The heavy metal door closed behind them with an echoing clang of iron. The cold air inside mingled with the smell of oil, sea salt, and the iron dust clinging to every corner. Domenico didn't stop walking until he reached the steel table in the middle of the room, his voice soft but firm.
"Lock all the doors. From the inside. Make sure the back bolt too."
Santo—an old man with a sharp gaze who had lived too long in this world—nodded silently, then moved quickly. The sound of double locks clicking echoed from various directions. The outside lights of the workshop were left off, only the dim glow from a few hanging lamps illuminating the core work area. From the outside, the building looked dead—exactly as Domenico wanted.
Activity inside was concentrated into one room: the map room. All conversation, all footsteps, gathered there.
Santino arrived first, placing a stack of videotapes and several Polaroid photos from the back-route CCTV. "These are from our own cameras, and two points at the port," he said briefly.
Matteo entered not long after, his long coat damp with residual mist. His hand clutched a folder containing print-outs from the NYPD—license plates, vehicle makes, colors—all results of money speaking faster than warrants.
Alberto came last, carrying a clipboard full of scribbles. "Three containers we've held in Brooklyn, two in Newark. All on the possibility list."
A quiet atmosphere settled. Only the sound of pens on the map and heavy breathing could be heard, as if the workshop had turned into a war room ready to explode at any moment.
Domenico sat on an iron chair in front of the large map table. The tip of his finger traced the red line marking the escape route, then stopped at a certain point. He picked up a black marker and began circling locations that matched their data.
Every circle he drew felt like a clock hand ticking faster. The time had passed 10:45 AM, and every passing minute made the chance of saving Joey slimmer. In his head, Domenico counted down—not in hours or minutes, but in breaths Joey might still have left. The sound of the marker scraping on the map's surface became the only sound, as if the entire workshop was holding its breath with him.
Domenico stood at the end of the map table, both hands pressing its surface as if to nail all plans into the steel. His eyes moved from one man's face to another—ensuring they understood that even the smallest mistake meant losing Joey forever.
"We split into three teams," he uttered flatly, without pleasantries.
He pointed to a mark at the Brooklyn port. "Port team—Santino, you lead. Take two men, go in as cargo workers. Check every container on Alberto's list. Don't cause a commotion, don't leave a trace."
Santino nodded, grabbing his worn work jacket, and began preparing fake documents for the disguise.
Domenico's finger then moved to the narrow route behind the old factory in Red Hook, a route not recorded on public maps. "Back-road team—Matteo, this is your area. Comb every route without CCTV. Use small cars, not our vehicles. If there are signs they passed, don't engage immediately. Mark it, report, and follow."
Matteo tapped his temple softly, a sign of understanding, then called two men skilled in disguise and fast driving in narrow alleys.
Domenico then pointed to a mark at the corner of the map table—a dark radio already tuned to a special frequency. "Intel comms team—Alberto, you handle it. Monitor all dark broadcasts. We know the smugglers talk here, and someone might mention a new shipment. Record everything, transcribe, and make sure I get the summary."
Alberto turned the radio knob, the static hiss sounded, mixed with fragments of faint conversation in Spanish and Russian. He put on a headset, started writing timestamps in his notebook.
Domenico raised one finger, drawing everyone's attention. "Every fifteen minutes, the one I designate—Santino—will report directly to me. Not through others. Not through intermediaries. If I don't get word, I'll assume you all failed, and we switch strategy to full assault mode."
A brief silence.
Domenico lit his cigarette, his first drag since arriving at the workshop. "You know what to do. Now go."
The three teams moved almost simultaneously. The workshop's side door opened, letting the salty sea air in briefly before closing again. Car engines started outside, one by one, then disappeared into the Red Hook mist.
Inside, Domenico remained at the map table, his eyes not leaving the black circles he had just drawn. Each circle was a promise. And that promise he would keep, with blood if necessary.
Outside, the fading engine sounds left a void thicker than the morning mist of Red Hook. The clock hand on the wall showed 11:12 AM. Domenico glanced at it, then returned to the map. He knew, from this second on, any wrong mark could mean they were chasing a shadow.
The air in the workshop settled,carrying the scent of iron, salt, and cigarette smoke that hadn't died from the earlier meeting. Every second felt heavier, as if time itself was pressing on his shoulders.
The old shipyard workshop was now quiet, only the sound of the clock and static from the dark radio occasionally breaking through. Domenico sat alone on the old iron chair, a cigarette lit between his fingers. Before him, a black satellite phone lay—a lifeline to the underground world he had once left, but now had to reopen.
He dialed a long number memorized only by his fingers. Three rings. Then a hoarse voice answered in a Sicilian dialect nearly lost from New York's ports.
"Chi cerca?" (Who seeks?)
Domenico answered softly, using words never uttered lightly.
"Il mare è agitato, e il vento soffia dal sud." (The sea is rough, and the wind blows from the south.) Secret code.
A momentary silence. Then the voice on the other end lowered, almost whispering.
"Quante vele?" (How many sails? — meaning how many ships or movements involved?)
"Abbastanza per affondare una città," answered Domenico. (Enough to sink a city.)
That was enough. An old code only used in high-risk operations. Its meaning clear: information for cash, no records, no traces.
In the next twenty minutes, Domenico contacted three points of his old network—a speedboat captain who often entered and left New Jersey waters without permits, a cross-country trucker who knew illegal land routes from Brooklyn to Canada, and a 'gatekeeper' at the port who could open or close ship manifests with one stroke of a pen.
With each call, he slipped in a figure; the amount of the advance to be paid in cash, wrapped tightly, delivered by trusted hands. And always, he ended the conversation with one sentence that made everyone on the other end understand how serious he was:
"Se lo trovi prima che lo faccia io, ti pago il doppio. Se lo tocchi... ti seppellisco io." (If you find him before I do, I'll pay double. If you touch him... I'll bury you myself.)
After the last call, Domenico closed the phone and sat quietly. His hand tapped the table softly, counting time. In this world, speed was as valuable as bullets.
From the corner of the room, Alberto lifted his head from the dark radio.
"Don, there's a conversation on channel 6. Their code mentions 'live goods' that have to be out before dawn."
Domenico's eyes hardened. Live goods. He knew exactly what it meant.
"Lock the channel," he said flatly. "And send the coordinates to Santino now."
In his head, pieces of the map began to merge. And for the first time since that morning, he felt the distance between him and Joey narrowing.
The dark radio still hissed softly when the workshop's side door opened. A man in a leather jacket hurried in, his breath heavy.
"Don," he said, bowing slightly. "Fabio just got back from Midtown. He—he dragged one guy from the shootout location before the cops arrived."
Domenico raised his head slowly.
"Name's Nico. We checked, a cartel soldier. His head wound is bad, but he's alive. Most likely he works for whoever took Joey."
At the map table, Domenico pressed out his cigarette butt, then stood up. "Where is he now?"
"Todt Hill, Don. The basement."
For a moment, Domenico looked at the map full of colored pins. All escape routes, all patrol points—suddenly weren't as important as one thing: the cartel's pulse.
"Let him wait," he uttered coldly. "We start with his pulse."
Without a jacket. Without another word. He stepped out, followed by Santino and Matteo. Each of his steps in the workshop's iron corridor sounded like a sledgehammer, marking the start of a new chapter—a chapter where information would be extracted with blood.
*
The journey from Red Hook to Todt Hill took only thirty minutes, but the atmosphere felt like crossing into another dimension. From the wet port alleys, Domenico's car broke through a light drizzle, then ascended the winding roads of Staten Island, heading towards the quiet, exclusive residential area.
The mansion's front yard was enclosed by high iron fences with spear-like pointed tips. From the outside, the house looked like a silent monument. From the inside—like a tomb that remained warm.
Beneath the mansion, hidden, was a basement only accessible through a narrow passage behind the wine cellar. A spiral steel staircase descended into the earth's belly, its walls damp, yellow incandescent bulbs flickering. The smell of rusting iron and dampness crept in, faintly mixed with the scent of blood that never truly disappeared despite being cleaned repeatedly.
An iron chained chair stood in the center of the room, on cracked concrete flooring. On the walls hung steel hooks, electrical cables, and a small table holding tools never spoken of outside this room.
There sat Nico Alvarez. Hands tied behind his back, wrists bleeding from struggling. The wound on his temple was still damp. Yet his gaze showed no fear—just arrogance.
The sound of Domenico's leather shoes sliced the silence, each step echoing heavily in the stone room. He emerged from the shadows, wearing a neat white shirt and black leather gloves. Matteo and Santino followed, standing straight behind him, speechless.
Nico smirked. "Finally... the lion king comes to collect his own carcass."
Domenico didn't respond. He pulled a chair, sitting directly in front of Nico. His gaze was cold, like taking a temperature without emotion.
"Name."
Nico laughed softly. "Not important, right? I'm already dead. We both know that."
"Who sent you."
"I sent myself. In the name of honor. You know how that feels, don't you?"
Domenico remained silent.
"Joey Carter was taken by Leonhard?"
"That little cat?" Nico smiled contentedly. "Yeah. He's still alive. For now." Nico spat on the floor. His gaze sharp.
"The Cassano little cat will be a feast for the Mexican cartel bosses," he said mockingly. "They say they'll humiliate him before sending the video to the world. And even better? He'll remain pretty—even after that."
Domenico closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, the room's temperature seemed to drop several degrees. No outburst of anger. No raised voice. Only a deadly cold.
The man stood up, opened a drawer in the steel table, and pulled out a thin straight razor. Placed it slowly on the table, its tip reflecting the dim lamp light.
"You know why I didn't kill you right away?"
Nico didn't answer.
"Because I want you to live long enough to hear Joey's voice again." He leaned down, his face coming close until their breaths collided. "And after that, you won't have a tongue to tell anyone you ever tasted victory—even if only in your imagination."
Domenico stepped back. A slight nod to Santino.
"Take one of his fingers. Not many. We're not animals. Let him still be able to write an apology to God."
Then Domenico left without looking back.
The next second, the room was pierced by a sharp scream—more piercing than a knife, more enduring than a bullet.
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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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