The March sun pierced the glass of a house in SoHo, casting long shadows on the oak breakfast table. The aroma of black coffee still swirled, mingling with the sound of a small spoon clinking in Jack's cereal bowl.
Charlie Douglas sat at the head of the table, his sturdy frame clad in a charcoal grey knitted sweater and a rumpled white shirt underneath, the shirt cuffs left slightly exposed at the sweater's wrists. Simple, well-tailored black trousers. The impression of a working artist living between the world of family and the film industry.
Across from him, Laura sipped her hot tea. A soft cotton house dress in pale blue paired with a thin cream cardigan. Her face was without heavy makeup, just the natural look of a former actress who now chose to be the support of the home.
Jack was slumped lazily in his chair. His small body was clad in a Bugs Bunny cartoon t-shirt with striped pajama pants, his brown hair a mess, his eyes glued to the television.
That peaceful atmosphere shattered when the TV screen broadcast breaking news. Jack's morning cartoon was suddenly replaced by the image of a flipped black Volvo, shattered glass scattered, bloodstains on the wet asphalt. A female reporter's firm voice.
"... Around six o'clock this morning, an intense shootout occurred on streets still wet from last night's rain. According to eyewitness accounts, dozens of gunshots broke the quiet of Sunday morning before finally a black Volvo careened out of control, hit a barrier, and overturned in the middle of an intersection.
Police found one dead victim at the scene, a man named Valdes, believed to be involved in the incident. However, the main focus this morning is the identity of the car's owner. The license plate number checked by officers is registered to Joey Carter, the 20-year-old actor known to the public through a popular crime television series. As of now, Joey Carter's whereabouts remain a major question mark."
Jack's spoon froze in mid-air. The boy frowned, staring at the screen with wide eyes.
"Joey?" his voice small, trembling.
Charlie was frozen. The television sound seemed to fade away. Both his hands were clenched under the table, his knuckles turning white. A brief glance at Laura revealed the same anxiety.
"Charlie," whispered Laura, grabbing his arm.
But the man was already standing. His chair scraped roughly backward. With long strides, he left the table. A few minutes later he returned—now wearing a long black trench coat, leather shoes, and a grey scarf. His expression had turned rigid, cold.
"Chances are I'll be home late today," he said, his voice low but firm.
Jack stared at him with watery eyes. "Daddy's going to look for Joey?"
Charlie paused for a moment, then bent down, stroking the top of his son's head. "Take care of your mom."
Laura stood up, staring at her husband full of fear. Charlie just gave her cheek a quick peck, then strode quickly out the door.
In the garage, his hands trembled as he started the car engine. Even though he knew it was futile, Charlie still dialed Joey's number.
The waiting tone repeated... no answer, which meant Joey didn't have his phone. That silence was more terrifying than the news on TV.
Charlie stared into the rearview mirror. Briefly, he saw his own face; a 43-year-old man, tired eyes, but burning with determination. Charlie knew where he had to go.
Leonhard Stahl.
The man pressed the gas pedal. The car sped away from SoHo, and the silence of the household was replaced by the heavy breathing of a father, a director, now trapped in a real-world scenario.
*
Manhattan was still shrouded in late winter chill, though the streets were already wet from melting snow. From the fortieth floor of a tall building in Midtown, the penthouse temporarily rented by the Morales Cartel looked like a sterile space that had never really been inhabited.
Its interior was modern, floor-to-ceiling glass walls directly facing the city view. The Chrysler Building towered in the distance, the lights of Times Square glittered faintly through the thin mist below. The room itself was minimally decorated—mostly occupied by black leather furniture, glass shelves with bottles of imported liquor, and a low tempered-glass coffee table that felt cold to the touch. A faint smell of cigar smoke and alcohol mixed with the scent of floor cleaner recently used by the cleaning service this afternoon.
Santiago "El Lobo" Morales sat in a leather chair, his body upright yet relaxed. A light grey linen suit draped his shoulders, the top three buttons of his black shirt left open, revealing a thin gold chain around his neck. His fingers played with a cigarillo, never lit, just slowly twirled as if the small object was an extension of his always-spinning mind.
On the glass table in front of him, a thick Toshiba laptop with a greenish-grey screen vibrated, displaying black-and-white CCTV footage from a Brooklyn harbor warehouse. On the grainy screen, Joey appeared tied to a chair, his head slightly bowed, while Leonhard paced near him, occasionally stopping to stare at the camera.
Two bodyguards stood motionless on either side of Santiago's chair. Both were former special forces—one dark-skinned with a military buzz cut, the other a tall Eastern European man with a square jaw. They didn't speak, just waited, hands clasped in front of their stomachs, eyes watching the room with mechanical precision.
Santiago watched the screen for a moment, then leaned forward. The grey gaze of his eyes was cold, but his lips curled into a thin smile.
"Domenico," he murmured softly, almost like an inverted prayer. "How far will you go for this boy?"
Silence pressed the room, only the faint sound of distant horns from the streets below coming through the glass.
He then glanced at one of his bodyguards. "Let the story out," he ordered briefly. "Let the media know the TV star is missing. But leave no trace of us. Let them blame anyone—the Italians, the Russians, even the FBI. Let Cassano feel all eyes are on him."
One of his men, a Latin man with a thin mustache standing in the corner of the room, dared to ask, "Jefe, why don't we just finish him now? It'll send a clear message to everyone."
Santiago fell silent for a moment, then chuckled softly—a low voice, frightening precisely because it was so controlled. He looked at the silver ring on his finger, turning it slowly. "No."
A thin smile appeared on his lips.
"If Cassano wants him alive, then his life is far more valuable than his death. We'll use that. An actor as a hostage? That's louder than a bullet. The world will watch, and Domenico Cassano will feel all alone."
*
Joey blinked, his eyelids heavy. He didn't know how long he'd been unconscious. Only the smell of diesel, sea salt, and wood dust was the first to greet his consciousness. His head buzzed, his lips were dry.
The single hanging light didn't function properly in the denser, colder darkness. Only small gaps in the warehouse walls allowed moonlight or harbor security lights to seep in, forming pale, dim streaks on the concrete floor.
The sounds from outside had changed. The shouts in Spanish had been replaced by low chatter and stifled laughter, perhaps from guards changing shifts. The clanging of metal had subsided, replaced by the creaking of wood and ship ropes blown by the night wind. The most piercing was the sound of the waves, now clearer—a slow, sighing swell against the dock, as if tempting with a freedom only a few hundred meters away, yet feeling as distant as a continent.
Thirst and hunger had shifted from sharp sensations to dull, constant aches. The cold seeped into his bones. Every unexpected sound—a scurrying rat, wind whistling through a crack—made Joey's heart pound, mixing fear with a fleeting, false hope.
In the enveloping darkness, one awareness grew clearer and more piercing; Joey knew, he was still in New York, but he was now at the heart of enemy territory.
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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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