In his private office, Tyrone leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the edge of his desk as Isabella Rodrigo's call came through. He took a deep breath before answering, knowing this conversation wasn't just a business transaction—it was a test, a game of wits and subtle power plays wrapped up in polite words and veiled threats.
"Tyrone," Isabella's smooth voice echoed through the line, warm yet calculated. "You've been making waves. I wanted to thank you, personally, for handling my product with such... dedication." There was a hint of something darker in her tone, a reminder that her gratitude was as sharp as a knife.
Tyrone's lips curved into a half-smile, but his mind remained sharp. "Gratitude is good to hear, but I'm not just here to make you money, Isabella. I'm here to make both of us more of it. So let's talk about expanding the supply."
A soft laugh came from the other end, low and dangerous, like the purr of a predator sizing up its prey. "Expanding, hm? You sure you're not biting off more than you can handle, Tyrone?" Her words dripped with a taunting edge, daring him to back down or prove himself.
Tyrone didn't flinch. His voice was calm, smooth as polished steel. "Don't ask questions you know the answer to, Isabella. I can handle it. Forty tons is just the start if you're serious about moving weight."
A silence settled on the line, thick with mutual respect laced with thinly veiled caution. Then, Isabella's voice softened, that tone of amused approval still lingering. "You certainly have ambition. Just remember, Tyrone—ambition is both a gift and a weapon. Wield it wisely."
"Same to you," Tyrone replied, his voice unyielding. This was the subtle dance they both played, an understanding that each had power over the other, and neither was afraid to test the boundaries.
3 hours later
After the call with Isabella Mendoza, Tyrone's jaw tightened, and his gaze turned steely. Isabella wasn't someone who made idle threats or played games for amusement. The fact that she had already arranged a sit-down with the Italian Mob on his behalf meant only one thing—he was stepping onto dangerous ground, ground where even the slightest misstep could end him. Tyrone had no illusions; the Don would come with vengeance festering in his heart, not just to talk but possibly to drag him into his son's grave.
Slowly lowering himself into his chair, Tyrone let out a low, measured breath. The room was thick with tension, silent but charged. After a long pause, he motioned to his second-in-command, Leon, who was waiting near the doorway, sharp-eyed and attentive.
"We're headed to Panama," Tyrone's voice was calm but lethal, each word calculated. "But we're not walking in there as lambs." Leon nodded, a flicker of understanding in his eyes.
"Panama means they're giving us a chance to settle this without bloodshed," Tyrone continued, "but don't think for a second the Don isn't planning something. He'll have his own people there—silent but deadly, hiding in every corner, waiting to see if I slip. We're going to be prepared for that."
Leon stepped forward, listening intently as Tyrone's plan took shape. "I want our best men in place at every exit, every possible vantage point. And I'm not talking goons—I'm talking seasoned players who know what's at stake and who can handle themselves under pressure. This isn't just muscle; this is finesse."
Tyrone's fingers drummed rhythmically against the polished wood of his desk as he continued, the plan forming with meticulous clarity. "Leon, get us the full layout of the place we're meeting. Study every floor, every hallway, every shadow where someone could hide. I don't want a single blind spot when we walk in there."
Leon nodded again, already working through the logistics in his mind, but Tyrone wasn't done. "And make sure we have eyes on every street, every alley. I want intel coming in constantly from the minute we touch down in Panama to the second we leave."
Leon moved to head out, but Tyrone's voice halted him. "One more thing. I want backup. Silent, untraceable. People the Don's men won't see or even sense, but who are ready to tear down the whole place if things go south."
Finally alone, Tyrone poured himself a drink, staring into the dark liquid with a look that spoke of both calculation and grim acceptance. This wasn't just about survival—it was about power, reputation, and the game he had played for years with unparalleled skill. He knew that the Panama meeting could very well become the definitive showdown of his career. It was the kind of encounter that could make or break him, the type of move that, if executed well, would show his allies and enemies alike that Tyrone was more than just a ruthless player—he was untouchable. But if he failed, his empire, his reputation, and his life would be dust.
As he took a long sip, Tyrone's mind was already a thousand steps ahead, running through the possible traps, betrayals, and ambushes that could unfold in Panama. He was no stranger to sitting down with those who wanted him dead, but this felt different. This was no longer a battle fought from behind the scenes or through proxies; this was personal.
Setting the glass down, Tyrone finally rose, looking out over the cityscape beyond his office windows, as though making a silent vow to himself. This meeting with the Don would be the ultimate test of his cunning, his power, and his determination to rule the game, no matter the cost.
And with that, he turned, a subtle but deadly gleam in his eye, ready to step into the lion's den.
A:N/ Please don't confuse Isabella Rodrigo and Isabella Mendoza, it's not the same person