Berikut terjemahan bahasa Inggris yang akurat dan setia pada nuansa narasi aslinya, tanpa disensor, dengan gaya sastra yang setara.
Domenico let out a deep breath, his movements growing faster—rougher, wilder. His breathing was heavy, echoing against Joey's back, until at last the man growled harshly and thrust one final time—hard as he could, as forcefully as possible—before spilling into his climax.
Joey's body collapsed instantly, his face pressed into the sweat-dampened sheets. But Domenico's arm caught him swiftly, refusing to let the young man fall limply onto the bed. Their chests rose and fell in unison. Joey trembled, utterly spent.
"Why? Is this as far as you go?" Domenico whispered at his ear, his tone teasing. "Weren't you the one who wanted it first?"
Joey's hand reached for the man's chest, trying to push him away, but it was weak. His gaze met Domenico's dark eyes. There was no anger there—only a terrifying grin that could make anyone's heart race.
Slowly, Domenico withdrew himself from Joey's body. The hot fluid spilling from inside followed, trailing down the young man's thigh, leaving sticky traces that soaked into the sheets. Joey winced, feeling hollow. He tried to steady his ragged breathing, sobbing silently.
Joey did not answer—only stared back with a faint smile that seemed to say the man would never let him go. But he was wrong. Domenico pulled his penis free completely, leaving the semen from his ejaculation to leak out of Joey's entrance. The young man felt empty at once, his chest rising and falling as he tried to regulate his breath.
Domenico sat on the edge of the bed after pulling on his trousers. He retrieved something from the coat draped over the back of the sofa near the window, its curtains still drawn open. It was a mint candy. He sat there, eating it, watching Joey now sitting up, wincing occasionally.
"Want some candy?"
Joey opened his mouth as Domenico fed him the mint-flavored sweet. No words were exchanged. From the corner of his eye, Domenico followed the naked young man's movements toward the bathroom. The sound of running water from the shower echoed through the room—its gentle rush almost inviting him to join.
He resisted the urge. Domenico put his shirt back on instead of removing his pants again to follow Joey into the bathroom. He knew his time was limited.
Joey emerged not long after. He accepted a plain turquoise-blue pajama set Domenico had found in the closet. Once dressed, he lay down on the bed. Domenico did the same.
Silence fell between them.
"When will you be back from Calabria?" Joey finally asked—a question that tugged one corner of Domenico's mouth upward.
"I haven't even left yet, and you're already asking when I'll be back," he said, ending with a light chuckle.
Not the answer Joey had hoped for. He turned his back to Domenico. Not long after, strong arms wrapped around his waist. The embrace was warm.
Even now, Joey could hardly believe it. This warmth came from a man known to be hard and cold as stone. Not just rumors whispered in the underworld—Joey knew Domenico inside and out. He had seen the man's cruelty with his own eyes.
Forcing himself to stop thinking about Domenico, Joey let sleep take him in the arms of a criminal. Darkness came quickly.
—
Domenico was gone.
No sound of footsteps. No message left behind. Only the lingering scent of the man on the pillow and the faint memory of his grip around Joey's waist—still felt, even though he was no longer in the room.
The clock read 6:30 a.m.
The sky outside remained gray, a thin fog cloaking the buildings.
Cold air slipped in through the window gaps, brushing against Joey's skin, covered only by a thin T-shirt.
On the dining table, his phone vibrated. Notification chimes cracked like small lashes—reminding him that time would not wait for a wounded heart to heal.
[Sheira | 06:28 AM]
"Good morning, Joey. Pickup car at 7. Makeup on location. On cam at 9. Please no delay today, love."
[Manager | 06:19 AM]
"Don't forget today's live TV show. The host likes teasing young actors. Be careful how you respond."
[Unknown Number]
Unopened. Unrecognized. Deleted without reading.
Joey exhaled. His body ached, his neck felt cold—but his eyes were empty. He slowly got up, took a cup of leftover coffee from the night before, already cold. He drank it anyway, as if the bitterness confirmed that he was still alive.
Still had to smile today.
The biting sea wind from New York Harbor swept across rows of old warehouses standing like gravestones along the edge of Red Hook. The air smelled of salt, rust, and diesel. On a secluded pier, far from the harbor's main floodlights, illuminated only by the dim yellow glow of a luxury sixty-foot yacht and two black vans, a shadow transaction was underway.
The yacht—The Siren's Call—rocked gently on the inky water, its pristine white hull looking out of place amid the industrial decay. From the deck, several men in black shirts—faces hard, arms tattooed with 'Ndrangheta markings—unloaded cargo. Wooden crates were moved with lethal efficiency from the yacht into the vans, forming a silent, disciplined chain.
At the center of it all stood Domenico Cassano. His long black coat fluttered in the wind, revealing the flawless cut of a Neapolitan-tailored suit beneath. His face was cold, lit intermittently by moonlight slipping through the clouds. In his hand was a pistol—a Glock 17, light and deadly.
"Glock 17," he said, his voice low yet clear over the wind and waves. "Demand grows every year. More sought after. Harder to smuggle."
A man approached—Laurence "L. Nash" Washington. A Black man with an athletic build, mid-thirties perhaps. He wore a pale silver three-piece suit, extravagantly expensive and striking against the harsh port setting. His elegance was not mere style—it was a weapon, reflecting his position as a leading illegal firearms distributor for interstate gangs operating from Baltimore to Detroit.
"The government's tightening surveillance at every interstate entry point," Nash said, drawing on a Black & Mild cigar. Sweet cherry tobacco clashed with the salty sea air. "The real problem is—it's getting harder to bribe the state's dogs." He smiled, teeth gleaming white. "Their loyalty to the government is admirable."
"Harder to bribe, huh," Domenico replied, eyes still on his men.
"Is that one of the reasons you refused Morales' cooperation offer?" Nash asked, exhaling smoke.
"Cooperation is just Morales' excuse to take full control of the port," Domenico said evenly. "They think I'm stupid—unaware of how their syndicate works. It always starts with cooperation. Then they slowly turn port workers into loyal dogs for Morales."
"Some smaller Cosa Nostra groups in Philadelphia have already been influenced," Nash added flatly, confirming intelligence Domenico already possessed.
Morales and his cartel were a fast-moving new threat—masters of charm and betrayal alike. Not just narcos, but a shadow corporation hungry for expansion.
One of Domenico's men, Riccardo, approached and bowed slightly. "Everything's done, Don."
Domenico nodded. With a ritualistic motion, he holstered the Glock beneath his jacket. A subtle hand signal followed, and the men quickened their pace, van doors shutting with dull thuds.
Nash dropped his half-finished cigar onto the wet asphalt, crushing it beneath an expensive crocodile-leather Oxford shoe. "Pleasure doing business with you, Don Cassano." He extended his hand.
Domenico clasped it—firm, brief. "Likewise." A thin, symmetrical smile—practiced, not felt—froze on his face.
Several of Nash's guards closed in. The distributor turned away. "Send my regards to your father!" he called without looking back before stepping into his armored SUV, engine already running.
Domenico didn't respond. His father, Enzio, was another closed chapter. He watched the convoy disappear into the maze of warehouses until only fading engine noise remained.
Giuliano Ferretti, his consigliere, approached quietly, his shadow stretching beneath the moonlight. "Don, your ship is ready. The journey to Reggio Calabria will take eight days."
Domenico turned his gaze from the dark sea. Beyond it—across the Atlantic—not only home awaited him, but another battle. An old one. Power never slept, and a Don never truly went on vacation.
With his coat billowing, he stepped toward The Siren's Call, leaving Brooklyn—and unfinished business behind—carrying fresh fury and new plans within his mind.
CBS studios bustled that afternoon despite the bone-chilling cold outside. The scent of hairspray, stale coffee, and the warm dust of studio lights blended in the long corridor lined with worn red carpet. Snow had been falling heavily since morning, yet inside, everything ran as usual.
Staff rushed past carrying cables, scripts, and plastic containers filled with makeup. Celebrities waited for their turns—some bundled in thick coats, others exhaling visible warmth after stepping in from the cold.
Joey walked down the second-floor corridor, his long coat removed and draped over his shoulder. He wore a thin white shirt and dark slacks, his makeup already lightly applied. His expression was calm, though the cold still lingered beneath his skin.
At the end of the hallway near the dressing rooms, a young man in a black leather jacket and chain-adorned pants stood with his assistant. His brown hair was deliberately tousled. When he spotted Joey, he stepped forward confidently.
"Congratulations on your EMMY nomination," he said.
Joey smiled. "Thank you."
They stopped beneath the ceiling lights casting a yellowish glow over their faces. Jacob Doyle returned a crooked smile—the kind Joey knew well. A smile laced with contempt.
Jacob had debuted two years earlier. They'd once shared the same agency on Manhattan's East Side. But Joey's rapid rise had relegated Jacob to the shadows—something he never truly accepted.
"An EMMY doesn't suit you," Jacob said casually.
Joey turned slightly, watching him, waiting.
"With your acting, you deserve an Oscar," Jacob continued—this time without irony.
Joey almost laughed. "Oscar's a bit far for someone working in television—"
"Not for your acting on screen," Jacob cut in coldly. "But for your acting in real life."
Joey's expression shifted. For once, he couldn't ignore the implication—as if a secret he'd buried had been exposed.
Jacob gave his shoulder a light pat and walked away as his assistant returned carrying hot chocolate and a sandwich. A faint cinnamon scent trailed behind him.
Joey remained where he stood, watching Jacob's retreating back. Just before disappearing through the stage corridor door, Jacob glanced back and offered a small smile.
Joey's nails dug into his palm. His fist clenched. The cold seeped into his bones.
At the same time, a middle-aged woman hurried toward him from the makeup room, her heels clicking sharply against the floor. Her expression was a mix of worry and relief.
"I've been looking everywhere for you," Janet said. "There you are."
"Am I late?" Joey asked quietly.
She smiled thinly. "Not yet. Come on—they're waiting for you."
Joey nodded. His smile returned, though forced, as he followed her toward the main studio for live rehearsal.
Thunderous applause filled Studio 5B at CBS New York, home of The Jeremy Show, broadcast live every night at eight. Spotlights swept the stage, illuminating a deep-blue set with a Manhattan skyline backdrop. The house band played upbeat music as the atmosphere buzzed.
"And here he is… Joey Carter!" Jeremy announced loudly, prompting the audience to rise and cheer.
Joey stepped out from behind the curtain with a composed smile, dressed casually in a dark gray knit sweater and black pants—simple yet striking. Young women in the audience screamed the moment his face appeared on the massive LED screen.
He waved and bowed slightly before taking a seat beside Jeremy, the flamboyant host in a pinstriped suit and bright red tie.
"Joey Carter, one of this year's most talented actors. How are you?" Jeremy asked warmly.
"Good," Joey replied, his voice low and calm.
"And how does it feel to return as Kevin Richardson—our antihero—in season two of A Jenius Criminal?"
"First of all, it's a huge honor," Joey said firmly. "I was trusted again by Charlie Douglas—the director and mastermind behind season one. Without him, Kevin wouldn't feel as alive."
Applause erupted.
"I'm truly happy to be back."
"Many fans want to see you on the big screen. Any thoughts on films?" Jeremy teased.
"Honestly… I'm not prepared for that yet."
Disappointed sighs rippled through the audience. The band played a playful off-key riff.
"Even if a director offered you a leading role?" Jeremy pressed.
Joey chuckled. "I'd consider it. But only if it was Charlie Douglas."
Cheers exploded.
"He's said he sees you like a son," Jeremy added.
Joey shrugged, smiling. "If it happens, we'll talk."
Laughter and applause followed as the camera lingered on Joey's calm expression, his name displayed below:
JOEY CARTER – Portrayer of "Kevin Richardson" in A Jenius Criminal
Outside, snow fell heavily—but inside Studio 5B, Joey Carter warmed the nation with little more than quiet confidence and a simple smile.
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