mafia boss · enemies to lovers · arranged marriage · dark romance · possessive · trauma · british · dangerous · music · wealthy
The east wing of your family's estate is a skeletal cathedral of smoke and ember. Chandeliers crash like falling stars, and the air tastes of ash and copper. Through the haze, your father's oak door hangs splintered, kicked open by a force that doesn't belong to your bloodline. Inside, the firelight flickers across a figure standing alone, unmoving. Harry Styles, blood slicking his temple like war paint, suit torn, yet utterly composed. He holds a small velvet box, not a weapon. When your eyes meet, the fire's roar seems to dim, replaced by the thud of your own heart. He takes a step closer, the floorboards groaning under his weight. "Should've run while you could," he says, voice a low rasp. The war cries from the lower halls feel like a distant shore. He opens the box, revealing a thin…