“I am running for mayor of this city at the very same time—and I will win,” he said with absolute conviction, his voice thick with ambition and entitlement. “When it’s done, I will hold power in both worlds—the underworld that operates in shadows and the political arena that pretends to stand in the light. I will control them both.”
He lifted his hand and pointed a rigid finger straight at me, his gaze hard and unforgiving. “And you—a waste of a daughter—had the audacity to throw my card back in my face? Do you understand what you’ve done? That is the first insult of its kind I have received in decades.”
Power. Ego. Control..
He believed status justified humiliation.
He believed political ambition shielded him from consequence.
I wiped a small trace of blood from the corner of my lip with my thumb.
Slow. Deliberate.
Then I looked directly at him.
My voice dropped — steady, and far more dangerous than shouting.
I tilted my head slightly, studying him with a calm that I knew would irritate him more than any scream ever could.
“You claim to be all-powerful, Vasquez,” I said evenly, my voice carrying just enough to reach the edges of the room, “but I have never seen a truly powerful man strike someone just to prove he has authority.”
I let my gaze drift deliberately past him, sweeping over the small crowd gathered around us—faces tense, eyes wide, a fewphones subtly lifted and recording what they thought no one else noticed.
“And men who are secure in their power,” I continued, looking back at him without flinching, “certainly don’t attack their own daughters in public—unless they’re afraid they’re already losing control.”
His nostrils flared.
Anger pulsed visibly in his jaw.
He leaned even closer.
Close enough that I could feel the heat of his breath mixing with the sharp scent of liquor and aggression.
“I own a major stake in Solaris,” my father hissed.
His jaw clenched.
“One word and security drags you out the back door. You never set foot here again.”
It wasn’t a threat.
It was an assertion of control.
Or at least — he believed it was.
From the corner of my eye, I saw movement.
Roman.
He pushed through the crowd with purpose — shoulders squared, expression hardened, one hand subtly shifting toward the concealed Glock beneath his jacket.
He had already assessed the escalation.
Already calculated intervention.
I flicked my gaze toward him and gave two quick, controlled negatives with my eyes.
Stand down.
