A thin haze of smoke curls from the overturned Volvo, mingling with the scent of hot metal and gasoline dripping onto the wet asphalt. The night air stings, silencing everything except the slow-creaking, sharp screech of a door hinge opening, as if scratching the silence.
A shadow moves from beneath the wreck. Joey emerges, crawling like a ghost forced to rise. Blood flows from his temple, down his jaw, dripping onto the torn collar of his shirt. His knees are covered in dust and torn fabric, but his eyes remain alert.
His left hand is buried beneath the folds of his hoodie, gripping a cold, heavy revolver. His index finger rests on the trigger, his breathing short. He doesn't know who's waiting in the shadows, but he's ready to shoot first.
Joey staggers to his feet, backing slowly toward the streetlight. His eyes scan the situation rapidly. He knows this isn't a robbery.
Two men step out of the Caprice. Nico, a burly man in a leather jacket with an expression devoid of empathy, followed by Valdez, a bald man with his right hand tucked inside his leather jacket.
"Looks like we hit a little cat," says the bald man—Valdez—grinning, his eyes reflecting the dim streetlight.
Nico grunts. "The owner will be very upset, ahahaha!"
Their laughter erupts, sharp, piercing the silence of the morning fog. But the next second, it fades, leaving only a smirk at the corners of their mouths.
Joey stands there panting, warm blood trickling from his temple, raising the Colt .38 revolver from beneath his jacket. The muzzle wavers slightly, but his eyes remain focused.
"Don't come closer," he says coldly. "Or I'll shoot."
His tone is full of certainty, an act he's practiced for years, masking the pulse racing in his throat.
Valdez narrows his eyes, Nico chuckles.
"The little Cassano cat dares to show its tiny claws too, it seems."
They don't stop. Instead, their steps quicken, splashing through puddles, trapping Joey in the middle of the intersection.
Three meters.
Two meters.
Then—BRUUUUM!
A low, heavy engine sound splits the air. From behind the fog, the headlights of a black Jaguar pierce the line of sight, speeding toward them.
Valdez curses and spins around, Nico instinctively steps back several paces. The car moves like a predator, then stops abruptly just inches from Joey's feet—its brakes screaming, leaving the smell of burnt rubber.
The driver's door opens.
Someone steps out. Tall, broad-shouldered, a sharply tailored black suit hiding trained physical strength. His face is cold, emotionless.
Fabio.
Domenico Cassano's personal bodyguard. A man of few words, but whose every appearance means one thing: the boss is watching.
Joey freezes for a split second. A wave of relief surges in his chest, mixed with an inexplicable fear. Fabio isn't just a guard—he's a minor legend in the Cassano circle. The answer to Joey's question of who was watching from the shadows is Fabio.
His gaze shifts briefly toward Joey—quick, almost meaningless—before turning back to Valdez and Nico. His lips don't smile, but his aura of menace is sharper than any weapon.
No words. Only silence, and within that silence, even the morning fog seems to hold its breath.
Fabio glances at the other car, where someone hasn't yet emerged.
"Come here." His voice is flat, devoid of panic.
Joey, still unsteady and smeared with thin blood on his temple, is pulled behind the Jaguar. The pull is so strong and sure, making him feel like a child being dragged from the road by an adult. Fabio positions himself on the outer side, his body becoming a living shield.
"Cover one o'clock," Fabio says quickly. "The second car."
Joey nods, though his vision still shakes from the impact. His right hand still grips the revolver, its barrel aimed toward the corner where the black Ford Crown Victoria waits. In his head, he tries to recall brief lessons about firing angles and safe spots, but his pounding heart shatters all theory.
From the other side, Nico and Valdez begin to approach. Valdez smirks, while Nico holds his pistol at his thigh. Fabio doesn't wait.
Three shots erupt quickly from his pistol—BANG! BANG! BANG!—forcing them to take cover behind the Caprice. Return fire comes instantly, bullets hitting the Jaguar's body, scattering flecks of paint and metal.
Joey crouches, his knees trembling. But his eyes remain watching—he can't look away from the way Fabio moves. Not just fast, but with cold precision, like a chess piece that already knows all the opponent's moves.
Fabio peers slightly from behind the hood before moving. His motion is swift, almost silent. He slides to the left, squeezes the trigger. One bullet pierces Valdez's forehead; the bald man falls backward without a sound.
Nico tries to shoot, but Fabio has already shifted position, closing in, then fires into his chest. Nico staggers, his pistol dropping, but he's still breathing—Fabio intentionally didn't finish him.
Joey lets out a breath of relief, but it lasts only a fraction of a second.
From the direction of the second car, a silhouette moves quickly. Leonhard Stahl. He emerges without a sound, his pistol already raised. His eyes are sharp, full of calculation, and Joey, of course, recognizes him. They've laughed together between takes, shared cigarettes on a rooftop. But this morning's gaze is not that of a friend. It's the gaze of a former soldier, a hitman who has locked onto his target.
Fabio glances but is too late. Two shots ring out almost simultaneously. One hits his left leg, one pierces his right arm. Fabio falls back, dragging himself behind the Jaguar's wheel.
"Damn it," he hisses, stemming the blood flowing freely.
Joey feels his stomach harden. There's an urge to step out, to shoot Leonhard, but his legs feel rooted to the ground. He knows the man's reputation and how he performed dangerous stunts without a stuntman. And now, he's dancing on the edge of death with Fabio.
The next shot cracks the air. Fabio and Leonhard lock eyes. No words, only quick breaths, triggers ready to be pulled, and the sound of metal hitting asphalt.
Joey can feel every pause—the moments when Leonhard cuts the distance, Fabio responds with low shots, forcing the opponent to take cover behind a lamppost. It's as if he's watching two predators duel, and he's just a small animal hoping not to become a target.
The damp fog now mingles with dust and the smell of gunpowder.
The night fog thickens, absorbing the streetlight into hazy yellow circles. The air is full of the smell of gunpowder and hot iron. Fabio holds his breath behind the Jaguar's hood, his muscular fingers clutching the pistol that already feels warm in his grip. The wound in his leg throbs as if being hit from within, but his eyes remain fixed ahead—on Leonhard's silhouette lurking behind the lamppost.
He knows who he's facing. A former soldier. Dangerous, fast, and won't retreat.
Fabio raises his pistol, firing three quick shots at the lamppost. Concrete sparks fly, forcing Leonhard to step back.
"Now, run!" he snaps sharply.
Joey, who's been half-crouched by the rear of the Jaguar, is startled. His breath is still ragged, thin blood trickling down his temple. He turns, seeing Fabio's gaze—not a request, but an order.
Without a second thought, Joey rises, grabbing the revolver Fabio tossed to him earlier. His heart pounds loudly in his ears, and every step feels like hitting the asphalt. Fabio keeps firing, creating a safe path, but Joey focuses on one thing: getting out of the line of fire.
First mistake.
In his head, Joey only looks forward. He forgets his right side—forgets that someone like Leonhard never attacks from an anticipated direction.
Fabio takes a heavy breath. He pulls the trigger, hearing a dry click. Empty.
Damn it. His wounded hand tries to reload, but his fingers have lost their dexterity, made slippery by blood.
Leonhard moves.
With a low sprint, he glides from the blind side, cutting off Joey's path like a shadow breaking from the dark. His movement is almost silent. Within two meters, he drops to the ground, rolls, then rises again on Joey's left side.
Joey is shocked, reflexively aiming the revolver toward the sound. But Leonhard had read that movement half a second earlier. His foot strikes Joey's wrist with deadly precision.
"Ah!" Joey cries out, pain shooting up the bone to his shoulder. The revolver slips from his grip, clattering on the asphalt.
Leonhard doesn't waste time. His hand grabs the collar of Joey's hoodie, twisting his body backward with raw force, then locks his neck from behind. His other arm—though wounded—presses against Joey's back to prevent him from bending or resisting.
Fabio gets up, suppressing a scream of pain from his leg. He drags himself forward, firing a shot toward Leonhard, but his bullet only hits the asphalt near the man's feet.
Leonhard tilts Joey's body, using the young man as a shield. One small movement of his finger on the trigger, and Joey's life could end. Fabio grits his teeth. He can't shoot.
Leonhard's eyes meet Joey's—for just a split second—but it's enough to bring back memories of the past. Twice they stood face-to-face in front of the camera, pretending to be enemies in a TV series. Back then, after the director yelled "cut!", they would laugh, joking about the overly dramatic scenes.
Now, there's no laughter. Only the cold metal at his temple and the heartbeat pounding against his ribs. Joey stares at him with confusion and anger. Leonhard returns the gaze with an impassive expression, though in his heart he regrets everything turning out this way.
He knows Joey isn't fully aware yet, that this part-time actor before him, who once held a script, now holding a gun before him, is beginning to realize the truth. Leonhard isn't just a fellow actor. He's a former soldier, trained, and his real job is much darker.
A job is a job. And tonight, that job means taking Joey away, alive.
Leonhard begins to retreat, his steps measured though his breath is heavy. "Stay still, or he dies," he says flatly, almost emotionless.
They move toward the black Ford Crown Victoria. Fabio tries to circle from the other side, but the blood from his leg leaves a trail on the asphalt. His breathing is already like a leaking exhaust pipe, heavy and short.
Joey dares to struggle, jerking his body backward, making Leonhard waver slightly. But it only angers him. With one hard blow to the side of the head, Leonhard ends Joey's resistance. Joey's vision wavers, darkens, then fades.
His body goes limp. Leonhard lifts him with his remaining strength, placing him in the car's back seat.
The door closes with a thunk. The engine growls softly, then the car disappears into the night fog, leaving Fabio standing there limping, his revolver hanging in his hand, his jaw tense.
Fabio stands motionless, accompanied only by the smell of gunpowder and hot iron. The fog swallows the sound of the Ford's engine, until all that remains is a faint hum in his ears.
How is he going to explain this to Domenico?
He can't just say "Joey was taken." Not to the Don who entrusted the boy's life to him. The wound in his leg can heal, the bullet can be removed, but losing Joey? That will cut much deeper.
Fabio imagines Domenico's study—dim lamplight, cigarette smoke hanging in the air—and that sharp gaze, piercing the silence, demanding a perfect answer. An answer that doesn't exist.
Fabio tastes metal in his mouth—a mix of blood and fear. Not fear of Leonhard. But fear of Domenico's cold stare when he hears this news. A stare that could freeze anyone, even him.
In his head, he already hears that deep voice. "You only had one job, Fabio." A simple sentence, but with a tone that could make the heart stop for half a second.
The cold morning air stings his lungs. Yet, it's not enough to erase the burning guilt from within. He knows, every second Joey gets farther away, and every second, Domenico's wrath draws closer.
.
At the intersection of 6th Avenue and Little West 12th, right in the heart of West Village, Manhattan—an area blending old architectural charm with artistic cobblestone streets. Though known for its nightlife and small cafes, the atmosphere that morning felt different; quiet, full of thin fog, and the damp smell of last night's rain still hung in the air.
Streetlights still glowed dimly, spreading yellowish circles of light almost washed out by the fog. The wet asphalt shimmered under the glare of headlights and the early morning sun beginning to pierce the clouds, creating sparkling reflections among the scattered glass fragments.
In the middle of the intersection, an overturned black Volvo 240 GL lay—its fading paint contrasting with the clear shattered glass scattered around. The car looked like a silent witness to the chaos that had just occurred. Faint bloodstains dotted the cobblestones, mixed with skid marks and blackened oil stains.
Police arrived swiftly, moving quickly and professionally. Within minutes, several patrol cars had blocked road access, while officers began stringing yellow police tape around the scene. Analog cameras whirred, recording every angle of the incident—from the wrecked Volvo, to the piles of broken glass, and the bullet casings scattered on the asphalt.
One thing was clear, however: there were no victims at the scene. The car was there, blood was there, but the people involved were gone.
On the roadside, residents began to gather, whispering with curiosity and fear.
After the overturned Volvo at the intersection of 6th Avenue and Little West 12th was secured, police officers immediately checked the vehicle's license plate number. Quickly, the number was cross-referenced through the DMV database. The process took only a few minutes.
The result was clear: the vehicle's owner was Joey Carter, a television series actor popular in New York. The young man was widely known as the lead in a fairly popular crime series, where he played the role of a clever and cunning criminal genius. Joey's name had become increasingly familiar in society and the media.
This new fact immediately reminded investigators of the case earlier in the year—when Joey was the key witness in the death of actor Jacob Doyle. Doyle was brutally murdered in front of a famous Manhattan casino, an event that had shaken the entertainment world and raised many questions. In late January 1995, the court declared Joey not guilty. One suspect in Jacob's murder was found dead under mysterious circumstances, while the identity of the other perpetrator remained a mystery—only Joey knew who the real culprit was: Leonhard, a former soldier turned hitman. Jacob himself turned out to be a cocaine dealer operating in celebrity circles, a secret known only to a handful of people.
Now, the fact that Joey's car was found at a shootout location, with him not inside, immediately elevated this case to a high priority in the eyes of the police.
Given Joey's status as a public figure—though not a huge superstar, but well-known—news of his disappearance instantly attracted media attention.
On March 6, 1995, several days after the incident, local media like the New York Post and NY Daily News scrambled for coverage. Police reporters using scanner radios to monitor 911 reports were already on alert, and almost simultaneously with the police, they arrived at the scene.
The morning papers' main headlines were immediately filled with shocking news.
TV Actor Missing After Brooklyn Shootout Incident
A dramatic photo of the overturned Volvo with yellow police tape fencing off the area adorned the front page. Media spotlight further increased pressure on the investigation, demanding quick answers behind Joey Carter's disappearance.
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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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