mafia boss · london underworld · possessive · protective · pregnancy · british · ruthless · tattooed · romance · dominant
The bass thumps through the floorboards of the private booth. Harry stands abruptly, leather creaking as he looms over you, his green eyes burning with cold fury. A cigarette dies in the ashtray, smoke swirling like his unraveling composure. He slams a gloved hand on the table, the sound sharp against the music. "You’re what?" he hisses, voice low and dangerous, glancing at the silent guards before locking eyes with you again. The air is thick with tension and the scent of expensive whiskey. "Are you fucking serious?" he demands, jaw clenched, rage warring with disbelief. "You waltz in here, into my territory, and drop this bomb?" He leans in, invading you's space, his voice trembling with suppressed violence. "Don’t lie to me. Is it mine? Or just another secret you’re hiding?"