The city sky had blackened, keeping all its secrets behind the shadows of concrete and lights that went out too fast. In the alley behind Trattoria Marcello, an old Italian restaurant owned by the Colombo Family—said to have been closed every Monday for three generations now—black cars came to a stop one by one. Without plates. Without the sound of horns. Like a funeral procession without a coffin.
On the second floor, a private dining room had been prepared. A brass chandelier hung low, casting a dim light. A perfectly polished old wooden round table held only six chairs, six red wine glasses, and one bottle of Chianti Classico Riserva that would not be touched—a sign of a peace meeting. For now.
Two guards stood at the door. No weapons. No bodyguards. Just faces that represented blood and history. Those present were not just any names.
Vincent "Vinny Ice" Manzella, Genovese Capo, a cold figure who only spoke when it was time for others to be silent.
Tony Rizzo, Colombo underboss, looking like a district attorney, neat and legal, but everyone knew his right hand was stained with marks that couldn't be washed away.
Salvatore "Big Sal" Romano, Bonanno consigliere, old, stubborn, and believing the world could be solved by breaking people's knees.
Frankie LaMonte, Lucchese deputy, his face always shrewd as if calculating profit even when angry.
Angelo DeFazio, Gambino caporegime, representing the boss who was currently "sick," or so they said. But everyone knew his sickness wasn't due to age.
And lastly, Giuliano Ferretti, consigliere of the Cassano Family—the only person in the room who had not come from an American family. A gray suit, a dark tie, and hands that always touched his cufflinks as if timing an execution.
The atmosphere was so quiet, even the sound of a chair being pulled back felt like a warning shot.
Tony opened the conversation. "In the last two months, three containers disappeared at the port. Two contained weapons, the other—diamonds worth eight million. Now, the Calabrian is sitting at this table. An explanation, Mr. Ferretti?"
Giuliano did not speak immediately. He placed a black folder on the table. Opened it slowly. Photos of opened containers. Discarded port uniforms. And Balkan weapons—too old to be used, too specific to be called a coincidence.
"We did not come to blame," he said softly. "We came bearing the same stench."
Big Sal grinned. "Santiago Morales. We've heard. But he is not our territory."
Giuliano nodded. "Correct. However, he is expanding his reach, through your docks."
Frankie tapped his fingers on the table. "Lucchese has no business with the Balkans."
Vinny Ice narrowed his eyes. "But you guard the eastern port, Frankie."
Angelo finally spoke. Calm and piercing. "Cassano is not part of the Commission. You are an outside family. We let you live because you know how to stay quiet."
Giuliano looked at him flatly.
"And you let us live... because you know we know how to kill without a sound."
The tension in the private dining room grew thicker. Three hours of negotiations had passed, with the flow of words shifting subtly like blood just beginning to clot. Every sentence uttered carried more weight than mere words—every sentence, every gesture, was a hidden threat or offer.
Giuliano Ferretti surveyed the room with a calmness that almost froze the air. Vinny Ice glared at him from the corner of the table, his eyes as if wanting to dissect every layer of word that left Giuliano's lips. On the other side, Big Sal stared with a furrowed brow, his mouth slightly open, as if waiting for a trigger to explode.
Yet, when Giuliano Ferretti finally stood, the sound of his footsteps felt all-encompassing, striking the silence that was almost tangible. All eyes were on him, and he knew—this was the right moment.
"We came not just to demand something. We came to ensure the survival of all these families."
Giuliano's voice was deep and calm, accompanied by a firmness reflected in every syllable he pronounced.
"We have no plan to take over a single inch of what is not ours. But we need space. We need control—at least a little."
He looked directly at Tony Rizzo, Frankie LaMonte, and Angelo DeFazio. Their eyes met his, full of tension. Like predators measuring the distance between themselves and their prey.
"We ask for one thing. A distribution office in Lower Manhattan—one small place, nothing more. That, we agree, will be under the supervision of the Bonanno Family."
Frankie LaMonte's eyes narrowed. He opened his mouth as if about to speak, but Giuliano continued immediately, his voice growing firmer.
"We know you have control over most of that area, and we respect that. But if we are to operate without too much interference, this must be agreed upon. And only with supervision from Bonanno do we consider it feasible."
Tony Rizzo leaned back in his chair. The sound of wind rustling outside seemed to act as a silent backdrop for his next words.
"And what else do you want, Mr. Ferretti? What else must we pay for this temporary peace?"
Giuliano paused for a moment, as if weighing his words. Everyone in the room fell silent, waiting.
"Because we need one month to trace the flow of his funds back to the heart of Eastern Europe. If he dies before that, we only cut a branch—not the root."
The atmosphere grew stiffer. The mafia family members exchanged glances, gauging whether there was a hidden trap in those words. Yet, when the name Santiago Morales was mentioned, one thing was immediately clear—this was not just about the port. This had become a threat to them all.
"If anyone moves first, there is one rule—their action will be considered a violation of the Commission's protocol," added Giuliano, firm, without a hint of doubt.
Vinny Ice finally pressed his lips together, feeling the tension building like a coiled spring ready to snap. But before he could respond, Tony Rizzo spoke.
"Are you serious? Santiago Morales? That's not our problem. That's Gambino or Bonanno's business, not ours."
Giuliano remained silent for a moment, then answered with a thin smile sharper than a sword.
"If Santiago isn't your problem, then why are your ports now being targeted, Tony?" He looked sharply, challenging without words.
Frankie LaMonte immediately interjected, "But who would touch Santiago here? He's not one of us."
Giuliano raised an eyebrow, his gaze cold.
"We don't want Santiago touching us. And we hope you can wait. We need time to gather all the evidence we need."
Silence enveloped the room again. Everyone began to feel increasingly intrigued yet remained cautious. What Giuliano was saying was clearly more than just a matter of ports or weapons—this was about a bigger war.
However, the most palpable tension came after the final sentence uttered by Giuliano Ferretti.
"Santiago Morales is not acting alone. He has planted roots in your ports. You can deny it. But you can also lose much more if you keep silent."
Tony Rizzo from Colombo sighed, then looked around. "Okay. We'll form a joint investigation team. Each family sends one person. The distribution channels will be audited."
Everyone nodded.
"And one more thing that is non-negotiable…" Giuliano Ferretti's voice was flat, but cut like glass. "There is one name… who must not be touched. Not because of his position. But because of who stands behind him."
Tony Rizzo raised an eyebrow, keeping an expression of surprise hard to read. "Is that person part of the family?"
Giuliano did not answer immediately. He only glanced briefly, as if gauging the value of his interlocutor's life.
"No," he finally answered. "But how he is treated will be considered as how our Don himself is treated."
The tension descended slowly into the air like fine dust. No further explanation was needed. Those who understood, would understand. Those who were foolish, would learn in a slower—and more painful—way.
Tony leaned back. "Seriously, are you talking about that actor?" He hadn't expected—that rumor was actually true.
Giuliano turned to Tony, still calm, even with a perfectly maintained flat expression.
"As serious as the death of your wife in 1982. Don't test who knows what."
That statement—brief, so sharp—instantly shrouded the room with a deadly chill. Tony Rizzo couldn't reply. Everyone in the room knew exactly what it meant.
Giuliano turned his wine glass without interest. "I am talking about boundaries." He paused for a moment, then added—his tone even softer than usual, which only made it more dangerous. "And we all know what happens if someone crosses a line."
No one replied. Only the hiss of wind from the half-closed window.
The meeting ended without needing a formal closure. Everyone knew there was no more room for compromise.
As he walked out of the room, Giuliano glanced back briefly at the table that was beginning to empty.
"Our Don did not come tonight. But believe me, he is never truly far away."
That night ended with words that were already too heavy to be spoken further. Everyone knew their position. They knew what they had to face. There was no more negotiation—only decisions. They all returned home in silence, carrying clear warnings in their hearts.
*
The night wind began to creep in through a small gap in the open window, shifting the thin curtains slightly in Joey's apartment.
Luca slipped one arm into his wool jacket, a light but steady movement. He turned to Joey, who was still standing near the dining table, his face holding a trace of laughter not yet fully faded.
"I'm going back to the hotel tonight," said Luca, his voice like autumn—warm but knowing how to leave slowly.
Joey, who hadn't truly wanted to let go of the man's presence since earlier, spontaneously offered, "You can stay here if you want."
His tone was sincere. But there was hesitation at the end of the sentence. Like someone who knew his offer would not be accepted.
Luca gave a faint smile. Not a rejection, not an apology either. Just a timing that knew its place.
"Thank you," he said. "But it's better not. I know which spaces are not mine."
Joey didn't answer. He just lowered his head slightly, nodding slowly.
Luca stepped closer and patted Joey's shoulder gently. A simple gesture—but like a silent protector saying, "You're not alone, even though I can't stay."
"Take care of yourself," he said, soft yet solid.
Then he turned to the man standing in the corner of the room, silent until now—his eyes dark, body leaning straight against the wall like a shadow that never truly left.
"And watch over him," Luca said to his brother, his voice flat but sharp. "But not too tight, Dom. You're tending to something that wants to grow free."
Domenico did not answer immediately. His eyes met his brother's. A glance. Deep. Silent.
And in that silence,everything was spoken without a sound.
Luca walked towards the door. He opened and closed it himself. Not rushed. Not awkward. Just calm—like someone who knows everything has its limits, including closeness.
After the door closed, silence fell like an invisible mantle inside the room. Joey stood stiffly, still in the same spot.
Meanwhile, Domenico remained by the wall. Still watching the door.
Then, as if suddenly aware, he slowly turned to Joey.
"I don't like the way he looks at you," he murmured.
Joey turned slowly, looking back with a flat expression.
"He looks at me like a person," he answered. "Not like a warning of ownership."
The sound of the door lock clicking from inside was clear, sharp, piercing the hanging silence. Domenico turned the knob slowly, ensuring the boundary to the outside world was perfectly sealed. Then he stood for a moment in front of that door, his back to Joey, still as a tomb guardian statue.
Joey didn't move. He knew this man's rhythm. Silence first, then an explosion. Or… something softer but far more difficult to face—a silence full of unspoken demands.
A few seconds later, Domenico turned around.
His steps were slow but sure, the house slippers he wore making almost no sound on the wooden floor. Then, without warning, his arms swept around Joey's body. Pulling him into a strong embrace, possessive and impossible to refuse.
Joey caught a surprised breath but did not resist. He just stayed still, his head resting lightly against the man's chest. Domenico's warm exhale was felt in his hair.
"I didn't like the way he said goodbye to you," the man finally murmured, soft but clear. "As if he knows something that only I have the right to know."
Joey blinked, then smiled faintly. "Luca isn't your enemy, Dom."
Domenico kissed his temple. Slowly, like a stamp of ownership.
"I know. But he's my brother. And I know how we were raised. None of us love without an intention."
Joey raised his face, looking at him. "And you?"
Domenico's fingers stroked the nape of Joey's neck. His eyes looked too deeply. "I possess your entire soul."
Joey chuckled softly. "Damn it, you might be right."
Domenico bent down, kissing the young man's lips briefly. Not long, just enough to assert authority.
Then he pulled Joey closer again, as if wanting to erase the residual warmth of anyone who wasn't him.
Joey just stayed still, sinking into that embrace. His eyes looked at the window, at the curtains still swaying from the night wind stealing inside.
[•°]
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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