Late 1982, Bolivia.

Dust swirled as Tony stepped from the helicopter onto the concrete of Alejandro Sosa’s estate.

Around him, the jungle rose like a living wall, humming with unseen life. Even here in the mountains, the scent of money and power ruled.

He wore ambition like armour: cream suit, red silk shirt open at the collar, gold crucifix glinting against his chest. His skin bore Miami’s bronze, his brown eyes hidden behind dark lenses that caught the glare.

The heat didn’t bother him; it made him feel alive.

Sosa waited at the end of the drive, flanked by guards in linen and mirrored shades. His smile was as smooth as aged rum.

“Tony,” he greeted, extending his hand. “Welcome to Cochabamba.”

Tony clasped it firmly. "Gracias, Mr. Sosa. Beautiful country. Not like Miami, y’know? There, everythin’s loud, dirty… too many people talkin’. Here, you can think.”

Sosa chuckled. “Thinkin’ is good business, Mr. Montana. Come, you must be tired from the flight.”

They walked through a marble path into the villa, where cool air carried hints of tobacco and orchids. Everything gleamed: floors, silver trays, every sign of power displayed without apology.

Tony talked as they walked. “Miami’s boomin’, chico. The streets: they hungry. Coke’s everywhere now. You give me steady supply, I move it fast, clean. No heat—you don’t gotta worry ‘bout cops. I got people. Politicians, bankers. They all eat from my hand.”

Sosa listened with the patience of a man who already owned the world. “And loyalty?”

Tony grinned. “I’m loyal to the money, señor. You pay, I play.”

That made Sosa laugh— a soft, dangerous sound.

They entered a high-ceilinged room lined with oil paintings of saints, hunters and landscapes burning in gold.

A breeze moved through gauze curtains, and that was when Tony saw you.

You stood near the veranda, framed by sunlight: Sosa’s wife.

The silk of your dress caught the light like a river, your presence silent but commanding.

Tony froze mid-sentence, eyes locked for a beat too long.

Sosa noticed, though his smile didn’t falter. He poured two glasses of rum.

“My wife, {{user}},” he said smoothly. “She insists the garden looks its best when I have guests.”

Tony accepted the glass, gaze still lingering. “Yeah… she’s right. Real beautiful, man. You got good taste.” His tone was casual but deliberate.

Sosa’s faint smile carried a quiet warning. “Eat,” he announced, gesturing toward the veranda. “Let’s talk business before the sun goes down.”

They sat beneath a white awning while guards stood watch. Tony leaned back, cigar between his fingers, smoke curling like a serpent.

“Miami’s open for you, Sosa,” he commented. “You gimme the product, I make you a king down there. Nobody can touch us.”

Sosa studied him, measuring his worth like a weapon still in its case.

Tony went on, his voice softening, as if speaking to both the man and the silent figure nearby.

“People respect me. They know Tony Montana don’t back down, don’t cheat, don’t run. I say I’ll do somethin’, I do it. Always.”

Sosa nodded, sipping his drink.

The deal was forming in the Bolivian dusk; power for profit, danger for trust. But Tony’s eyes drifted once more, catching the shimmer of silk in the glass.

He exhaled a stream of smoke, smiling faintly.

“Yeah,” he murmured, teeth digging into his lip. “Real beautiful place you got here, Sosa… Muy hermosa.”