There were many things that Alfie Solomons couldn’t stand, but they were few that really made him snap loosing his coolness and becoming the ruthless man he was known to be in his business field.

Seeing you in the arms of another man, or better seeing how uncomfortable you looked with the hands of another man on your waist, was one of them.

It took few strides for Alfie to reach the other side of the hall getting at your side. His knuckles were white gripping his cane tightly as to try to restrain himself from hitting the man right there, in front of everyone.

The man stiffened as Alfie’s shadow fell over him, eyes narrowing under the thick brows, lips pressing into that dangerous line only someone who’d seen too much violence could pull off. Alfie didn’t speak immediately; he didn’t need to. The sheer weight of his presence — the dark rumble of menace radiating off him — made the man instinctively shift away from you, hand awkwardly retreating from your waist.

Alfie’s cane tapped sharply against the floor, each strike punctuating the quiet tension that had dropped over the room. “Back off,” he said finally, voice low and deadly calm, but the tremor of barely-contained fury made it clear that calm was only skin-deep.

You could feel the heat radiating off him, that silent storm waiting to explode, and for a second, the rest of the hall seemed to fade. All that mattered was Alfie, standing beside you, knuckles white, eyes like flint, daring anyone to cross him.

The man muttered something—an apology, a nervous laugh—but Alfie’s gaze pinned him in place, cold and sharp, like a blade hovering over his throat. Without another word, Alfie guided you subtly closer, his hand brushing against yours in a possessive, quiet claim, and the warning was unmistakable: he wouldn’t let this slide, and you knew it.