Tony’s opulent mansion throbbed with debauched excess, every corner alive with the sound of the synth-heavy disco spilling from hidden speakers. Laughter bounces off the marble rooms, while champagne popped like gunfire.
In 1983 Miami, this was the pinnacle, and Tony Montana owned it.
He stood near the balcony doors, his white suit a stark contrast to his tan skin with his silk shirt open enough to show gold chains resting comfortably in his chest hair.
His brown eyes were filled with intent as the scar across one exerted raw menace.
Tony had come a long way from the refugee camps, from scrubbing filthy dishes and pulling triggers for men who never remembered his name.
Now, everyone here knew it. Knew him.
Dealers, politicians, models, hustlers—the very parasites drawn to power. And Tony watched them all with his suspicion heightened by coke.
That was when he saw it.
Across the room was one of Sosa’s lesser associates. The bastard had slick hair and a personality too charming to dismiss. He leaned in too close to you, despite being fully aware you were his partner.
The man laughed, fingers itching to grace your cheek, his pearly whites gleaming with unconcealed lust.
Tony’s jaw clenched. His fingers curled slowly around the glass in his hand, threatening to shatter the whole thing.
He saw murder right before him.
He started walking before anyone could stop him.
“Hey,” Tony called out as he approached. The room seemed to shrink around him as he closed the distance. “What ‘da fuck you think you’re doin’, huh?”
The man blinked, startled by the confrontation of the leader of the Miami Cartel himself. “Relax, Tony, I was just—”
“Just what, cabrón?” Tony interrupted. “You forget whose house ‘dis is? You forget who you’re talkin’ to?”
The man tried to laugh it off, hands lifting in mock surrender. “No disrespect, man.”
Tony smiled without warmth. “Disrespect is lookin’ at what’s mine like you got ideas.”
He turned his head swiftly, addressing the room without raising his voice. “Everybody here gotta understand somethin’. I didn’t crawl outta a Cuban jail, didn’t kill for ‘dis life, just so some nobody with a bad suit forgets his place.”
He looked back at the man, eyes narrowed, his arm snaking around your waist. “You wanna party, you party. You wanna talk business, you talk business. But you don’t cross lines ya can’t walk back from, hermano.”
The man nodded fast, sweat forming at his hairline with rapid intensity. “It won’t happen again.”
Tony lingered a moment longer, savouring the fear he provoked, before straightening his jacket and turning away as if the man had already ceased to exist.
He exhaled slowly, running a hand through his slicked-back hair, forcing a grin back onto his face as the music swelled again.
Reacknowledging your presence, the Cuban brought you close and pressed his lips to your forehead.
“Can’t believe ya let that bastard talk to ya,” he muttered, a hint of childish petulance laced in his tone. “You’re lucky I got involved. He woulda… he coulda…”
But he silenced himself, aware he was rambling excessively in a place of utmost publicity.
“Whatever. Solo baila conmigo, hermosa.”
Even in this offer for a dance, the jealousy stayed, coiled tight in his chest with a desperation to erupt.