As the business class flight glided through the clouds, Tyrone's mind was a battlefield of haunting memories. Flashbacks of his men being gunned down one by one in that cold Sicilian morgue kept flooding his thoughts. The horror of Leon's lifeless eyes, Kato's desperate gasp as he tried to reload, and the sound of the bullets that cut through them all, played over and over in his head. He clenched his fists tightly, feeling both helpless and enraged. These men had trusted him, fought for him, and died by his side—yet he had made it out alive, not by his own strength, but by someone else's intervention.
Touching down at Toronto Airport, Tyrone's anger hadn't subsided. He felt a hollow ache beneath it, a mixture of guilt and fury. When he exited the terminal, a convoy awaited him on the tarmac. His men stood ready, a line of armored SUVs shining under the cold Toronto sky. But as he opened the door to the lead vehicle, his eyes narrowed.
Inside sat Isabella Mendoza, poised and calm, her dark eyes watching him carefully. Her presence was at once expected and yet shocking. Tyrone's pulse quickened, anger boiling beneath his surface. He had questions, demands, and a fury that he wanted to unleash. But, as he settled into the seat across from her, he took a slow breath, forcing himself to keep calm.
"Why?" he asked quietly, his voice edged with a sharp intensity, cutting through the silence of the car. "Why did you intervene, Isabella?"
Isabella merely raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk playing on her lips. "You're welcome, Tyrone," she replied with maddening composure. "After all, I did save your life. Relax and enjoy the ride. You seem… tense."
Tyrone's jaw tightened. Her words brushed over him like ice water, making his rage feel somehow petty. Yet, the frustration wouldn't leave him. Part of him felt caged—trapped by this powerful woman who had pulled him out of a death trap and now sat calmly, as if her intervention was a favor, a reminder of her dominance.
"You think this is a joke?" he replied, his tone low, eyes burning with fury. "My men are dead. And you're here, acting like I should be grateful."
Isabella leaned back, crossing her legs, her calm gaze meeting his. "You were in over your head, Tyrone," she replied smoothly. "If I hadn't stepped in, you'd be a corpse right now, and everything you've built would be in ruins. You want to blame me for what happened? Go ahead. But remember, I didn't put you there. You did."
Her words stung, cutting deeper than he expected. His fists clenched involuntarily, and he could feel a tremor of rage in his body. She was right. He'd underestimated the Sicilian mob, walked his men into a death trap without a fallback plan. Now, here he was, saved only because she had decided he was worth saving.
But her words hit something more profound within him. Was he truly that weak, that he needed to be bailed out? The thought was both humiliating and enraging. He had built an empire from the streets, torn his way to the top with his bare hands—and now he was in debt to Isabella Mendoza. This wasn't how he'd envisioned his rise.
"Am I just a pawn to you, Isabella?" he asked, his voice betraying a hint of the vulnerability he tried to hide. "A piece on the board you can move around?"
A small smile tugged at Isabella's lips as she looked at him, tilting her head with a glimmer of amusement. "Oh, Tyrone," she replied, almost as if she pitied him. "I see potential in you, but you're far from understanding the full game. This isn't just about you, or me, or even Giovanni. This is about control—staying one step ahead of everyone else."
Tyrone sat back, a bitter laugh escaping him. He was no stranger to manipulation and power moves, but Isabella's words reminded him just how vast her vision was. To her, he was a player—an ally in a much larger, more dangerous game that spanned nations and empires.
Silence fell between them, the car speeding through Toronto's dim-lit streets as he wrestled with his thoughts. Isabella had saved him, yes, but at the cost of his pride, his control, and a piece of himself he had always thought untouchable. For the first time in his life, Tyrone felt a twinge of self-doubt gnawing at him, a feeling that he was not used to.
Isabella watched him with a slight smile, sensing his inner turmoil. Finally, she leaned in, her voice softened but still edged with the authority she commanded. "You feel powerless because you relied on me, and that's something you're not used to, Tyrone. But power isn't about standing alone. It's about knowing who to trust, who to partner with, and how to leverage those alliances."
He looked at her, the anger slowly fading, replaced by a smoldering resolve. Isabella Mendoza was no ordinary ally. She was a force of nature, and aligning with her meant stepping into a world far larger, far more dangerous than the streets he once controlled. But perhaps she was right. Perhaps his path to true power was not in rejecting her intervention but in accepting it—and using it to rise even higher.
Tyrone nodded slowly, a new fire kindling within him. He would not be her pawn, no matter how powerful she was. But he could be her partner, and in doing so, take his empire to heights even he hadn't yet dreamed of. This was only the beginning.
The room fell silent as the echo of Tyrone's gunshot reverberated through the walls. Dust trickled from the bullet hole in the ceiling, and every pair of eyes fixed on him, tension so thick it felt like a tangible force pressing down on the table. Tyrone's gaze, calm yet ice-cold, swept across his lieutenants, gang bosses, and various partners, all seated around the heavy oak table.
Reggie shifted uncomfortably under Tyrone's stare. Snake, the man who had stirred up so much animosity, was also seated, his face neutral but his eyes flicking to Reggie, then back to Tyrone. The energy in the room was electric, and the message in Tyrone's eyes was clear: he was done with the infighting, and no one would be leaving this room without a clear path forward.
"Reggie," Tyrone's voice broke the silence with a deadly calm. "Since you're so eager to take the floor, why don't you explain to everyone—especially to me—what exactly your problem with Snake is?"
Reggie swallowed, glancing briefly at the other men around the table, some of whom were stony-faced, others with a look of morbid curiosity. He could feel the weight of their eyes on him, but Tyrone's gaze was the one that unsettled him the most. There was no telling what Tyrone might do if he didn't like the answer.
"Uh… well, boss," Reggie stammered, clearing his throat, his bravado from earlier vanishing. "It's—it's about respect. I got history with Snake here," he glanced nervously at Snake, who remained silent, his expression unreadable. "Back in Detroit, he… cut into my territory without so much as a heads-up. Took some of my business, some of my people. I'm not sayin' it wasn't fair game, but…" Reggie looked away, frustration flashing across his face. "But I can't just let that slide, Tyrone. You know how it is."
Tyrone leaned back, arms folded, his expression inscrutable. "So this is about a little territory, some business?" His tone was quiet, but there was a simmering intensity beneath it. "And that's worth tearing down everything we've built here?"
Reggie opened his mouth to respond but found himself hesitating under Tyrone's stare. Tyrone turned his attention to Snake, his gaze scrutinizing. "What's your side of this?"
Snake shrugged, leaning back in his chair with a casualness that set him apart from Reggie's clear unease. "I did what I had to, boss," he replied. "Detroit's a battleground. Reggie knows that as well as I do. But I didn't step on him just to take his spot. We were both in the game, and I played it how it had to be played. Now," he added, giving a pointed look toward Reggie, "if he's holding onto grudges, that's his business. I came here to move forward."
The rest of the table watched, holding their breath, as Tyrone considered Snake's words. Then, without warning, he placed his gun down on the table with a thud that made a few of the men jump.
"Let me make something clear to both of you," Tyrone said, his tone brooking no argument. "Whatever beef you had in Detroit—consider it buried, starting now. This ain't Detroit. This is my city, my operation, and I won't let your past get in the way of what we're building."
Reggie tensed, visibly stifling his anger. Tyrone caught it and pinned him with a stare that cut through his frustration. "You got a problem with that, Reggie?"
Reggie shook his head quickly, swallowing his pride. "No, boss. It's… it's all good."
Tyrone's gaze shifted to the rest of the table, his presence commanding. "This nonsense about 'taking out every Italian in the city'—if any of you actually think that's how we're handling things, you're out of your damn minds." He let his words hang in the air, ensuring they sunk in.
"We're going after the Sicilians with precision, with a plan, and with enough firepower to remind them whose territory they're messing with. But I'm not interested in starting a war that'll make us look like fools."
The men nodded, murmuring agreement. Tyrone's firm leadership and his demand for respect, despite the volatility of the criminal empire he'd built, was one of the reasons they followed him. He knew how to keep power close but without chaos—how to inspire loyalty without allowing anyone to feel irreplaceable.
Satisfied that his message had been received, Tyrone pushed back his chair and stood up, fixing them all with one final look. "You all have jobs to do. Reggie, Snake—whatever's left of this beef, I don't want to hear about it again. Focus on the mission, or find yourselves out of my organization. Your choice."
With that, Tyrone turned and strode out of the room, leaving his lieutenants and partners in a stunned silence. They understood the gravity of his warning—and the unspoken threat beneath it. This was Tyrone's world, and they were all living in it.