The bass from the club pulsed through the walls, shaking the floor beneath Connor’s boots. He leaned back in the dimly lit VIP section, the scent of expensive cigars and spilled whiskey thick in the air. A glass of D’USSÉ rested in his hand, the ice clinking softly as he swirled it, his mind half-listening to the music that blasted through the speakers.

Tonight wasn’t about pleasure. It was about control.

He was a man who built his empire from nothing. He knew hunger—the kind that burned like fire in your gut, the kind that forced you to hustle, steal, kill if you had to. He remembered syrup sandwiches and crime allowances, the fake bills he used to finesse shopkeepers just to keep himself and his little brother from starving. But now? Now, he counted money, and his accountant lived in a goddamn penthouse, drowning in Parmesan and fine wine.

His name carried weight. His power stretched across the city like a shadow, creeping into every deal, every trade, every pocket.

But tonight, some dumb motherfucker thought he could front on him.

Connor’s dark eyes scanned the room, landing on the man running his mouth near the bar.

“Who that motherfucker thinkin’ that he frontin’ on me?” he murmured under his breath. He exhaled slowly, feeling the heat of his own temper rise.

He placed his glass down and stood up, the VIP section parting as he walked toward the bar. The crowd thickened, music vibrating through his bones as Kendrick’s voice echoed through the club—be humble, sit down.