The morning still hung heavily over the secluded hill of Todt Hill, as a thin mist clung to the frozen grass as if reluctant to leave. From a distance, at the top of the winding road guarded by two layered iron gates, stood a mansion in classic Mediterranean style—a house and fortress both: Domenico Cassano's.
The front yard was a vast garden smelling of damp earth mixed faintly with the odor of diesel from the bodyguard cars lined up in the basement.
Inside, the atmosphere was a silence that was too controlled. Only the ticking of an antique clock in the main hallway could be heard, each second marking something unavoidable.
The left wing of the mansion held a study that resembled a war room more than a private office. Walnut wood shelves swallowed the entire walls, laden with sealed financial documents, Italian law books with gilded edges, and neatly framed maps of Europe. Morning light crept in through heavy curtains, falling on a weighty mahogany desk that stood like an altar of power—its surface covered with piles of archives, a half-empty bottle of Barolo wine, and a silver ashtray holding a half-burned, still-smoldering red Dunhill cigarette.
In the leather chair, with his back to the window, sat a man who had lost many things—except control.
Domenico Cassano.
His eyes observed the mist outside, but his mind was busy reading the signs of war settling in that morning air.
A black shirt wrapped his body, its collar almost unwrinkled, looking like a battle uniform he never took off.
Domenico sat calmly, legs crossed, one hand gripping the receiver of a classic wooden telephone directly connected to the four men he trusted most. One of them was Fabio.
The voice on the other end trembled, but was held in check.
"Don, Joey... he's been taken. I've secured one of them who's still alive."
A long silence followed.
Domenico didn't answer. No spontaneous reaction. No shouting. No curses. Not even a disappointed sigh. He only closed his eyes slowly, like someone who had just read his own son's autopsy report.
The man put down the phone without a sound. One finger pressed a button to disconnect, then remained still in that position long enough to make time seem hesitant to move forward.
His head bowed slightly. His shoulders didn't budge. Then, with a slow, sudden movement, his hand grabbed a thick file from the desk—an old folder containing port trade data from 1982. He opened its first page, stared at numbers and export stamps that were no longer relevant.
He tore the pages out, one by one. Cold, methodical. Like an executioner passing a death sentence on his own past. His left hand picked up a crystal glass with the remnants of red wine that had lost its temperature. He looked at it for a moment, then smashed it against the corner of the desk without a sound. Its shards fell onto other files, spreading red stains like blood spilled over financial reports.
Yet, Domenico's face remained calm. Not a single muscle tensed. Only his eyes—the eyes of a man storing war behind his corneas.
He stood up.
His body was tall and still upright in his early forties. He stood before the window, looking out. The mist still shrouded the ground like a secret not ready to be revealed. Sparrows crossed the distant sky, their sounds faint, like bad news yet to be spoken.
"Lock all access in and out of the mansion. Everyone inside stays in. Everyone outside—don't let them back in," he commanded a man guarding the door, when summoned inside.
The guard nodded obediently before leaving to carry out the order.
Domenico then pressed the intercom, contacting his men in the inner circle. He didn't wait long until they came to the room.
The three men entered almost simultaneously, each still half-breathless, knowing their morning had just turned into the most dangerous day of the year.
Domenico opened a drawer in his desk, pulling out a black satellite phone. He twisted a small knob on its side, cutting all house and office phone lines—leaving only one secure network untouched by the FBI or NYPD.
Domenico didn't move.
He only walked slowly to the file cabinet, opened one of the dusty old folders, then tore it slowly—page by page—and let them fall to the floor.
Not one of them dared to move.
Santino looked down. Matteo clenched his jaw.
Then the voice came—flat, cold, as if from an open grave. "We're not looking for a body," uttered Domenico, "we're looking for a pulse I can still buy with blood."
A five-second silence.
Only then did his voice sound again, calm yet leaving no room for objection.
"Santino. Check all traffic cameras, ports, and our own network of cameras on the back routes. I want all the footage—and I want it on my desk before eight o'clock."
Santino nodded, already dialing his technicians.
"Matteo. Contact our people at the NYPD. Use money, not threats. I want data on all vehicles that passed within a two-mile radius of the kidnapping location in the last fifteen minutes. License plates, make, color—everything."
Matteo pulled out a small black leather notebook, copying the order as fast as he could.
"Alberto. Coordinate with the dockworkers. Stop all suspicious container shipments. If needed, create a fake inspection reason. Nothing sails without us knowing what's inside."
Alberto immediately stepped to the corner of the room, picking up a backup satellite phone to contact the foremen in Brooklyn and Newark.
Domenico walked towards the large window overlooking the grounds. He gazed at the now tightly closed gate, the thin mist hiding its top.
"From now on," he said softly, "every wasted second could mean another piece of Joey lost."
Domenico slipped his hand into his jacket pocket, pulling out a cigarette case. He lit one with a silver lighter, taking a slow drag. Smoke left his mouth in short, regular streams. But the remnants of his anger clung to the air like invisible embers.
The cigarette in his hand was half-smoked when his three men turned to leave the room. Leaving behind a fiercer heat in his chest.
"Blood is something you inherit. But love is a curse you choose."
A line from his father from the past flashed in Domenico's head. And that morning, he realized how true those words were.
The cigarette smoke formed a thin ring in the air before breaking and vanishing, just like the limits of his patience. He stared far out the window—not to enjoy the view, but to calculate distances.
Domenico put out the cigarette in the ashtray. His steps were heavy but unhurried as he left the room. In the hallway, two guards straightened up as soon as they saw him.
"Carlo. Close the gate. Anyone who enters or leaves, you note the time and their name."
"Yes, Don."
"Vincenzo, to the garage. Prepare the black car. The one without plates."
His tone was flat, but each word carried the weight of an order that didn't need repeating.
Domenico headed to the basement, passing rows of steel lockers. He stopped at one, spinning the combination with movements his hands remembered without thought. From inside, he pulled out a dark wooden box. Not money. Not jewels. But a Colt .38 revolver with an ivory handle, clean and shining like new, even though he had stored it for twenty years.
He stared at the weapon long enough to remember the first night he used it. Then closed the box again.
He would go to his eyes and ears in the field, the one who could give him information faster than the police or the media. And, given the news had broken on TV, he knew his time was limited before the enemy hid their tracks.
A black sedan without license plates waited with its engine idling. Vincenzo was behind the wheel, his gaze forward, ready for orders.
"To Brooklyn," Domenico said briefly.
The sedan shot through the mist, leaving the iron gate that had just been tightly shut behind them.
*
[•°]
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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