbed a bottle of orange juice, then walked leisurely towards the bedroom. Sheira was still there, busy selecting clothes for the next two days.

A pair of arms encircled Sheira's waist from behind.

"Joey, stop that!" she pleaded. She knew all too well the young man's mischievous habits when his mood was..., ambiguous.

But Joey didn't immediately release his embrace. Instead, he brought his face close to Sheira's nape, inhaling the scent of soap and her gentle perfume.

"Is that how you treat an older woman, by ignoring her request?"

Joey sighed, then reluctantly let go of the hug.

"Stop talking about the age difference between us," he said, annoyed.

Sheira just chuckled softly and turned to face Joey. Her eyes were warm, but firm—the look of someone who knew too much but chose not to judge.

"Go to sleep. Put on your pajamas. Don't just wear this bathrobe. You'll catch a cold."

One of her hands brushed through Joey's blonde mane, stroking it gently like an older sister would a younger brother.

Joey took that hand, and before Sheira could pull away, he kissed her fingers one by one with a flirtatious gesture that made the woman sigh.

"Do as I say, okay?" Sheira slowly withdrew her hand, handing over a set of pajamas. Joey accepted it, though his face showed reluctance.

After Joey changed, Sheira checked one last time: the remaining script, and a document Joey needed to sign tomorrow morning. She placed everything neatly on the desk.

The clock showed nearly midnight.

"Don't you want to stay the night?" Joey asked with a charming smile that only appeared when he was trying to flirt with someone.

Sheira snorted. "Don't tease me, you naughty boy."

She pinched Joey's cheek before grabbing her bag and walking away. "See ya."

Joey just nodded and said nothing until the sound of the door closing.

And as usual, once Sheira left, silence immediately enveloped the room.

Joey collapsed onto the bed, staring into the dark ceiling in silence.

In the quiet, Joey stared blankly at the pale white ceiling of his apartment.

Solitude gave him peace, but also an unbearable emptiness.

No sound, no music. Only the ticking of a clock and the hum of the old heater in the corner of the room.

Then, a faint vibration from his Motorola phone—tucked between the film script and a small notebook filled with scribbles. The sound seemed to cut through the void, pulling him out of the moments where he was almost asleep, curled up, hugging himself.

Joey lifted his head, squinting lazily at the screen.

Unknown number.

But he knew, all too well.

That number never had a name saved, but its messages were always the same.

Come down. Someone is waiting for you across the street.

No greeting. No timestamp.

Like a summons from the past arriving at its own convenience.

Joey took a deep breath, as if trying to release something from his chest, but what came out was only a resignation that seemed aged beyond his years. He got up slowly, grabbing the black pea coat still draped over the sofa. Faded, smelling strongly of alcohol. Not his, not his choice, but this world didn't offer much room for things that were entirely clean.

He put on a black bowler hat, covering part of his face.

He glanced briefly at his own reflection in the mirror—blue eyes that now looked empty, yet held something too sharp to be called dead.

The door closed, the apartment was locked, and the night swallowed him.

Joey walked out through the lobby, crossing the quiet, cold streets of the West Village. The night wind hit his face, carrying snowflakes that melted on his cheeks.

Across the street, exactly as instructed, a black Jaguar of the latest model was parked with its engine still running. Leaning against the car was a man—tall, sturdy, with a close-cropped haircut and a dark suit that wasn't thick enough to hide the bulge of a weapon under his jacket. His face was hard, typically Mediterranean Italian, with eyes that scanned the surroundings with high alertness.

The man didn't greet him, only opened the rear door of the Jaguar. His movements were efficient, emotionless. As if leaving no room for Joey to question or refuse.

Joey got in without a single word.

The man closed the door, then quickly got into the driver's seat. The car glided away smoothly—without an announced direction, only a predetermined destination.

In silence, Joey leaned against the window, watching the city lights pass by one by one like old memories arriving uninvited.

If he asked where they were going, the answer still wouldn't put him at ease.

Because, in truth, Joey already knew tonight wasn't about leaving, but about returning.

Returning to someone. Returning to a grip that was never truly released.

*

A December night in Manhattan cut to the bone. From within the warm Jaguar XJ6, Joey watched the first sleety raindrops hit the window, melting into water before they could form a white layer. The black car glided smoothly into the basement of a magnificent skyscraper, The Aethelstan Hotel, a place more resembling a fortress of steel and glass for oil kings and tycoons than a mere lodging.

The elevator they rode in moved silently, shooting upward nonstop. Joey, wearing only fine cotton pajamas and the thick coat Fabio had tossed over his body, felt as if he was being taken to the top of the world—or perhaps into the most luxurious birdcage. Fabio, with his stone-carved face, remained silent, avoiding Joey's questioning and irritated gaze.

Ding.

The elevator doors opened directly into a private foyer. Ahead, there was only one solid, old mahogany door, painted a dark brown with a faintly gleaming carved handle. Fabio reached out to knock, but Joey, with a sudden rebelliousness, pushed the door open himself. He was too annoyed to heed protocol.

He entered an immensely spacious penthouse. The interior was dimly lit, illuminated only by minimalist spotlights highlighting abstract artworks on the walls and the twinkling lights of New York City outside the giant floor-to-ceiling glass walls. The floor was made of glossy black marble, reflecting light like a pool of oil. The air felt cool and smelled of expensive sandalwood and leather.

Across the room, standing with his back to the door, was a man. His silhouette was sharp and authoritative against the backdrop of the living urban canvas. His strong hands elegantly held a crystal glass filled with deep ruby wine as he gazed at the dozens of skyscrapers glittering like jewels in the darkness.

Hearing footsteps, the man turned slowly. His face was handsome with a strong jawline adorned by perfectly groomed stubble, adding an air of maturity and danger. The sharp gaze of his dark brown—almost black—eyes immediately pierced Joey, as if able to read every complaint within him. His nose was perfectly straight, his full lips forming a symmetrical line that now regarded Joey, who was also looking at him with a flat, weary gaze. Without needing to ask, Domenico knew the young man was furious with him.

"Keep me company while I drink!" his baritone commanded, his voice like velvet wrapped around steel, echoing in the soundproofed room. It was met by an annoyed click from Joey's lips, which were already blue from the cold.

"You had Fabio pick me up in the dead of night, wake me from sleep, just to keep you company while you drink?" Joey's voice was full of fatigue and irritation, ringing loud in the luxurious silence.

"Why? It's not as if it hasn't happened before," Domenico answered coldly, indifferent. He turned and walked towards a long, soft black leather sofa, placing his glass on the low black marble coffee table. On that table, several wine bottles awaited. One was particularly striking: Château Lafite Rothschild 1968, a legendary Bordeaux wine whose price could match a new sports car. With a graceful yet precise movement, like an ancient ritual, he poured the deep ruby liquid into a new crystal glass. Every drop was history worth thousands of dollars.

"Sit down and take off your coat!" he commanded, his tone not raised but authoritative, leaving no room for refusal.

Joey remained rooted to the spot, fists clenched at his sides. "Dom, I'm tired. I just fell asleep. I want to rest," Joey said, his voice rising, containing an unbearable whine.

Domenico raised his gaze, his brown eyes narrowing slightly, emitting a subtle threat beautifully wrapped. "In that case, why didn't you obey my order? I could make you much more tired than you feel now."

The sentence hung in the air between them. Joey let out a long, desperate sigh, surrendering to the power play he never won. With a rough motion, he took off his thick coat and tossed it carelessly towards a single armchair, leaving his body clad only in thin, light blue cotton pajamas. Reluctantly, he sat at the farthest end of the sofa, keeping his distance.

However, Domenico's strong, muscular arm soon encircled Joey's shoulders, pulling him gently but firmly closer until their sides touched. The warmth of the man's body contrasted with the cold still clinging to Joey's pajamas.

"Want a drink?" He offered Joey, fully aware the young man disliked wine. It was all part of the power play, a subtle reminder that in Domenico's world, Joey remained a boy more suited to warm chocolate milk before bed.

Joey stared at the expensive wine bottle for a moment, his mind racing; could a sip of this aged wine numb him and free him from this torturous night?

"Give it!" he snatched the glass from Domenico's hand without ceremony. His nose immediately wrinkled at the complex aroma of oak, blackcurrant, and earthy undertones that to his untrained palate tasted like bitter medicine. He took a sip—the smooth yet textured liquid flowed down his throat, leaving a strong tannic taste and a long aftertaste. Joey almost choked, not because of the wine's exceptional quality, but because of his deep-seated dislike for alcohol.

Domenico chuckled softly, a low, amused sound. He took back the glass still holding the precious wine. He drank it down, savoring every layer of flavor with his eyes closed for a moment. Then, with a swift, unexpected movement, he gently but firmly grasped Joey's jaw and covered his mouth with his own lips. The remaining wine in Domenico's mouth flowed smoothly into Joey's, a kiss that was more an act of possession than affection.

Too tired to resist, Joey accepted it unwillingly, choking slightly again as he swallowed the last forced gulp. His small hands clutched Domenico's shirt sleeve, the fine fabric, trying to find an anchor amidst the confusing onslaught of sensations.

But tonight, Domenico was in a good mood. He did nothing else but let the tired, dizzy, and slightly drunk Joey fall into a deep sleep in his lap. Joey's blonde head drooped onto the man's firm thigh, used as a pillow. Joey's expression in sleep was finally peaceful, though still hinting at profound exhaustion. Domenico's left hand moved, with unexpected gentleness, his muscular fingers combing through and caressing Joey's shampoo-fragrant blonde hair, while his right hand poured and savored another of his expensive wines.

The night wore on, within the silence of the luxurious penthouse at The Aethelstan atop Manhattan. Domenico sat like that, like an unshakable king on his throne. He gazed out through the large glass wall, observing the kingdom of the never-sleeping metropolis below, while holding tightly to his most fragile prized possession, finally calm and entirely his, at least for tonight. The sleet began to freeze on the glass, forming ice crystals that reflected the city lights, enclosing them in a luxurious, isolated bubble above the world.

[]