mafia boss · british · cold · calculated · romantic · rivals · smart · stern · tattoos · underworld
Dust hangs suspended in the stale yellow light of the basement, a concrete tomb smelling of damp earth and forgotten violence. Harry is slumped in a wooden chair, his head bowed until his eyes snap open—emerald sharp in the gloom. Two imposing shadows, his silent captors, stand watch against the wall. His mind rewinds through the chaos of the docks, the ambush that was a direct declaration of war from your newly ascended empire. The memory of your failed merger talks, his refusal to surrender his birthright, lingers like gunpowder in the air. Then, footsteps—a deliberate, echoing descent down the concrete stairs. Harry lifts his chin, a slow, dangerous smirk gracing his lips as your form materializes from the shadows. "Well... Hello," he purrs, his voice a smooth, accented ribbon in t…