The pale morning light crept through the cracks of the rusted sliding doors of the harbor warehouse. Dust swirled in every ray, dancing like tiny insects whenever the cold sea wind slipped in, bringing with it a piercing salty smell, mixed with the sharp scents of rusted iron and diesel. The unevenly stacked shipping container shadows loomed like sleeping giants, swallowing most of the still-weak morning light.
Joey Carter sat tied to a cold iron chair. Rough nylon ropes bound his wrists and ankles tightly, leaving red marks and abrasions on his skin. On his cheek, a purplish bruise was beginning to form an ugly pattern—a souvenir from the hard impact with the dashboard and glass of his car, which had been violently overturned hours earlier during the swift, lethal kidnapping operation. Though his body shivered from cold and pain, Joey tried to straighten his back, his blue eyes sweeping his surroundings warily.
The sound of heavy boot steps echoed on the empty concrete floor, approaching from a dark warehouse corridor. From behind the shadows, Leonhard Stahl emerged. He wore a thick black jacket, his face cold and controlled, contrasting with his usually neat, actor-like appearance. In his hand, he carried a plastic bottle of mineral water.
In his hand, he held a bottle of mineral water. Leonhard stopped right in front of Joey, bent down slightly, and opened the bottle cap.
"Drink," he said simply, offering the bottle directly to Joey's lips.
Joey turned his head, his face tense. "I could do it myself if you untied my hands."
Leonhard raised an eyebrow but remained calm. "That's not in the script, Joey." He emphasized the word 'script' as if mocking their past as co-stars.
Joey pressed his lips tightly together, refusing the water. Leonhard just sighed, then set the bottle aside on the chair. No anger, just a gaze colder than when they'd faced each other in front of the camera.
A momentary silence, only the sound of seagulls outside the warehouse and the rumble of a ship docking.
"Why are you doing this?" Joey's voice broke, a mix of fear and wonder. "Your career was promising enough. You don't need to do this." He meant being a hitman and working for whoever was willing to pay him to commit crimes.
Silently Joey stared at the man's arm. He remembered Leonhard's arm injury from Fabio's gunshot. On the other hand, Joey was also worried about Fabio—not because of the gunshot wounds to the arm and leg of the driver and bodyguard, but worried about Domenico's quiet, deadly anger at Fabio for failing in his mission.
Leonhard looked at Joey for a long time, as if weighing whether to give an answer. The twilight made his eyes reflect a cold golden hue. Then he gave a thin, warmless smile.
"Isn't Domenico too?" he said flatly.
Joey fell silent. The words were like a bullet piercing his chest, leaving him speechless.
Leonhard raised the bottle again, this time pressing its neck to Joey's lips in a slow, non-forceful gesture. Joey resisted for a moment before finally opening his mouth. The cold liquid flowed into his throat, dry since morning, making him sigh with relief even though he only took three sips. As soon as the bottle was taken away, the hunger in his stomach betrayed him with a loud rumble.
Leonhard looked at him expressionlessly. "At least you're still alive to feel it."
Joey raised his face, staring at him with eyes no longer just fearful, but also full of anger.
"Their target isn't you, it's Domenico," Leonhard said, his voice calm, as if stating an undeniable fact. He leaned his back against one of the iron pillars, one hand hiding the bottle behind the folds of his coat. "You're just bait."
The words made Joey's chest feel tighter than the ropes binding him. He stared intently into Leonhard's brown eyes, trying to find something—guilt, sympathy, or just honest hatred. But all he saw was a cold surface, like frosted glass.
"Is that how you see me?" Joey's voice trembled but firm. "As... Domenico Cassano's pet?"
Silence crept in. Only the rumble of an approaching ship's engine from the dock and the distant sound of seagulls. Leonhard didn't answer immediately. His gaze changed slightly, not softening, but also not as rigid as before—as if something was held back there, something he couldn't say.
Finally, Leonhard gave a thin, bitter smirk. "Wrong question, Joey. What you should be asking is, does Domenico see you that way."
That sentence fell more piercingly than a shout. Joey looked down, his jaw hardening. An ember began to grow inside him—a mix of heartache, longing, and fear burning into one.
.
The once pale, piercing light had now turned to deep gold, then orange-red, seeping through the same cracks at a shallower angle. The swirling dust seemed to transform into golden particles, dancing in the dimming twilight glow. The cries of seagulls grew louder, as if feasting to welcome the day's end. The sounds of ship engines and harbor activity outside also began to fade, replaced by the whisper of the night wind starting to boldly sweep across the warehouse floor.
Joey was still sitting in the same chair. His hunger had turned into a dull ache in the pit of his stomach. His thirst returned, even worse than this morning. The bruise on his cheek throbbed more painfully, and his muscles were stiff from sitting in the same position all day. His mind, which had initially been clear with fear and anger, was now beginning to fog with exhaustion and despair. Each passing hour felt like a full day. The encroaching darkness felt more suffocating than the morning light. He didn't know if this night would bring salvation, or just the end of everything.
***
The city lights still glowed faintly behind the tall building's glass windows as Leonhard stepped out of his black car, his long jacket still carrying the smell of diesel and cigarette smoke.
The Sheffield, 322 West 57th Street—an elite apartment in the heart of Manhattan, stood arrogantly not far from Columbus Circle. Its marble lobby gleamed under crystal chandelier light, and though the night was growing late, the receptionist still stood stiffly behind the desk. Leonhard walked past without a word, giving only a slight nod before stepping into the elevator.
He pressed the button for the seventh floor. The elevator motor sighed, moving up slowly. The large mirror inside the cabin reflected his image—sunken eyes, slightly disheveled blond hair, and a faint smile closer to exhaustion than satisfaction.
Ding.
The elevator doors opened. The corridor on the seventh floor was quiet, lit by pale yellow lights reflecting off the polished wooden floor. Only the sound of Leonhard's leather shoes echoed, a stiff rhythm like the ticking of a night clock.
He stopped in front of unit 7C. His hand reached for the magnetic key, already imagining a glass of bourbon and a long-awaited cigarette, not forgetting to change the bandage on his arm.
But his steps halted.
Someone was standing in front of his apartment door. A sturdy build, a neat gray suit, hair slicked back neatly. His eyes stared sharply, coldly, like a knife sharpened long ago.
Charlie Douglas.
The person who shouldn't be here.
Leonhard froze for a moment, then slowly put the key back in his pocket. The sound of the corridor suddenly seemed to vanish, leaving only the breathing of two men sizing each other up.
Charlie didn't move, didn't speak. Only that gaze—a gaze that made Leonhard realize his business was far from over.
*
The Totd Hill mansion was quiet. Only the ticking of a clock and the occasional whisper of night wind through a slightly open window could be heard. The crystal lamp in Domenico's study cast a warm glow, touching the surface of the wooden desk laden with documents and nautical route maps.
Domenico sat upright in his leather chair, his black suit fitting neatly on his body. Suddenly, his laptop vibrated—a message from an unknown email.
Domenico's laptop screen displayed a picture of Joey tied with thick rope on a concrete warehouse floor. The young man's body looked exhausted. His skin was lightly torn by glass shards, his cheek bruised, and his disheveled blond hair partially covered a wound on his temple. Moonlight seeping through the window illuminated part of Joey's face, emphasizing the wounds and an expression of pain mixed with smoldering anger behind his cold gaze.
Domenico stared at the photo in silence. His sharp eyes scanned every detail—bruises, abrasions, blood, bindings—while his jaw hardened slowly. He took a breath, holding back the boiling emotions.
Beneath the photo was a line of text: You like games, Cassano. Look closely at your pet—he's in my hands now, and I control the game.
Domenico looked at the screen for a moment, his fingers tapping the wooden desk in a fast rhythm, his breath coming out slow but firm. Every detail of Joey's photo—every wound, every binding—was imprinted in his mind, not to panic, but to calculate his countermove.
He closed the laptop briefly, suppressing the urge of anger that could destroy logic. His eyes swept the study, marking exit routes, phones, and every possible tool that could be used. No wasted emotion. Only focus, strategy, and full control of the situation.
In a low voice, almost like a murmur to himself, Domenico said, "No one moves without my knowledge. Not a single one."
He pressed the emergency call button connected to his secret network—a team always ready to move with precision, not just blind violence. The first order went out: "Prepare the route. Stop them before anyone else gets hurt."
Then, without waiting for a reply, he took out the nautical route map, marking a warehouse location with red ink. Domenico did not panic. There was no shouting. Every subsequent step would be calculated, every risk predicted. He knew one thing: he would not only take Joey back, but also ensure this message was delivered—that no one plays games with his territory or the people he protects.
Domenico stood up, straightened his suit, and looked at the large window overlooking the mansion grounds. Moonlight reflected off the glass surface, mirroring his determination. He wasn't just angry; he was focused. Extremely focused. Every muscle was tense, every neuron working towards one goal: to bring Joey home, whole, and make the opposing party regret ever challenging him.
*
Charlie stood firmly in front of Leonhard, his gaze sharp, not as calm as his movements, like a director checking the final scene before pressing the record button. His breathing was steady, though inwardly, anger and anxiety swirled rapidly.
"I don't want to waste time, Leonhard," Charlie's voice was low, every word filled with resolve. "You've made a big mistake with me. I won't let my son—or anyone I consider family—get hurt because of your actions."
Leonhard sighed slowly—realizing his night had just begun, but he was already in a position more tiring than he'd imagined.
Charlie, though appearing calm, was a storm wrapped in a human form—and that storm was only waiting for one signal to completely shatter Leonhard's plans.
"Where is Joey?" The single question was thrown out. Charlie stepped forward, the distance between them only a few steps. His right hand rested in his coat pocket, as if ready to take something, but his body remained relaxed, fluid, full of vigilance. "What are you planning for him, just because he knows you're Jacob Doyle's murderer?"
Leonhard leaned his body slightly, his tone low but firm. "No. Not because he knows I'm the perpetrator. It's more than you think."
Charlie stared straight. "So you..."
"I'm just a hired hand," Leonhard informed him honestly. He knew there was no point hiding his primary job as a hitman—the director before him had surely been informed by his favorite actor.
"Who are they?" asked Charlie, his mind already guessing who was behind Joey's kidnapping.
"The Mexican Cartel," answered Leonhard, like a suspect giving testimony in court. "Ever heard the name Morales? The biggest heroin supplier to New York, he has many dealers who are major stars in the entertainment world. Jacob Doyle was one of his dealers, and well..., you know," he shrugged casually, "the one I eliminated."
Leonhard admitted without any remorse in his expression; it had been part of his job for the past few years since leaving the military.
Charlie listened to Leonhard's explanation only briefly, enough to confirm one thing: Joey was in the hands of far more dangerous people.
His jaw tightened, the look in his eyes that was still trying to find a sliver of justice now turned cold and unyielding. He stepped forward quickly, closing in until his shadow completely covered Leonhard.
"Enough," Charlie cut in, his voice heavy, full of authority. "I don't care who Morales is, what cartel, or what dealer you've killed. None of that matters now."
He stood a meter away from Leonhard. "Only one thing I want to hear. Where is Joey?"
His tone was no longer that of an authoritative director, but like a father forced to unleash his cruelest side.
Leonhard Stahl was not intimidated. Of course, from any side, even with his injured arm, Leonhard would still win if Charlie attacked. That was one reason Leonhard leaked a little information.
Leonhard remained silent for a moment as if weighing—what consequences he would face if he leaked information—then he raised his head again. Staring at the director he had collaborated with on film projects several times. Charlie Douglas was nothing to Mexican cartels like Morales, but Leonhard also couldn't ignore what the man might do regarding Joey.
Leonhard took a deep breath. There was a pause before he spoke, "Port Newark, New Jersey. You can find him in one of the container warehouses."
There was no tone of pride, nor any fear shown. He simply released that sentence, as if knowing the consequences would come swiftly.
Charlie did not reply. His gaze pierced deeply, long enough to leave a pressure sharper than a knife. Without a single word, he turned around. His steps were quick, his coat swinging with his body's movement.
Leonhard could only watch that firm back until it completely disappeared.
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