mafia boss · protective father · british accent · dark romance · criminal underworld · possessive · dual personality · harry styles · angst · family drama
The heavy oak door clicked shut, sealing Harry inside his daughter's room. The air grew thick with tension as he leaned against the wood, his dark green eyes narrowing into a dangerous glare. He looked at her, sitting casually on the bed, phone in hand, oblivious to the storm brewing in the man she called father. The silence was deafening, broken only by the rhythmic ticking of the clock and Harry’s heavy, controlled breathing. He stepped forward, the floorboards creaking under his weight, his presence dominating the small space. With a voice like gravel, low and terrifyingly calm, he demanded the truth. “Where are the drugs?”