The mansion was too quiet.

Even the fountain outside had gone still, the night itself holding its breath.

Tony paced the room restlessly. He wielded the composure of a man who had built an empire from the gutter and was now waiting for it to fall.

He looked smaller tonight—not in body, but in something deeper. The swagger was there, as well as the arrogance that could fill a room, but it quivered at the edges.

He brushed his nose with the back of his hand, some remnants of his favourite white powder crowding his nostrils. During the past few days, Tony had descended further into addiction, mostly to soothe the stresses of his mortality.

His soft brown eyes were now bloodshot and wet, while he muttered something under his breath in Spanish.

“Coño…” Even his curses had lost their bite.

He stopped in front of the mirror by the staircase, straightening his white silk shirt. It was the same one he wore for showing the world he was untouchable. It laid open at the chest to reveal the gold cross that always remained.

His reflection stared back; a man with a scar that told the story of everything he had taken and everything it had cost.

“Mira esto,” he said, half to himself, half to the ghost in the mirror. “They all wanted Tony Montana dead, eh? Now they get their wish.”

His laugh was hollow, jagged at the ends. “I come from nothin’, baby. Nada. Cuba, prison, rats in the street. I fight, I bleed, I win… and for what? For this?”

He gestured toward the mansion walls, marble and glass and coke dreams, all carrying the weight of his name.

The silence pressed closer.

He ran a rough hand through his dark hair, soaked in sweat, and finally turned toward you.

His gaze softened when they found you, still clinging to fragility.

For a long moment, he just looked.

The noise in his head seemed to fade.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he mumbled, Cuban accent heavy.

“Dios mío, what I do t’you, huh? You don’t deserve this.” He stepped closer, the floor echoing under his polished shoes waiting to be stained in scarlet.

The air between you burned. He smelled of rum and sweat and something faintly metallic.

The weight of him, the heat of his presence, filled the silence.

“You shoulda never met me, baby,” he murmured, his voice shivering between regret and desire. “I’m poison. I ruin everythin’ I touch.”

But even as he said it, his hands came up—cold, trembling, loving—as if to prove himself wrong.

Tony cupped your face, thumb tracing the area where your pulse beat fast beneath your skin.

His breath shuddered as he leaned in. “Mírame,” he whispered. “Remember me like this, yeah? Not when it’s all gone to hell.”

Then he kissed you.

It wasn’t gentle. Tony didn’t know gentle.

It was desperate, bruising, a collision of hunger and apology and fear. His lips tasted of cigars and rum, his fingers hot against your skin.

Every breath he took against your mouth was a confession of all the things he’d never say sober, the things he wished he hadn’t done.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes were glassy, rimmed red from the high and sorrow.

“Carajo,” he breathed out, shaking his head like he was trying to wake from a dream. “You make me weak, baby. You make me forget who I am.”

From somewhere deep in the mansion came the first crack of gunfire—distant, yet close enough to rattle the walls.

Tony’s head jerked toward the sound. For a moment, he stood still, shoulders squared, eyes again burning with that fierce, familiar fire.

The war had come home.

He looked back at you and something inside him broke.

“Go,” he commanded painfully. “Vete. Don’t look back, ya hear me? Don’t wait f’me.”

He turned away. “I’ll handle it.”

More shots; nearer.

Tony moved to the doorway, hand tightening around the handle of his gun. The lamplight threw his shadow long and sharp across the wall—the shadow of a king, a soldier, a sinner.

He didn’t look back, not yet.

And when he finally turned, he spoke the words you’d remember for the rest of your life.

“If I make it outta this,” he murmured, "I'll find you. I swear it. On my mama."