The smoke curled lazily from the tip of his cigarette, twisting and dissolving into the dim light of the office. Mr. Tony sat behind the massive mahogany desk, his broad shoulders rigid, his sharp jaw outlined by the glow of the desk lamp. Every movement he made radiated authority, the kind of presence that made men hesitate and women look twice. The air around him seemed charged, a quiet storm of controlled power. His eyes, dark and calculating, scanned the city through the floor-to-ceiling windows, a predator already sizing up his next move.
The door opened abruptly, and his secretary stepped in, a man in his early thirties, posture straight, file clutched tightly in his hands. He hesitated, sensing the weight in the room.
"Sir… the folder you asked for. It's worse than we thought," he said, placing the folder on Mr. Tony's desk.
Mr. Tony's fingers drummed the desk impatiently as he leaned forward. He opened it, eyes scanning the contents with chilling precision. Inside were the records of a client who had dared to betray him: transactions, figures, totals, and losses—billions of dollars that had vanished into the wrong hands.
"Billions," he murmured, almost to himself. Then his voice sharpened, slicing through the smoke like a knife. "I want him in the basement. Don't worry about the mess."
The secretary nodded, swallowing the tremor in his voice. "Yes, sir."
Mr. Tony's gaze did not leave the file. "Tell me the numbers, or tell me his last words." His question was simple, but there was an unmistakable threat in it, the kind of question that demanded answers or exacted consequences.
Hours passed in a blur of orchestrated chaos: phone calls, orders barked, and the city outside unaware of the storm brewing within the walls of the office. When the file's betrayal had been dealt with in the only way Mr. Tony deemed fit, he rose, the cigarette still dangling from his lips, embers glowing like warning lights.
"I have other clients to see," he said, his tone cold, controlled, and precise.
The secretary cleared his throat, stepping closer. "Sir… there's Zee. She has been looking for work. Her resumes keep getting rejected."
Mr. Tony's head tilted slightly, the corner of his mouth lifting in a shadow of amusement. "Clear her schedule. I want her at the Sinclair firm by Monday. And find out who's been sitting at her dinner table. I don't like surprises."
"Yes, sir," the secretary replied, voice steady but cautious, aware of how dangerously personal Mr. Tony's attention could be.
By nightfall, Mr. Tony was already at the nightclub, the neon lights reflecting off the polished leather of his shoes, bodyguards flanking him like shadows. Inside, the music throbbed with a heavy pulse, but he moved through the crowd with a predator's grace, sharp and unyielding, a storm disguised in tailored black.
The neon lights flickered across the polished floor, casting long shadows that danced with the pulsing beat of the music. He had not noticed her yet, Zee, until she appeared behind the bar, managing the floor with practiced efficiency. Her hair was tied back, eyes sharp and alert, and she moved with authority, unaware of who he was.
Across the room, one of Mr. Tony's clients, Mr. Cole, had been waiting for his pleasure for the night. His gaze landed on Zee, and entitlement glimmered in his eyes. "Serve me tonight," he commanded, low but firm.
Zee's chest stiffened. She had no idea who this man really was, and she did not care about anyone's status. But the rules of the club and the rules of survival meant she had to comply. Still, she would not tolerate indecency. "The drink is on the house, Mr. Cole. My conversation isn't," she said, polite but firm.
Mr. Cole smirked, pretending to respect her boundaries, and gestured for her to sit beside him. Mr. Tony, watching from across the club, noticed immediately. His gaze locked on her, dark and possessive, but he stayed still. The deal he was negotiating could not be disrupted yet. The rules of the trade were clear, and Mr. Tony always followed the rules, even when every fiber of him screamed otherwise.
Mr. Cole leaned closer, whispering orders to his guards. By the time Zee realized her drink had been spiked, it was too late. The glass was pressed to her lips, and refusing could cost her the job she worked tirelessly to maintain. She drank, hand trembling slightly, but her spine remained unbroken.
Mr. Tony's dark eyes never left her. His hands were clenched at his sides, patience and fury coiled together like a spring.
It was only when Mr. Cole, drunk and emboldened, began groping his own date that Mr. Tony's restraint finally snapped. Without warning, he rose from his table, the air around him thickening with imminent danger. In one smooth motion, he kicked Mr. Cole backward, the man staggering across the polished floor. A cold steel barrel pressed against his temple, Mr. Tony's gaze burning into him.
"You're getting blood on the floor, Cole. And I just had it polished," Mr. Tony's voice cut through the music, low and deadly. His bodyguards mirrored him, guns raised, trained on Mr. Cole and his men. Chaos erupted—screams, chairs tipping, and patrons scattering for their lives.
Mr. Cole's guards scrambled, unsure how to respond to the sudden precision and authority of Mr. Tony's presence. The club had become a war zone in seconds. Glass shattered, heels clicked frantically on the floor, and neon lights reflected off panic-stricken faces.
At the center of it all, Mr. Tony's gaze found Zee. She was safe for now, but the warning was unmistakable. "You touched something that doesn't belong to you," he said. His presence was a storm, silent yet devastating, and every man in that club understood the new law of the night.