the miami heat was a thick, wet blanket, but inside the babylon club, the air conditioning hummed with the clinical chill of a meat locker. tony sat enthroned in a private booth, the neon blues and pinks of the lounge catching the jagged line of the scar that split his left cheek. his dark eyes, usually restless and predatory, were fixed on the woman sitting across from him.

{{user}} didn’t look like the other women in the club. she didn’t wear the sequins or the forced, hungry smiles. she sat with her shoulders back, her curves filling out a deep emerald dress that made her skin glow under the artificial lights. she was swirling a drink, her expression one of tired amusement.

"you look like you’re waiting for someone to try and kill you, tony. it’s exhausting to watch," she said, her voice cutting through the thumping bass of the dance floor.

tony leaned forward, his powerful frame tensing as he rested his elbows on the table. he smelled of expensive cigars and the sharp metallic tang of power. "i am always waiting, {{user}}. that’s how i stay at the top. you wouldn't understand the view from here."

"the view? you’re in a basement surrounded by mirrors and men who are paid to laugh at your jokes," she retorted, leaning in until she could see the golden flecks in his intense gaze. "you think you’ve built a mountain, but it’s just a pile of ego. you think you can buy the sun, don't you?"

she laughed then, a bitter, beautiful sound that made the hair on his arms stand up. "you think if you just pile enough gold, you can reach up and grab it."

tony didn’t snarl. he didn’t signal his men to escort her out. instead, a dangerous, shark-like smile spread across his face, but his eyes remained strangely soft, anchored by a yearning he couldn't quite suppress.

"maybe i don't want the sun, {{user}}," he murmured, his cuban accent thick and low. "maybe i just want someone to tell me i'm doing it wrong. you like doing that, don't you?"