The air in downtown Detroit pulsed with bass-heavy music and July humidity. Neon lights bled onto the sidewalks, painting passing cars with hints of violet, crimson, and electric blue. Inside CLUB TENSION, bodies moved in rhythm, the scent of sweat, perfume, and expensive liquor thick in the atmosphere. It was the kind of night made for mistakes, and Takudzwa Mukwa—draped in a charcoal-black designer blazer, his Rolex catching the strobe—was exactly the kind of man those mistakes gravitated toward.
He pushed through the VIP entrance like it owed him money. Eyes turned. A few hands lifted phones, pretending to scroll. Others whispered.
"Yoh, TKM! We thought you ghosted," shouted Dre, one of his oldest boys, handing him a glass of aged whiskey.
Takudzwa took it, but didn't drink. He scanned the club like a predator. "Was closing a deal," he lied smoothly. In truth, he had woken up beside someone whose name he hadn't asked. Again.
Then he saw them—two women, one caramel-skinned with an hourglass figure, the other with sharp cheekbones and sleek braids that shimmered under the club lights. They were laughing at something between themselves, untouched by the room. And that made them prey.
"Watch this," Takudzwa said with a smirk and moved toward them, confidence pouring off him like cologne.
"Ladies," he said, voice smooth as melted chocolate, "Tell me, is this seat taken? Or are you just saving it for a man who knows what he's doing?"
They paused, looked him up and down—his towering frame, crisp cut, expensive scent. The one with braids raised a brow. "And you think you know what you're doing?"
"I don't think," Takudzwa replied, easing into the seat beside her without waiting for an invitation. "I just do."
The curvy one laughed. "Cocky much?"
He grinned. "Confidence, baby. It's only cocky if I'm wrong. Am I?"
Neither of them answered.
Instead, he ordered them a round of drinks—top shelf, smooth. His words flowed like silk, disarming, flirtatious but never desperate. He asked what they did, told a ridiculous story about crashing a yacht party in Miami, and laughed at their jokes like they were the only people in the club.
By the time the second drink arrived, they were both leaning closer.
Takudzwa's charm was effortless.
The music thumped lower now, a sultry rhythm that made conversation easier. Takudzwa leaned in, his voice a notch deeper, smoother.
"So, tell me," he said, eyes locked on the one with braids, "what does a woman like you do when she's not breaking hearts in clubs like this?"
She tilted her head. "I don't break hearts. I ignore men who ask boring questions."
Takudzwa chuckled, unfazed. "Fair enough. Let me try again. What's the most illegal thing you've done that you'd still do again?"
The curvy one grinned. "Oh, we're going there?"
"We've been there," he said with a wink.
Braids smirked. "Skipping class to fly to LA for a weekend."
"Lame," said the curvy one. "I once lied my way into a private poker game in Chicago."
Takudzwa raised his glass in salute. "Now that's the energy I like. High risk, high reward."
"And you?" Braids asked. "What's your answer?"
He leaned closer, voice low. "I once made fifty thousand in twenty minutes on a crypto crash, then spent it all in under an hour—just to see if I could."
They both stared at him.
"No way," said the curvy one.
He pulled out his phone, swiped, then turned the screen toward them—a screenshot of a $50K transaction, timestamped and legit.
"I don't bluff," he said.
"Wow," the girls muttered.
"You are surprised by this?" Takudzwa laughed. "Back in my home country people used to have trillions in theirs houses."
"What?" Braids said.
Takudzwa laughed. "It's a joke about the currency we used to have in my country."
"Which country is that?" the curvy one asked.
"Zimbabwe."
"You're Zimbabwean?" she asked and Takudzwa nodded as he took a sip on his drink.
"And you have all this money?" Braids asked.
"Zimbabweans have money you know that right?" he said with a chuckle. "You American have this messed up idea that Zimbabwe's a third world country with backward, poor people. We have millionaires and even billionaires."
Braids blinked. "So what do you do, exactly?"
"Let's just say… I know how to make money move without ever sweating."
He let that linger, sipping his drink. His confidence wasn't just talk—it was electric. And the girls felt it. Drawn to him. Curious.
"Damn," said the curvy one. "What car do you drive?
"What's the most expensive car you saw here at the club tonight?
"That your car? The black AMG?"
"Among others."
They looked at each other, then back at him. Braids narrowed her eyes, playfully. "So, what's a man like you doing alone tonight?"
"Was waiting for the right company," he said, voice slow and deliberate. "And now that I've found it…"
They laughed, relaxed now, flattered.
Curvy leaned in, almost conspiratorial. "You live close?"
Takudzwa's smirk deepened. "Penthouse suite, 12 minutes from here. Private view of the skyline. The kind of view you can't forget."
Braids glanced at her friend. "We're not dressed for anything serious."
He shrugged. "Who said anything about serious?"
Silence.
Then curvy picked up her purse. "Fine. Let's go see this view of yours."
He stood, held his hand out. "Ladies first."
As they walked out, all eyes followed them—two stunning women and one man who owned the room without trying.
***
The elevator dinged open to the 32nd floor, revealing a sleek glass-walled penthouse that spilled light onto the polished wooden floor. From the expansive windows, Detroit's skyline glimmered beneath the stars — steel, light, and quiet power stretching far into the dark horizon.
"Ladies, welcome to the alpha space," he said.
"Damn," said the curvy one, stepping inside. "This view... you weren't bluffing."
Takudzwa loosened his blazer, tossing it on a velvet couch. "Told you. I don't bluff."
The living room was a designer's dream — minimalist, but dripping with quiet luxury. A marble kitchen counter gleamed in the corner, and soft jazz played through invisible speakers, washing over the room like silk. Low amber lighting gave everything a honeyed glow.
Braids walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows, palms pressed lightly against the glass. "This city looks better from here."
Takudzwa handed her a crystal glass of rosé from the cooler. "Most things do."
They sank into the couch, shoes off, drinks in hand, laughter flowing more freely now. He dimmed the lights further, letting the night outside swallow the room's edges. The vibe shifted—not rushed, not desperate. Just electricity, coiled and slow-burning.
He asked what music they liked. Played a soft Afrobeat track. They danced a little—laughing, teasing. Takudzwa knew when to talk and when to listen, when to flash the charm and when to hold still and let them come to him.
"You're not like most guys," Braids said finally.
"I've heard that before," he replied, then added, "But I like hearing it from you."
"What's your name?" Curvy asked leaning closer.
"How about 'no names' tonight, huh?" Takudzwa suggested.
The night unfolded without tension, only chemistry. Time slipped past midnight. The world outside blurred behind the glass, and in the golden haze of the penthouse, nothing existed except laughter, touches, and stolen glances.
He didn't need to push. He never did. The game was always played in the silence — and tonight, the silence was in his favor.
As the lights of the city blinked below them, Takudzwa leaned back, both girls flanking him on the couch, their heads resting on his shoulders.
***
The sunlight poured through the sheer blinds, painting golden stripes across the king-sized bed. Takudzwa stirred, blinking against the light as the soft hum of the city seeped into the penthouse. His arm was draped over warm, bare skin, and another leg tangled with his beneath the silk sheets.
He turned his head.
One girl lay on her stomach, hair messy, lips slightly parted, sleeping soundly. The other curled beside him, peaceful and quiet, her back arched just enough to show the delicate line of a tattoo he hadn't noticed last night.
He didn't even know their names.
Takudzwa lay still for a moment, staring up at the ceiling, chest rising and falling slowly. His mind replayed flashes of the night — laughter, expensive wine, soft moans swallowed by jazz and city lights. These two girls were the fourth pair he had had sex with this week. Different faces. Same script.
He sat up, sheets dropping to his waist. The cold air kissed his skin, grounding him. His phone buzzed on the nightstand — dozens of notifications: a deal confirmation, a crypto alert, club photos he didn't remember taking, girls tagging him, thirsty comments flooding in.
He muted the phone.
Walking to the massive glass wall, he stared out at the morning skyline — clean, proud, and unbothered, just like him. Or so he told himself.
"Look at your life, bro," he muttered, cracking a smile at his reflection. "From Mufakosi to skyscraper sunrises. You're the damn dream."
He turned to the table, where half a bottle of untouched rosé still stood from last night. Beneath it, the edges of a designer wallet stuck out from under a shirt. His world was too perfect, too staged. And too quiet when the music stopped.
Then—ding.
The sound of the elevator sliding open cut through the stillness.
Takudzwa turned slowly, heart skipping—not out of fear, but disruption. No one should be coming up without his say.
He slipped on his pajama pants, walking toward the living room just as the elevator doors parted.
A girl stepped out.
She wasn't dressed like the others—no heels, no lashes, no fake smiles. Just black jeans, a plain T-shirt, and a face that held zero amusement. In her hand she held an envelope.
She looked at him like she'd seen through the marble, the glass, and the luxury.
Takudzwa barely had time to react.
The girl stepped fully into the penthouse, her expression shifting from cold to furious in an instant. She threw the envelope to the floor — its contents fanned out: photos.
"What the fuck, TK!" she exploded.
"What the fuck to you too!" Takudzwa shot back. "Who the fuck are you to barge into my place like you own it?"
"You really don't remember me?" she snapped, her voice sharp enough to pierce the glass walls.
"I don't know you-"
"You said that you'd call ."
"Just tell me who the fuck you are before I call the cops on you."
"You said that I was different, I was special."
"And you believed that?" Takudzwa scoffed.
The two girls in the bed stirred, groggy and confused. One gasped, grabbing a sheet to cover herself as she sat up. The other followed, both now wide-eyed and clutching the covers like a shield.
Takudzwa raised his hands, calm but clearly thrown off. "Look, lady, I think you're—"
"No, don't even," she spat, stepping closer. "You ghosted me. Lied to me -"She paused as she looked at the girls who had just emerged from the bedroom clutching bedsheets to cover their nakedness. "What the fuck!"
Then came the chaos.
She grabbed a wine glass and hurled it at the wall — it shattered with a sharp crack. A perfume bottle flew next, smashing against the TV. The girls screamed and ducked.
"Who are they?" She pointed violently at the two girls.
"Ma'am, I think you should leave -"
"Oh, hell no!" the woman screamed. "You did not just call me 'ma'am' right now! You don't know me -"
"I know you are crazy," Takudzwa whispered.
"I trusted you, TK! You played me!" she shouted. "But you— you don't know who I am. You think this is over? You'll pay."
She stood still now, trembling from rage, her eyes shining not with heartbreak — but vengeance.
Takudzwa stared at her, breathing steadily, still shirtless and calm. "Are you really mad at me because I ghosted you after a single night?"
"A single night?" the girls shouted. "A single night?"
"It's actually a big deal to us ladies," Braids said.
"Still the same," Takudzwa said. "Don't give the right to toss my things like that."
She scoffed bitterly. "You think you are clever?"
Then, with one last glare, she turned on her heel and stormed out, slamming the elevator button so hard the panel beeped in protest.
The doors closed. Silence fell.
Takudzwa let out a slow exhale, then chuckled, rubbing a hand over his face.
"Damn," he muttered. "That one had fire."
Curvy whispered with the sheet wrapped around her, "Who was that?"
Takudzwa just smiled faintly, walking to the window again.
"Trouble," he said. "The kind that doesn't end here."
***
By the time the sun set that day, Takudzwa had forgotten about the morning madness.
He had sent the two girls on their way with a careless grin and cab fare, and buried himself in a few calls — crypto trades, influencer deals, and a fresh NFT collab proposal from a brand in Dubai. He had called the cleaning lady to tidy up, ordered another smart tv to be delivered and everything was back to normal in his 'alpha space'.
Right now, Takunda was on his laptop making a trade. It was almost time to party and he would be on his way to the club soon. He stood from his seat to go to the fridge to take a glass of cold drink. As he returned to the desk where the laptop was, he noticed an envelope on the couch. He was about to ignore it when he remembered the girl dropping it on the floor that morning. Takudzwa walked towards it and picked it up. Inside were pictures of her and the girl at a party or something. He didn't remember the event at all.
He was about to drop the envelope when he read what was written on the envelope. It was a name and it pulled the rug out from under him.
Melissa Moretti.
He knew the name. He quickly ran to his laptop and search the name. everything was there. He just hadn't made the connection. Not until now.
Her father, Vittorio Moretti, was no ordinary businessman. He was one of the largest underground players in the Eastern U.S. — clean on paper, but known in the shadows for money laundering, arms brokering, and most of all — a string of "vanished" rivals.
And Takudzwa had just insulted his daughter.
Melissa's page had videos and one in particular featured Takudzwa himself. And then everything came back to him. He had slept with her. Not just once. Multiple times. On a private trip during that Lavish weekend in Vegas. He remembered now — the intense way she looked at him. The way she kept asking where they stood.
He'd ghosted her after the Vegas weekend. His version of closure.
Now she had found him. And had threatened him.
***
The next morning Takunda was woken up by his phone vibrating violently on the bedside. He sleepily took it trying not to wake the girl next to him.
Unknown Number.
He answered.
"Guests arriving after dark," came a voice, thick with an Italian accent, cold as death.
"Excuse me?" Takudzwa frowned.
There was a pause, then — "Nightfall brings more than shadows."
"What? Who's this?"
"You should check who's knocking… not everyone waits to be let in."
"What do you want?" Takudzwa asked, scared.
"It's not about what I want. It's about what's owed. And the night always collects its debts"
"Look, I don't know what you are talking about -"
"No one disrespects a Moretti and live to tell the tale."
The line went dead.
Takudzwa's hands lowered slowly from his ear. He stared at his phone. For the first time in a while, the adrenaline that pulsed through him wasn't thrill — it was fear.
Later that morning, as he packed up files from his digital businesses — crypto wallets, domain ownerships, his entire online empire — his mind raced.
He called Dre. "I'm skipping town a bit."
"You going with the chick you went home with?"
"Nah. I need to go off radar."
"What the hell for?"
"Let's just say... it's time I went home."
"Home? What do you mean home? Wait a minute you mean home home?"
"Yes," Takudzwa said taking a deep breath. "I'm going back to Zimbabwe."
As the plane ticket loaded on his screen and the digital dust began to clear, Takudzwa took one last look at the view of the city that had worshipped him.
He was no longer running from boredom. This time, he was running for his life.
***