California, mid-November 1983
The rustling wind shook the branches of a California sycamore, shaking loose wide, golden-brown leaves—they danced before surrendering to the ground. Among them, one single leaf landed right on top of a nine-year-old boy's head.
The child stood still in the yard of his modest home. His body was small and thin, clad in a worn white t-shirt and faded blue shorts. His skin was pale, his knees covered in the small scrapes typical of a child who often played alone. His blonde hair—bright and soft like young wheat—fell in disarray, partly covering his forehead and lightly tickling his bright blue eyelids. His eyes were sharp, though they looked tired—like the eyes of a child who had understood silence too quickly.
With curiosity, he picked up the thin, brown thing from the ground. A breeze blew through his hair, making the strands dance lightly under the autumn orange glow. The leaf in his grip slipped away at the same moment three black cars stopped in the front yard.
Joey froze, his small fingers still clutching the dried leaf. The sound of engines rumbling and then dying made him tense up. Car doors creaked open, heavy footsteps approached. The boy didn't dare turn around, but from the corner of his eye, he saw shiny leather shoes drawing near.
The urge to call for his mother grew stronger, though his body refused to move—because from behind those vehicles emerged a tall, sturdy man with an unfamiliar gleam in his eyes.
The man was handsome, impeccably dressed in a classic black suit, layered with a vintage vest and a dark blue-black scarf perfectly draped over his shoulders. He carried an aura of both luxury and roughness—like elegance that knew how to fight.
Joey was transfixed. Even as the man walked closer, stopping only half a meter away, he didn't budge.
The man bent down slightly, studying the child's innocent face. His gaze was intense, unblinking. Then, with a faint smile that wasn't entirely friendly, he raised his hand and gently ruffled Joey's blonde hair.
A moment later, he continued towards the white-painted house with the Arctic blue door. Several stern-faced men in dark suits followed behind him. They simply walked past the boy—silent, without a greeting.
"Mom!" Joey finally voiced, loudly, as he hesitantly stepped towards the house.
The door opened.
A woman appeared—beautiful, elegant, with waist-length blonde hair left loose. She wore a loose, light blue dress.
"Joey, don't shout like—" her words cut off as her gaze landed on the man before her.
A smile appeared on the man's face. Not a warm smile. Not the smile of someone long unseen. But the grin of someone who had never truly left.
"Domenico..."
Roxanne spoke the name—a name she hadn't dared utter for years. Her voice was soft, almost choked, yet it remained clear in the tense air. She still stood in the doorway, and now Joey was beside her. Her hand unconsciously gripped the boy's arm, too tightly.
"You're going to let me in, right?" Domenico's tone was calm, but there was a subtle pressure behind his question. Like a request that wasn't really a request.
Roxanne swallowed, then opened the door wider. She stepped in first, trying to appear calm, though her body felt like it was crumbling inside. Domenico followed, his steps heavy yet nearly silent, like a lion entering a deer's den.
Inside, the atmosphere turned colder.
Roxanne took a deep breath, trying to seize control of the panic hitting her chest. She walked to the small kitchen, glancing briefly at the man.
"Just coffee, or with cream?" Roxanne finally asked, reverting to a casual gesture, like greeting an old friend, even though the pounding in her chest still echoed.
"Sure," Domenico replied softly, his eyes sweeping the room. He stood in the center of the narrow, warm front room, with its low ceiling, the scent of yesterday's coffee and birthday candles still faintly hanging in the air.
His foot accidentally stepped on something—a small sound came from under his leather shoe. He looked down. A small toy car.
Domenico shifted slightly, lifting his foot. Near his foot stood the boy. Joey.
The little boy stared straight at him.
His lips were pressed together, his eyes unblinking. His gaze dropped briefly to the toy that had been stepped on, then rose again to the man's face. No tears, no protest. Just a look too silent for a child his age.
"You're another one of mommy's friends?"
Joey asked innocently, his tone flat with curiosity. There was no fear in his gaze or voice—just a simple question from a child who didn't yet fully understand the shadow standing before him.
"Joey..." Roxanne called softly, like a reprimand laced with worry. Her voice was tense, slightly trembling, but not loud.
Domenico and Joey stared at each other for a few seconds—silent, intense, almost strange. As if time held its breath.
Then Joey looked away towards his mother, while the man remained still. There was no answer to the boy's question. Instead, Domenico simply turned and walked towards the kitchen.
He pulled out a wooden chair with one hand and sat at the dining table, calm—like a husband just home from work, waiting for coffee from a wife accustomed to serving him. His gesture was natural, rooted in a sense of belonging that needed no explanation.
His gaze moved slowly, tracing the room. Occasionally, his eyes flicked towards Joey, who was now bending down to pick up his small car—the toy that had nearly been crushed under his shoe.
"You have a sweet little boy," Domenico commented, looking at the coffee cup that had just been placed before him.
"His name's Joey," Roxanne replied, curtly.
From the front room, Joey was still busy picking up several of his toy cars scattered on the floor—saving them before they could be stepped on again.
Silence fell for a moment.
Not awkward, but like a breath pause in a conversation unsure where to begin.
A few minutes later, Joey walked to his room clutching the toys. He reappeared shortly after—empty-handed, light steps, expressionless.
He sat quietly on the old sofa, not speaking.
"Aren't you going back outside to play?" Roxanne half-called out, glancing at her son.
Joey shook his head. "The people outside are scary."
His tone was ordinary, but his gaze clearly pointed towards the window. The people he meant were, of course, Domenico's men.
Roxanne looked at Domenico. Her stare was sharp, full of silent meaning.
"You're not planning some illegal transaction in front of my house, are you?"—that was the message, without a single word spoken.
Domenico didn't answer immediately. Instead, he reached inside his jacket and pulled something out—a large, greyish-black mobile phone, with a metal antenna extended upward.
Joey stared at the object curiously from the sofa. He'd never seen a phone that big that you could carry around.
Calmly, Domenico pressed a few stiff keys on the phone's keypad. The call connected after two rings, and he only spoke briefly in Italian.
"Via. Aspettate lontano." Go. Wait somewhere else.
From the window, Roxanne watched the men in black suits immediately move. Silently, without objection, they got back into their respective cars and slowly left the yard.
The phone went back inside the jacket. As if it were trivial. As if moving an army only took one sentence.
Roxanne walked to the kitchen cabinet, opening one of its drawers with a quick motion, still managing to look graceful in her nervousness.
"Joey," she called.
The boy approached, standing by the kitchen table, staring at the strange man still sitting calmly.
"My name's Domenico," the man said, extending his hand towards the little boy.
There was no smile. His voice sounded friendly enough to a nine-year-old's ears—friendly, with an inexplicable cold undertone.
Joey looked at the large hand, then stared into the man's eyes in silence. He didn't accept the outstretched hand.
Roxanne stepped in to interrupt the moment, handing something to her son.
A bag of cheese balls—crunchy, orange snacks in a clear plastic wrapper, the kind she usually bought from the small store down the street.
Joey took the snack, then turned and walked towards the kitchen doorway. At the threshold, he glanced back. His eyes met the man's once more—no fear, only deep curiosity.
Domenico slowly withdrew his hand, showing no disappointment. His gaze turned more serious as he looked back at Roxanne, who was now seated again across the table.
"Why did you come to see me?" Roxanne asked, her voice calm but tense, like a violin string pulled too tight.
Domenico let out a soft snort, almost like a short laugh. "Did you forget, or are you pretending to forget?"
Their eyes met—and in the silence, Roxanne knew this man hadn't forgotten a thing.
She looked deep into Domenico, trying to read whether it was merely revenge... or a wound still gaping. But what she found instead was a shadow of the past—nights full of promises never kept, and touches that ended in war.
Domenico leaned back in that wooden chair as if it were his own throne. His fingers wrapped around the coffee cup, which was beginning to lose its warmth, before he took a slow sip.
"I know it's late," he uttered softly, "but I still have the right to take back what you stole from me."
It wasn't just the money Roxanne had taken from him back then.
What she had run away with was his trust. His pride. And something worse than all of it—this man's heart.
Domenico Cassano never forgave betrayal.
Even in the dark world he inhabited, that was the most absolute sin. The only reason Roxanne was still alive, was because Domenico still loved her. And maybe, in his deepest heart, he had never stopped.
Until this moment, Roxanne still acted as if she didn't fully understand. As if reality could be held back by refusing to name it.
"Your money," she finally said, softly, without guilt, "I can't return it."
Domenico stared at her. In silence. In pain. In an anger that didn't explode, but felt like embers.
"I used it to survive back then... until Joey was four."
Roxanne's tone was flat, not defending herself, but explaining. She wasn't asking for sympathy. She was merely stating facts, like someone too tired to regret the past.
"All that time I wasn't working. Because of Joey."
Domenico raised one eyebrow. "You speak as if your son was a burden you carried for years."
His tone was calm, but hurtful.
Roxanne turned quickly, offended. "I just... wasn't ready to be a mother back then."
The words came out dry, her face tightening. Maybe from holding back tears. Maybe from holding back from throwing the same pain back at him.
Domenico looked at that face. Still beautiful.
Still the Roxanne he had once loved—the woman he believed he could burn the whole world with.
But now there was something else. The face was thinner, paler, as if it had lost its light. More somber, and behind that gaze was only exhaustion.
"I'm a bad mother," she said, as if ending all defense.
Domenico didn't answer. He just looked away, slowly tracing the room with his gaze.
Empty bottles in the corner of the cabinet. Beer cans on the floor. And on the table—a few white crumbs next to a smoking apparatus that hadn't been cleaned up. All these objects spoke louder than any confession.
Roxanne followed Domenico's gaze—straight to the corner of the table where the white powder residue remained, like traces of a mistake that couldn't be erased. She cursed softly, walked quickly, grabbed a dish towel, and began cleaning it. However, she knew it was useless. What needed hiding was already too exposed in this man's eyes.
Domenico said nothing. He just stood frozen, silently clenching his jaw. His work did involve illegal goods, including cocaine. However, one unwritten rule he always held firm; he never touched it. Never.
And now, the woman he had once loved more than his own life, had fallen into it.
His anger didn't explode like a storm, but came like a silent earthquake shaking the deepest ground. Domenico moved slowly, his steps heavy, approaching Roxanne who was bent over wiping the table with hurried, trembling movements.
Roxanne knew he was coming. She could feel it—the man's breath, his shadow, the very vibration of the air around her changing.
"You're not just a bad mother," Domenico said slowly, his voice heavy and cold like steel that had once been warm, "you're also bad to yourself."
Roxanne closed her eyes. That sentence cut deeper than any punch. Then, what came next wasn't anger, wasn't a shout. It was an embrace.
Domenico wrapped his arms around the woman's body from behind, and before Roxanne could resist or accept, the man's lips touched the nape of her neck.
That kiss was soft and meaningful. Not seduction, not release. It was a kind of sorrow channeled through skin. A longing melting into guilt.
Roxanne tilted her head back slightly, looking up as if seeking strength from the ceiling of their small kitchen. She knew this was wrong. She had never truly loved this man, but her body—a body that had lost too much and been alone too long—remembered his warmth.
Then she turned around.
Their kiss broke in the air, faster and deeper than it should have been. Not a lover's kiss. That kiss was full of wounds. A kiss demanding forgiveness. Roxanne rose on her toes, grabbed Domenico's suit lapels, pulling their mouths together more deeply.
And Domenico—as if that was what he had been waiting for since he first stepped into this house—responded with dexterity. One hand gripped the woman's waist, tightly, as if afraid Roxanne would slip from his grasp again.
For a moment, the world froze. Time stopped. And in that silence, two people who had destroyed each other clung together in the remnants of desire and history.
[•°]