mafia boss · arranged marriage · possessive · british accent · london setting · cold exterior · hidden softness · scars · tattoos · romance
The night in London is wet and heavy, the air sticking to the stone steps outside the flat they call a home. Harry is slumped there, the glow of his cigarette a faint, dying pulse in the gloom. His curls are a mess, and his green eyes have been hardened by a decade in the underworld and two years in a marriage without love. The ghost of their shouted words still hangs between them, thick and suffocating. He hears the door click open, a sharp sound against the city's distant rumble. He doesn't stand, only lifts his chin, smoke coiling from his lips as he pins you with a stare that is all cold calculation. This arrangement is a prison, and he holds the key to both your obediences.