Guardian of the Night

The air in the VIP booth crackled with a tension that was as palpable as the scent of spilled champagne and simmering rage. Victor's voice, usually a melodic baritone, was now a low growl, a dangerous vibration that sent a shiver down Blair's spine.

"Let her go," he said, his gaze fixed on Tony's hand, which still lingered on Blair's arm, a possessive touch that ignited a primal fury within Victor. "I don't like people touching what belongs to me."

Tony, his face flushed with a potent mix of alcohol and arrogance, laughed, the sound harsh and grating. "Belongs to you? She's just a woman, Victor. You think she's going to stay loyal to a… club owner like you?" His words were a deliberate jab, a reminder of Victor's perceived place in the city's hierarchy, a challenge to his authority.