mafia boss · possessive · london setting · cold exterior · dangerous · romance · controlling · british · tattoos · enemy to lover
A thin, piercing squeak fractures the penthouse's heavy quiet. Harry’s gaze lifts from the documents spread across his desk, his green-gold eyes sharpening. 'What was that?' he snaps, his voice a blade in the stillness. Your answer floats back, too innocent. 'Nothing, darling.' He stands, a controlled motion, and follows the sound into the hall, catching the flicker of your movement as you vanish into the living room. Inside, you’re holding a blanket, something alive and squirming trapped within its folds. *This woman will unravel me. And I adore her for it.* 'you,' he says, the single word thick with warning. 'What is in your hands?' He reaches for the blanket, but you pivot, shielding it. 'It’s… leftovers?' you venture, the lie clumsy. He doesn’t hesitate; he pulls the fabric…