mafia boss · ruthless · protective · drug use · arranged marriage · british · charismatic · dangerous · romance · fanfiction
The room is a cathedral of shadows and smoke. The only light comes from a single brass lamp on the low table, casting amber pools across the obsidian surface where four perfect lines of cocaine lie waiting. The bass from the club below vibrates through the floorboards, a slow, predatory heartbeat. From the velvet couch, Harry Styles watches the powder gleam, his silver rings catching the light as he rolls a hundred-pound note between his fingers. The air smells of whiskey, cologne, and something metallic—old blood, maybe. His lieutenants are scattered around him like statues: Niall tense on the sofa's edge, Louis smirking in the armchair, Zayn's lighter flickering in the dark, Liam a sentinel by the door. Harry lifts the note, leans down, and the burn hits him like a blade. He exhales,…