The sound of the apartment door clicking open felt loud in the silence. Joey stepped inside, inhaling the familiar scent of his own space—coffee, old books, and a hint of wood—but tonight, a foreign element was immediately palpable, like a dissonant note in a symphony he knew by heart.

His steps halted for a moment. His eyes, accustomed to the gloom, caught a large silhouette sitting upright on the dining chair in the corner of the room. The silhouette was too solid, too authoritative, to be just a shadow. Joey took a deep breath, his heart pounding once, hard, before calming again. This was not the first time. The surprise was worn out, replaced by a kind of deep weariness.

He took off his coat and tossed it onto the sofa without looking, then walked to the small kitchen area. The kitchen light he switched on illuminated Domenico's face, half-hidden in shadow. The man sat calmly, his hands clasped on the table. His onyx ring absorbed the light, pitch black.

"Merry Christmas, Joey," Domenico's voice, a deep, familiar baritone, echoed in the silence of the studio apartment.

Joey did not answer immediately. He took a can of cheap coffee from the cupboard, pouring it into a faded cartoon mug. "Make me a coffee," the man's earlier statement was not a request, but a soft command.

With automatic movements, Joey poured hot water from the kettle into the mug, stirred in cheap granulated sugar with a small clinking spoon. The harsh aroma of instant coffee filled the air, a stark contrast to the aroma of select bean coffee that always hung in the Todt Hill mansion. He didn't use a machine; this was a silent statement, a small rejection of the luxury the man represented.

Joey made a cup of chamomile tea for himself. As he returned to the dining table, carrying both mugs, Domenico did not move. Joey placed the coffee mug in front of Domenico and sat across from him, clutching his warm tea as if seeking protection.

Domenico picked up the mug, his long, strong fingers encircling the ceramic object that felt foreign and fragile in his grasp. He took a sip. Immediately, his thick brows furrowed, feeling the roughness and bitterness of the liquid on his tongue, accustomed to smooth, complex coffee. Yet, no protest came out. He swallowed and took another sip, accepting this small humiliation with the attitude of a king receiving tribute from commoners.

A tense silence enveloped them, broken only by the sound of Joey sipping his tea. City light from the window cut across the table between them, separating two worlds that never truly united.

It was Joey who broke the silence, his voice flat, almost like a challenge. "Get married, Dom." He paused, as if deliberately choosing his words. "How old are you now? 40? That's old."

"41, to be precise." Domenico did not lift his gaze from the coffee mug. "What if I don't want to?" he replied indifferently. "Besides, getting married won't stop aging."

"What will your father say later," Joey jabbed, intentionally targeting what he knew was a complex family matter.

For the first time since Joey entered, Domenico raised his eyes. That dark brown gaze pierced, cold and sharp. "My father," he said slowly, meaningfully, "has long lost the right to give advice about who I should love."

The sentence hung, heavy with unspoken meaning. Joey felt his chest tighten. He took a breath, and then released his final arrow, a sarcasm he had long stored, full of bitterness and confusion.

"You don't love me," Joey said, his voice trembling though he tried hard to stay steady. "You loved my mother. You couldn't have her, so you settled for me instead." He looked straight into Domenico's eyes, challenging, waiting for the Don to deny or get angry.

Domenico was silent for a moment. His face was an unreadable mask. Then, a thin, faint, and sad smile—very rarely seen—appeared at the corner of his lips. "You've always been wrong about that, Joey," he said, his voice suddenly very soft, almost like a whisper. "I never saw Roxanne in you. She was a wild fire that ended up burning herself. You..." he paused, his eyes probing Joey's face with an intensity that made Joey want to flee, "...you are the shadow left by that fire. Colder, deeper, and harder to understand. And you are the only shadow I want to hold."

Joey was stunned. That answer was not a denial, but a deeper and more terrible confession than he had imagined. It was an admission that Domenico's love—if it could be called love—was for him, Joey, with all his complexity and wounds, not as a substitute for anyone. It felt more frightening.

Domenico then downed the rest of his bitter coffee, leaving black dregs at the bottom of the mug. He set it down slowly on the table. The sound of ceramic touching wood sounded like a period.

"I'm going to Calabria," he said abruptly, changing the mood drastically.

Joey frowned. "Why? Is there a problem?"

"Business," Domenico answered shortly, standing up. His large body seemed to fill the entire room. He looked at Joey, still seated, his face a mix of confusion and relief. "Take care of yourself, Joey."

That was all. Without further farewell, without a touch, Domenico turned and walked towards the door. The sound of his footsteps was almost at the end of the corridor when a touch stopped him.

Joey, with a spontaneous movement that even surprised himself, grabbed the man's arm. His smaller hand gripped the sleeve of Domenico's smooth suit.

Domenico stopped. His body tensed under the touch. Slowly, he turned. His dark eyes swept over Joey's face, now filled with turbulent emotions—anger, confusion, need, and desperation finally overflowing.

It was an unspoken invitation, a surrender Domenico had not forced tonight.

With a swift, unstoppable movement, Domenico turned. His large hand grabbed Joey's waist tightly, pushing him back several steps until Joey's back slammed hard against the unclosed door.

Bang!—the impact echoed in the apartment's silence.

Joey gasped, not from fear, but from the intensity in Domenico's eyes. He was trapped between the man's hard body and the cold wooden door. With a desperate courage boiling from within his soul, Joey grabbed the lapel of Domenico's suit and pulled the man's face towards him.

He was the one who initiated the kiss.

It was not a gentle or questioning kiss. It was wild, full of hunger and pent-up anger from years of holding back. It was a battle, an attempt to destroy the invisible wall between them, or perhaps to reinforce it. Their teeth almost clashed, their breaths became one, mingling with the taste of bitter coffee and sweet chamomile tea.

Domenico, after a momentary shock, responded with equal force. His hands gripped Joey's waist, pulling them closer until there was not a sliver of space. One hand traced Joey's back, feeling his spine through the thin pajama fabric, a reminder of old, invisible scars.

This kiss was not about gentle love. It was about possession. It was about two wounded souls trying to conquer and be conquered, punishing and comforting each other in the same motion. Joey bit Domenico's lower lip, a small punishment, and Domenico retaliated by pushing his tongue deeper, claiming every corner of Joey's mouth as his territory.

The world outside seemed to vanish. The sound of traffic, the ticking clock, all drowned in the sound of ragged breaths and pounding heartbeats. Joey surrendered to this current, to the sensation of the large body pressing against him, to the taste of the man that filled his senses.