*April 4th, 5:15pm. — San Francisco X Dinner*
(Earlier in the day, tony received a text
Dent: Meet Me at SFX Dinner
Tony breath in, looked at it for a while, and then replied in the best way possible
Tony: Sure
And that's how it lead to this.)
The car was black—sleek, silent, and too smooth for city roads. Like a hearse with better branding.
(He was getting use to this rich lifestyle, but this was something else.)
Tony sat in the backseat, legs crossed, fingers tapping against his knee as the cityscape raced past in blurred lights and glass. Every red light turned green before they reached it. Every corner was taken with robotic grace.
Too perfect.
(Too perfect indeed.)
Exactly how Dent wanted it.
They stopped in front of what looked like a forgotten wine cellar—a narrow brick building tucked beneath the gleam of a luxury high-rise. No signage. No valet. Just a single crimson door under a flickering gold light, like the entrance to a story no one wanted to tell.
(Again....Too perfect)
Tony stepped out.
The door creaked open before he knocked.
Inside, the contrast was jarring. Gone was the forgotten exterior. In its place,opulence. The kind of wealth that didn't scream but whispered.
(Kinda reminds me of when he first met Clara.)
Low, buttery light spilled from crystal chandeliers, bouncing off marble floors that looked cold enough to bite. Gilded railings lined the staircase. The air smelled like cedarwood and secrecy.
There were no guests. No waiters milling about. No music.
Just one table.
And at that table sat Dent.
(Dent....the devil)
He looked like a man carved from ice. Sharp grey suit, pale blue tie, and a smile that never quite touched his eyes. Everything about him was
meticulous.
Controlled.
Dangerous.
"Mr. Bellingham," he said, rising only halfway. "No need for theatrics. I've already eaten."
(Yeah...sure. He must have.)
Tony said nothing as he sat down. The chair was plush but somehow uncomfortable, like it knew it was part of a trap.
A waiter emerged from the shadows,tall, silent, like smoke. He placed a covered dish in front of Tony without a word and vanished again.
Dent raised his glass of red wine.
"To second chances," he said, voice smooth as polished marble.
Tony lifted his own. "I hear they don't come cheap."
But Tony thought to himself. "Last time, he said something about second chances, what does he mean".
Dent chuckled. "Only if you don't know who to pay."
They sipped.
Silence stretched for a moment. It wasn't awkward,it was surgical.
It was Deliberate.
"You've changed," Dent said eventually, swirling the wine like a lazy predator. "Your father would have hated that."
Tony's jaw tightened. "My father hated a lot of things, but....this is excluded."
"True. But he loved power. And you—" Dent leaned forward, voice lowering to a velvet edge, "you've grown into it so… naturally."
Tony didn't respond. But inside, every instinct he'd honed since waking in this life screamed. The air was thick. Measured. Trapped in layers of meaning.
Dent smiled wider. "You walk like him now. Speak less. Smile more. It's rare for someone to return from the dead with better posture."
"Dead?" What's up with him and this death stuff. Tony muttered to himself.
(But he decided to plan on with it.)
Tony raised a brow. "The graveteachesdiscipline."
A genuine laugh escaped Dent—sharp, amused. "You always had wit. But that wasn't what made Cristiano dangerous. It was the way he knew names."
The way Dent said it—names—made the hairs on Tony's neck rise.
Then, like a snake charming its own hiss, Dent began listing them off, slow and precise:
"MarekVasko. Killed in Prague, 2012. Your father's mess."
"HelenaCruz. Vanished after the East End deal."
"Dr. Ibrahim Farouk. Shot twice, though the second bullet was unnecessary."
Tony didn't flinch. He couldn't afford to.
(The hell. What the hell is this?)
Dent sipped again. "You know what they all had in common, Tony? They underestimated masks. Thought the man they were speaking to was the man they were dealing with."
Another pause. This time heavier.
A waiter appeared again, this time with dessert. Dark chocolate tart with a blood-red raspberry glaze. It gleamed under the chandelier like it was bleeding sugar.
Dent didn't touch his.
He leaned forward, hands folded neatly on the table.
"A lion can wear another man's skin, Mr. Bellingham... but it can't fake the roar."
Tony stared at the dessert, then picked up his fork. He cut a neat triangle from the tart, took a bite, and let the bitterness coat his tongue.
He swallowed.
Then smiled.
"Then I guess you haven't heard me roar yet."
For the first time, Dent's façade cracked—just a little. His grin stretched, but now it showed teeth. Sharp ones.
"Oh," he said softly. "I'm looking forward to it, Mr Bellingham."
The words hung in the air like a threat wrapped in velvet.
Tony stood up, and left the room.
Outside, the temperature had dropped. The city had turned colder somehow, though it might've just been Tony's bones catching up to the conversation. The car was already waiting at the curb, engine purring like a loyal pet.
Aaron stood beside the back door, stone-faced as always. He opened it without a word.
Tony slid into the seat, fingers curled tight around the edge.
His body was still. But his right hand was shaking.
Aaron climbed in beside him, shutting the door with a soft thunk. The moment it closed, the outside world vanished.
"What did he say?" Aaron asked, his voice low but sharp.
Tony stared out the window, eyes fixed on the city that refused to sleep.
"I.....I think He knows!."
Aaron didn't respond immediately. He was a man who measured his silence like currency. After a moment, he spoke again.
(Knows what .. Maybe it's about our counterplan.)
"So what now?"
Tony's eyes narrowed. Somewhere between fear and fire, a decision began to burn.
"Now?" His voice was cold steel. "We make him forget why that should scare me."
The city blurred past them—lights streaking into fire lines, buildings turning into jagged silhouettes. But Tony wasn't looking at the skyline anymore.
He was watching the battlefield already forming in his mind.
Each name Dent had spoken echoed like a gunshot. Each silence that followed them lingered like the click of a chamber loading. He knew what Dent was doing,testing. Prodding. Measuring the man who wore Cristiano Bellingham's face. Who acted for Cristiano Bellingham.
And Tony knew one thing for certain.
He couldn't afford to blink first.
Plans were already forming. Contingencies. Contacts. Secrets his father had buried deep enough that even Dent might have missed a few.
There would be no second dinner.
The next time they met, one of them wouldn't be smiling.
(Yeet!!!!!!!)