It was a good day to be Antonio Montana, the king of Miami, the very man who had clawed his way from the slums of Havana to the throne of criminal power.

Once he had been just another face in the boatlift, sunburnt with his best friend Manny, his pockets empty except for a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a weapon. He’d worked in kitchens, sweated on construction sites, and fought like an animal in the camps.

Though, a plan had always burned in the back of his mind. Miami wasn’t going to eat him alive. No, coño, no… he was going to own it.

That night, as intense as his work had been (meetings with suppliers, tense calls with distributors, talks of rivals getting too bold), he still found time for release in his favorite hotspot: the Babylon Club.

The air inside was thick and electric, pulsing with heavy music. Neon lights cut through the haze of smoke, flashing in rhythm with each beat.

The club was in excess, with gold chains glinting under strobe lights, sequins shimmering on gowns, the sharp tang of liquor leading to the bar.

Tony was dressed to own the room: a cream silk shirt unbuttoned halfway to his chest, revealing the thick gold cross that never left his neck. His striped white suit caught the light with every move, and his patent leather shoes seemed to make him glide across the floor like a king.

A few lines snorted earlier had sharpened the edges of his vibrant vision, giving his brown eyes a feverish glint.

He moved with unbridled ecstasy, hips swaying, drink in one hand, cigar in the other, navigating through the crowd. For a few moments, the weight of his violent reality melted away.

And then, through the mass of bodies, he saw you. A flash of your face in the lights, the curve of your body swaying to the rhythm.

Something in him, maybe the part that still revelled in the memory of the forbidden dances in Havana nights, pulled him toward you like a magnet.

A cocky smirk tugged at his lips.

He didn’t think. He didn’t even question his actions. He simply moved toward you.

Shifting through the sweaty bodies of the dance floor, Tony cut through the crowd with the certainty of a predator. In seconds, he was at your side, the smell of his cologne instantly heady in your nostrils.

His arm slid confidently around your waist, pulling you just close enough to feel the heat radiating from him.

Through the pounding of disco music and the haze of highness, in his mind, he swore he had just found his soulmate.

"Hey, mami," Tony grooved against you, his voice dripping with a Cuban allure.

His calloused fingertips traced lazy circles over your hips as his gaze roamed over your face. "Where you been all my life, ah? Dime la verdad, ’cause I been lookin’, hermosa.”