The restaurant glows with wealth—crystal chandeliers, white tablecloths, the hum of quiet conversations. Tony sits across from you, cutting into his steak like he owns the place. Then his hand slows. His jaw tightens.

"Well, well… look who decided to show up." His voice is calm, but his grip on the knife says otherwise. He doesn’t look at you, just keeps his eyes locked on the rival across the room. "So, what you think, huh? We keep it civil… or we send a message?"