Read LIMERENCE [ManxBoy] :: No Rest for the Wicked IV

The air in the underground room felt heavy, damp, and carried the aroma of old whiskey, Cuban cigar, and damp oak wood all mingled into one. The Vault, as it was called in certain circles, was not a place marked on any map. Accessed through a hidden steel door behind a false wall in an old Tuscan trattoria, this room was where kings and consiglieri met far from the eyes of the government and rival spies.

Dim lighting cast a yellowish glow on the exposed brick walls and polished concrete floor. Shelves laden with rare wines and expensive liquors lined one side, like a library for alchemists of sin. The low hum of classic jazz from hidden speakers was almost drowned out by the serious whispers conducted in the tightly sealed oak booths. This was where deals were made, alliances forged, and wars declared—always wrapped in somber luxury and absolute secrecy.

In the rearmost booth, separated from the others by a heavy curtain, Domenico Cassano sat. He had not touched the glass of deep red wine poured for him. His suit, custom-made by a tailor from Naples, looked impeccable even in the low light, a stark contrast to the raw, unadorned surroundings. His ice-like eyes, a dark brown so deep it was almost black, swept the room, noting every detail, every shadow, before finally settling on the man across from him.

Santiago "El Lobo" Morales sat relaxed, his posture deliberately challenging. His black Armani suit was unbuttoned, revealing a white silk shirt and a small gold medallion depicting Santa Muerte—the personification of death—around his neck. It was a bold statement, even for a place like this. Smoke from his Cohiba cigar formed a grey cloud between them.

"Entonces, Don Cassano," Santiago said, his voice hoarse from cigar smoke and too much tequila. "Our proposal must have piqued your interest."

Domenico did not react to the Spanish. His single hand adorned with the family capo ring lay on the table, unmoving. "Unfortunately not, Señor Morales," he replied, his English fluent, his flat tone cutting through the air like a knife.

Santiago's eyes narrowed, his false smile vanished. "Are you sure?" His voice was now lower, more dangerous. "Your port in Baltimore... it's a pearl. And pearls should not be wasted."

"My interests have changed," answered Domenico, remaining calm.

"How convenient!" Santiago grinned, aggressively tapping the ash from his cigar. "You've invested heavily there. You have control. It would be profitable if we worked together. You don't have to imagine—you must already know—how much profit would flow if we used your port for... mercancía especial." He emphasized the words 'mercancía especial'—special merchandise—with a filthy tone.

From behind Domenico, his Consigliere, Giuliano Ferretti, let out a soft, almost inaudible click of his tongue. His cold, bespectacled gaze was fixed on Santiago, observing his every gesture.

"The decision is final," Domenico stated without emotion.

Santiago snorted, leaning forward. "Are you afraid of the DEA? Of the government?"

"I don't sell cocaine anymore," Domenico replied firmly.

"Don't joke!" Santiago let out a short, cynical laugh. "The Sleeping Lion of the 'Ndrangheta? No longer sells cocaine?!"

Domenico was silent. Just a nearly imperceptible glance toward Giuliano was enough, a gesture that calmed the latter.

Santiago narrowed his eyes, trying another provocation. "Or perhaps it's because of him?" His tone changed, becoming more personal, more malicious. He turned to his stoic-faced bodyguard. "What's his name? The little new actor shining so brightly in New York these past few years?"

"Joey Carter, Jefe," the bodyguard answered flatly.

"Ah, sí. Joey," Santiago said, turning his gaze back to Domenico. "You have a relationship with him, Don Cassano? Is he your son from a one-night stand with a woman at your mother's casino in Las Vegas?"

The hand Domenico had on the table clenched. His face remained a mask, but his voice dropped to a low, dangerous vibration. "Don't even think about touching him."

Santiago smirked. "You have good taste."

Domenico's hand clenched at the side of the chair, his expression still flat, but his eyes now glinted like the surface of a sharpened blade.

"Fine," Santiago said, slowly rising. "So, if this cooperation isn't for you, what about offering us that young man instead?"

"What do you mean?" Domenico's voice became low and heavy.

"Don't play dumb, Don Cassano. You've used that young actor often enough. How about just once—you lend him to us? If Don Rafael is satisfied, we'll give you an acre of our territory in Las Vegas. Build a casino however you like."

"Your talk is straying," interjected Giuliano, Domenico's right-hand man.

Santiago ignored him. "So, what do you say, Don Cassano?"

Domenico gave a small smile. A smile that more closely resembled a threat.

Giuliano took a half-step forward, his voice cutting sharply. "This conversation is over."

Santiago ignored Giuliano completely, his gaze fixed on Domenico. "So, Don Cassano?"

Domenico stood up slowly. His movements were smooth, full of menace. A thin, terrible smile appeared on his lips. "Get out of here, before your body is dragged out lifeless."

A piercing silence fell.

Santiago let out a short, tense laugh. "Amenazas de viejo." Old man's threats."

Domenico still had control tonight.

Santiago continued, "You forget, Cassano. We are not Colombian narcos from the 80s you can scare with two bullets to the knees. This is a new era. We are not Pablo's thugs. We are the heirs to hell."

"By the way, Don Cassano." Santiago turned to leave, but at the threshold, he stopped. Without turning around. "Next month, we will control all sea routes from Veracruz to Miami. That route used to belong to your associate in Naples, didn't it? Carbone."

Giuliano growled softly. That name was a warning.

"He refused our offer. So... we simplified his operation. The route is clear now. Very clear. Free from interference. If you change your mind, perhaps we can clear one container for your goods. You don't have to touch cocaine. We hear you like diamonds and Swiss watches."

Giuliano asked with piercing sarcasm, "Now you sell jewelry too?"

Santiago turned, his smile wide and cynical. "Many things are more valuable than cocaine, my friend. The world is changing. And we are no longer ordinary traders. We are building an empire."

He gave Domenico one last sharp look.

"If you're more comfortable with small investments and pretty boys in your lap, stay that way. But don't be surprised if one day, when you open the curtains, this whole city belongs to us."

The door closed with a loud click, leaving a silence that felt heavier than before.

Giuliano approached, his voice low and serious. "He didn't just refuse, Don. He declared war."

Domenico took out a linen handkerchief and slowly wiped his fingertips. "No, Giuliano. He told us who we will be fighting." He took a deep breath. "Send a message to Marseille. Activate our French network. If Morales wants to play on the sea, then we will close the sky for him."

The December air in the West Village bit with a damp cold, carrying the aroma of toasted pretzels from a street cart and the musty smell of old, rattling heaters in apartment windows. The cobblestone streets of Perry Street were bathed in the golden light of vintage street lamps, casting long, dancing shadows on the red brick facades of old buildings.

A black 1992 Jaguar XJ6 pulled up with a smooth hiss of its engine across the street from a Greek Revival-style apartment building. Domenico Cassano stepped out, his tall 192 cm frame wrapped in a five-thousand-dollar cashmere wool coat. He wore no gloves; his left hand, adorned with the Cassano family capo ring of gold set with a black onyx, held the car keys.

He did not look back at his driver, Fabio Moretti, who remained behind the wheel, alert. A slight nod was enough.

Domenico crossed the street with determined steps. His Bruno Magli leather Oxford shoes made almost no sound on the sidewalk. He entered the small, dimly lit lobby of the building. There was no doorman here. His large hand did not hesitate; his deft fingers pressed a four-digit code on the keypad beside an ornate iron door. A soft 'click,' and he entered.

The solid wood door on the third floor was no obstacle either. He turned the key smoothly. He entered a dark room smelling of coffee, old books, and a slight hint of sandalwood clinging to the coat he had just hung on a hook by the door.

He did not turn on the main light. Only city light filtered in through the large window, illuminating dancing dust motes and the silhouettes of furniture. The room radiated a life that felt familiar to him: messy but with its own pattern. Film scripts were scattered on a reclaimed wood table, their covers filled with pencil notes. Stacks of books—from plays to slim novels—formed a small tower near a sofa.

Domenico walked past it all, towards a small dining area tucked into a corner of the main room. A simple oak wood dining table with four chairs. He chose the chair farthest from the window, with his back to it, letting the darkness envelop his back. From this position, his view was directly on the entrance.

As he sat, his large, muscular body blended into the surrounding shadows. His hands, with the pitch-black onyx ring, were placed on the table surface, still and patient. In the silence, only the soft hiss of the heating and the rhythmic tick of an old wall clock could be heard.

The air outside tried to pierce with a biting cold, but inside the book and film poster-filled Chelsea studio apartment, warmth was generated from laughter and boisterous conversation. Chelsea Scott's messy Chelsea apartment felt like a time capsule from the grunge era. The walls were plastered with posters of the recently released Pulp Fiction and The Silence of the Lambs. Stacks of Nirvana, Pearl Jam, and The Smashing Pumpkins cassettes lay scattered next to a Sony boombox playing The Cure's All I Want at a volume loud enough to create atmosphere, but not enough to disrupt conversation.

Joey Carter, with his signature look—his somewhat long, messy blond hair, wearing a thin dark grey sweater and faded jeans—leaned against the window frame overlooking the city view. He held a cup of warm chamomile tea, his conscious choice to stay clear amidst a sea of cheap alcohol. He smiled slightly, enjoying the anonymous freedom amidst this crowd. This was the total opposite of the silence of the Todt Hill mansion or Domenico's discreet surveillance.

Alice, with her short, dyed red hair and black overalls, suddenly appeared beside him. "Still counting the city lights or preparing a monologue for the next scene?" she teased, leaning against the wall.

"Swimming between the two," Joey replied with a lazy smile. "Sometimes it's easier to act happy than to actually feel it."

"You know, for an Emmy winner, you think too much," Alice retorted, taking a sip of cheap red wine from a plastic cup. "Tonight, the rules are simple: no script, no director, and no Charlie watching over you like a mother hen."

From a corner of the room, a commotion sounded. Mark, the burly stuntman who doubled for Joey in dangerous scenes, was showing off a trick, spinning a beer bottle on his hand before opening it without a bottle opener. "Voilà! More useful than method acting!" he declared, met with small applause and cheers from some of the film crew present.

"Look at that," Alice whispered to Joey. "Maybe you should learn that trick. Could be useful for a bar scene in the next movie."

"Or for escaping a boring party," Joey replied quietly, only for Alice to hear, who immediately burst out laughing.

The conversation in the room swirled like a tape on repeat. One group was hotly debating the meaning of the ending of the recently released film The Shawshank Redemption. Another was gossiping about a famous director caught cheating with his assistant. A makeup artist, Sarah, with short purple hair, talked about her plans to move to LA to try her luck in Hollywood.

"Aren't you coming, Joey?" asked Mark, the stuntman, approaching with two cans of beer in his hands. He offered one to Joey, who just shook his head slightly and raised his tea cup.

"New York is crazy enough for me," Joey answered. "LA feels like a giant film set where everyone is playing a role."

"At least there's sun there," Sarah chimed in. "Not snow and eternal melancholy like here."

"Snow is honest," Joey argued softly. "It doesn't pretend to be warm."

The conversation flowed. They talked about how hard it was to find a decent apartment at a reasonable price, about the new director's penchant for making things difficult for actors, and about each other's dreams of being involved in a 'meaningful' project. Amidst it all, Joey quietly observed. He saw how Mark blended in easily, how Alice with her sharp quips became the center of attention, and how Sarah innocently shared her dreams. They were pieces of normal life he had always observed from afar, and for a moment tonight, he felt part of it.

By eleven, the atmosphere began to subside. Some people started saying goodbye, hugging and promising to meet on set next week. Joey helped Alice clean up some plastic cups and empty cans.

"Are you okay getting home alone?" Alice asked as Joey put on his worn-out coat.

"West Village isn't too far. I need the air," Joey replied.

"Don't forget, script rehearsal tomorrow at ten. Charlie will be furious if we're sleepy," Alice reminded him, hugging him tightly.

"Charlie is always furious. It's part of his charm," Joey replied with a smile.

He stepped out of Chelsea's apartment, leaving the warmth and noise to enter the quiet Christmas night in Manhattan. The sky was pitch black, starless, illuminated only by city light reflecting off low clouds. Small snowflakes began to fall, swirling in the cold wind before landing on his coat and the deserted sidewalk.

Joey walked. His breath formed warm puffs of steam in the freezing air. This tranquility was different from the earlier crowd, but it gave him the same space to breathe. He passed closed restaurants, dark shops, and a few bars still lively with laughter and music.

[•°]