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There's a nightclub in Brooklyn that's always full, lights flashing too bright-then-dark for anything to be seen clearly as eager bodies move to the thundering beats. Liquor flows for cheap and any kind of drug can be found if someone just knows where to look. The club's mob connections aren't rumors, Brooklyn's White Wolf put his name above the door and can occasionally be found stalking it's floors.
All in all, it's exactly the kind of place Tony Stark, heir to his father's carefully-crafted legacy, should not be caught dead in.
So of course here he is, feeling the bass thrum in his veins as he picks up his drink from the polished wood bar and feeling a little disappointed that no one even checked his perfectly-crafted new fake ID. The music is modern, but all the dark wood and cozy rounded booths along the walls give it a vintage, speakeasy feel that Tony isn't sure how he feels about. The whiskey is good though, only a single ice-cube to count as his 'rocks', and Tony has already spotted someone moving around the outskirts of the crowd with little bags of white powder.
His gaze scans across the club, moving over faces and plotting his path to the man with the powder- then he spots what must be the VIP section, tucked away in a corner with extra walls for privacy, and accidentally makes eye contact with the man seated in the wide booth.
The White Wolf- because it can't be anyone else- stares back at Tony through the haze of cigar smoke that surrounds him, curling around the man's stubbled jaw and rolling down his thick chest, over his wide-spread thighs-
Tony tears his eyes away, his heart in his throat and a warmth curling in his gut that has nothing to do with the whiskey. He finishes off his drink so he can pretend that's the reason and despite his best efforts, he finds his attention drawn back to the corner- to the stretch of the mobsters thickly-muscled arms along the back of the plush booth-
The man is still watching him, his eyes bright and his muscles bunching as he slowly brings the cigar back to his red lips-
With a shuddering inhale Tony forces himself to turn away, breaking the stare and pushing his way into the crowd of the dance floor. Even as he tries to lose himself in the press and shift of warm bodies, in more drinks and his own little bag of white powder, Tony can't shake the feeling of bright blue eyes following his every move.