The luxurious ambiance of the mega yacht was intoxicating—glowing lights, endless champagne, and a crowd of elites enjoying the night. Tyrone moved to the bar, his tailored white suit and diamond-studded watch drawing envious glances as he poured himself another glass of whiskey. The hum of conversations and faint laughter formed a backdrop to his thoughts as he pondered his recent conversation with Isabella Rodrigo.
As he swirled the drink in his hand, something—or rather, someone—caught his eye. Across the deck, leaning against the railing, was a man he hadn't expected to see: Miguel. Tyrone froze for a brief moment, his eyes narrowing as he confirmed the face he thought he'd never see at a gathering like this again.
Miguel was dressed down compared to the rest of the guests, in a casual yet expensive blazer, sipping a drink like he belonged, his expression calm and detached. But Tyrone knew better—there was no way Miguel showing up here was mere coincidence.
With his drink in hand, Tyrone strode across the deck, his presence commanding as guests instinctively moved aside. When he reached Miguel, the tension was palpable, like two predators sizing each other up.
"Didn't think retirement came with yacht parties," Tyrone said, his tone low but biting as he leaned casually on the railing next to Miguel. "You're full of surprises, Miguel."
Miguel turned his head, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "Tyrone," he said coolly, lifting his glass in a mock toast. "Good to see you too. Didn't know you'd be here, but I should've guessed."
Tyrone chuckled darkly, taking a sip of his whiskey before setting the glass down on the railing. "You left the game, remember? Said you were out for good. Family man now, right? Yet here you are, rubbing shoulders with cartel elites. Makes me wonder… you back in the game, or just dipping a toe to reminisce?"
Miguel's expression hardened slightly, his calm demeanor still intact but his eyes flashing with something sharper. "I'm not back in the game, Tyrone. I came here out of courtesy—Rodrigo invited me personally. Besides, not everything's about the business. Some of us know when to walk away."
Tyrone leaned in slightly, his voice dropping a notch. "And yet you're here, at the epicenter of it all. Rodrigo's yacht, her product. You sure you're not just testing the waters? Because let me tell you, Miguel, once you're in, there's no halfway. You don't just 'visit' this world without getting dragged back in."
Miguel sighed, turning to fully face Tyrone. "You think I don't know that? I gave my word to my wife, my kids. I'm out. Rodrigo respects that. This is just a conversation, nothing more."
Tyrone scoffed, his mask of calm cracking slightly as a sharp edge entered his voice. "Respect? From Rodrigo? She doesn't respect anything unless it makes her money or solidifies her power. You think she invited you here for old times' sake? No, Miguel, she sees you as an asset—a loose thread she can pull when it suits her."
Miguel straightened, his calm demeanor now tinged with irritation. "You're projecting, Tyrone. Just because you're buried neck-deep in this life doesn't mean everyone's trapped like you. I *chose* to leave. You've had the same opportunities. You just don't want out."
Tyrone's jaw tightened, but he forced a cold smile. "You don't know a damn thing about my choices. I'm building something here, Miguel. Something bigger than either of us could've imagined. And I'm not naïve enough to think I can just walk away and live happily ever after. That's not the way this world works."
Miguel studied him for a moment, his expression softening slightly. "You're right," he admitted. "It doesn't. But that doesn't mean you can't change the rules. Think about that."
The tension between them lingered as Tyrone grabbed his drink and took a long sip, his eyes never leaving Miguel's. "Enjoy the party, Miguel," he said finally, his tone laced with quiet menace. "While you still can."
Miguel didn't reply, turning back to the ocean as Tyrone walked away, his mind already racing with thoughts. The encounter had left a bitter taste in his mouth, but one thing was clear—Miguel might claim he was out, but in Tyrone's world, no one stayed out forever.
The bar was dimly lit, its flickering neon sign casting a tired glow over the cracked asphalt outside. It was the kind of place where secrets went to die, where forgotten souls drowned their sorrows in cheap whiskey and warm beer. Tonight, however, it had an unexpected guest.
A man from the Blood Family swaggered in, his presence anything but subtle. He was dressed in a crimson tracksuit that shimmered under the dim lights, a gold chain dangling across his chest, and a flashy diamond-encrusted watch on his wrist. The bar patrons watched as he sauntered to the counter, already swaying slightly, his swagger betraying the fact that he was drunk.
"Whiskey. Top shelf," he slurred, pulling out a fat roll of cash from his pocket and peeling off bills like they were nothing. He tossed them onto the bar without counting, grinning lazily as he leaned against the counter.
At a corner table, a group of men in leather jackets watched him closely. They were members of a biker gang that had laid claim to this territory months ago, though their operations were small-time compared to larger syndicates. Their leader, a stocky man with a scruffy beard and a tattoo of a snarling wolf on his neck, nudged the man next to him and nodded toward the Blood Family member.
"Look at this guy," he muttered, his voice low and gravelly. "Flashing all that cash like he owns the place. Who the hell does he think he is?"
One of his crew chuckled, tapping the table. "Looks like he's asking to get taxed. Ain't no one rolling into *our* bar like that without paying dues."
The leader smirked and rose from his seat, motioning for his men to follow. The gang moved in unison, their boots thudding against the wooden floor as they approached the bar. The Blood Family member didn't notice them at first, too busy laughing at a joke he'd made to the bartender, who was politely smiling while nervously glancing at the bikers.
"Hey, big shot," the gang leader said, planting himself beside the Blood Family member. His crew formed a loose semi-circle around him, their presence suddenly oppressive. "You look like you're having a good time."
The man turned slowly, blinking at them as if he hadn't heard properly. "Yeah? What's it to you?"
The gang leader leaned in closer, the scent of tobacco and motor oil wafting off him. "See, you're in *our* bar, in *our* town. And around here, flashy types like you pay a tax. You understand?"
The Blood Family member squinted, trying to focus through his alcohol haze. His grin widened, thinking it was some kind of joke. "Tax? Man, I already tipped the bartender. Y'all running a charity or something?"
The leader's smile vanished, replaced by a cold glare. "This ain't a joke, buddy. That shiny watch, that fat stack of cash you're throwing around—that's our cut now. Hand it over, and maybe we let you walk out of here."
The Blood Family member's drunken haze began to fade, replaced by a flicker of anger. He glanced around at the men surrounding him, then back at the leader. "You serious?" he asked, his voice low.
"Dead serious," the biker said.
The Blood Family member laughed—a deep, guttural sound that startled the bikers for a moment. He stood up, swaying slightly but holding his ground. "You don't know who you're messing with," he said, his voice tinged with menace. "You think I'm just some drunk throwing cash around?"
The leader scoffed. "You're just another loudmouth with a big wallet. Don't make me repeat myself."
The Blood Family member's grin turned icy. "You want my watch? My money? Come and take it."
The tension in the room exploded. One of the bikers reached for him, but the Blood Family member moved with surprising speed for someone so drunk, smashing his whiskey glass into the man's face. The bar erupted into chaos as fists flew and chairs toppled.
The Blood Family member wasn't just fighting—he was brutal. He slammed a chair into one biker, grabbed another by the collar, and headbutted him so hard the man crumpled to the floor. But the bikers outnumbered him, and his drunken state was catching up to him. He stumbled, and the leader grabbed him from behind, locking his arms.
"Now you've done it!" the leader growled, pulling a knife from his belt.
Before he could use it, however, the Blood Family member let out a guttural roar and twisted violently, throwing the leader off balance. With a surge of adrenaline, he yanked the knife away and turned the blade on his attackers, slashing at the air to keep them at bay.
The bikers hesitated. Blood was dripping from the glass wound on one man's face, and another was clutching his ribs where a chair had struck. The leader held up his hands, signaling his crew to back off.
"Alright, alright," he said, breathing heavily. "You've made your point."
The Blood Family member staggered, his chest heaving as he glared at them. "Next time," he spat, "know who the hell you're dealing with."
With that, he grabbed his cash, tossed a few bills at the bartender, and stumbled out into the night, leaving the bikers nursing their wounds and questioning their choice of target.