Tyrone stormed into his penthouse, the heavy door slamming against the wall with a force that echoed through the lavish space. He staggered to the bar, pouring shot after shot of whiskey and downing them in quick succession, the burn doing little to numb the fire raging inside him. His hands trembled as he gripped the bottle, fury building until he hurled it across the room, watching it shatter against the marble floor. The sound seemed to barely register, overtaken by the whirlwind of thoughts consuming him.
He collapsed onto the luxurious leather sofa near the fireplace, his eyes locking onto the dancing flames. The orange glow flickered across his face, casting dark shadows beneath his eyes as his hand limply clutched his silver-plated Glock. Jamal's face flashed before him—the laughter, the trust, the loyalty. All of it gone in an instant, ripped away by a senseless act of violence. Tyrone's chest heaved as he replayed the scene in his mind, the sound of gunfire, Jamal's blood, the feeling of helplessness.
He wasn't enough. The realization cut deep, the weight of it sinking in. He had thought he was in control, that his rise meant something, but in the end, he hadn't been powerful enough to stop this. He hadn't been ruthless enough. He hadn't been violent enough to make his enemies fear him. They had taken Jamal from him, and in that moment, Tyrone knew his ambition had fallen short.
His face twisted in anger as the fire crackled louder, mirroring the storm building inside him. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the Glock, his mind racing with thoughts of revenge. He wasn't just going to survive this—he was going to become something more, something feared. If he had to become a monster to protect those still loyal to him, so be it.
The firelight reflected in his eyes, giving them a dangerous, almost feral glow. The flames seemed to stoke the brutal storm brewing in his soul, igniting a savage hunger for more. More power. More fear. More blood. The world had underestimated him for too long. But now, the world was about to see what happens when a man like Tyrone, once deemed irrelevant, decides to carve his name into history by any means necessary.
As he stared into the flames, the vision became clear—his rise wasn't over. It was just beginning, and it would be drenched in violence. Tyrone wasn't going to be ignored anymore. His enemies would learn to fear his name, and when they did, they would beg for the mercy he had never been shown.
Isabella Rodrigo leisurely ate a grape, her lips curling into a subtle smile as she watched Tyrone enter the room. He wore dark shades, his gun blatantly visible in front of him, but it was the shift in his demeanor that truly caught her attention. There was a coldness about him now, a different aura—one that intrigued her. She had heard about the death of his cousin Jamal and noted how, despite losing not only Jamal but also his brother Amon and father Franklin, Tyrone continued to survive, seemingly unbreakable.
"Finally," she murmured, pleased by his arrival. Tyrone, however, was far from the man she had previously dealt with. He moved with a deadly calm, the weight of grief and rage mixing into an unsettling indifference. He sat down across from her, exuding an icy detachment that made Isabella both curious and cautious.
As she began laying out the terms of their agreement, discussing how he would fulfill his role as the supplier since he had killed hers, Isabella mentioned starting with 3 tons every month, testing how far Tyrone would bend to her demands. Before she could finish, Tyrone cut her off sharply, his voice colder than she had ever heard before.
"Twenty."
Isabella paused, her eyebrow arching slightly as she studied him. There was no hesitation in his demand, no room for negotiation. The man sitting before her wasn't interested in compromise—he was demanding control. Tyrone's ambition had clearly outgrown the confines of what she had expected.
She smiled faintly, intrigued by this transformation. "Twenty it is, then," she replied, the words rolling off her tongue with a hint of amusement. The stakes had just risen, and Isabella knew that whatever game Tyrone was playing now, it was going to be far more dangerous than anything before. Tyrone's cold, relentless ambition was becoming something unstoppable. And Isabella, ever the strategist, was all too eager to see how this would unfold.
Tyrone's voice was steady as he spoke into the phone, the hum of jet engines still echoing in the background. "I'll need everything. Military-grade," he stated coldly, without offering any further details. On the other end, the Arabian arms dealer, Hassan Al-Hariri, leaned back in his opulent office, a flicker of curiosity crossing his face.
"Tyrone," Hassan began, his tone measured, "you've never needed anything this heavy before. What's changed? Who exactly are you planning to go to war with?"
As Tyrone listened, he stepped off his recently purchased private jet, the Italian sun beating down on him and his crew as they descended the stairs onto the tarmac at an international airport in Rome. His six enforcers, clad in designer suits but with a clear air of menace, followed him in formation. Waiting for them was a convoy of black Cadillac Escalades, their engines already running, ready to whisk them away.
Pausing briefly, Tyrone turned toward the car, his cold gaze lingering as the driver opened the door for him. Without missing a beat, he delivered his answer to Hassan with chilling simplicity.
"It's not about who," Tyrone replied, his voice flat and emotionless. "It's about what comes next."
The call ended abruptly, leaving Hassan both intrigued and unsettled. Tyrone's words echoed with a dark certainty, as if he was no longer merely navigating the criminal underworld but preparing to rewrite its rules entirely. Stepping into the Cadillac, Tyrone settled into his seat, his eyes focused on the horizon. The time for survival had passed; now, he was preparing for domination.