the world was on fire (l.s)

Intro to the Mafias

Harry Edward Styles.

Everyone on the streets of London knows that name, and their bodies quiver at the thought.

He's a reputable boy of nineteen, and certainly not reputable from positivity. Notorious. Infamous. Harry Edward Styles is the leader of the Prt London Mafia.

No, it's not actually a mafia, at least, he doesn't think so. Just a highly, problematically violent and ruthless gang with an illegal possession of firearms and recreationals. And a murder streak.

But hey, it's business.

At just nineteen, Harry Edward Styles finds him self appointed leader of the Prt London Mafia (PLM for short), and he doesn't necessarily know how he got there. His story starts as a young abandoned child with no resources to live, no parents and that whole sob story, abducted into this gang full of killers and intended to be meat, until his life was mysteriously spared and he was suddenly being raised to be one of these said killers at just fourteen years old. To this day, anyone who knows will deny Harry the satisfaction of telling him why he was kept alive, why anyone saw any value in him, and why they didn't just throw him out.

Oh, and now he's in charge of them all- following the murder of A.J Payne, the previous boss, in his will it was said to appoint Harry Edward Styles as the leader of the PLM. He's quite unsure why A.J Payne selected Harry out of everyone, even his own son, but he's not complaining. The respect he gets is immeasurable, and god is he fit for the job.

Harry Edward Styles is bloodthirsty.

Harry Edward Styles has killed over one hundred men remorselessly.

Harry Edward Styles will shoot without thought if you even think about speaking wrong to him.

Harry Edward Styles is a ruthless, cold-blooded killer.

Harry Edward Styles does not feel love. Or care. Or pain.

Harry Edward Styles is a borderline mortifying villain.

Harry Edward Styles is fucking terrified of Louis William Tomlinson.

-

"Come to lick my ass some more?" A raised eyebrow, quick wit, sly voice.

"Never have, never will." Harry tries to hide the quiver that threatens to escape his throat, crack his voice and reveal his underlying, embarrassing intimidation. "I've come to ask about Niall Horan."

"He's with me. He's mine and will not become some Port London scum." A snarl in his voice, eyes empty and indifferent.

"We both know he's contractually signed to the Port, Tomlinson." Harry spits back at him, taking a single stride forward on the lush red carpet.

Louis Tomlinsons office is ridiculously furnished, obnoxiously rich and classy. The taxidermic eagle in the corner forever leering at him whenever he has to begrudgingly pay a visit.

"Since when do you give a fuck about contracts, Styles?" Louis Tomlinson turns to face his whole body towards Harry, from where he was standing facing the window that menacingly towers from the fiftieth floor of this London skyscraper. "The Port had one with the Mains to maintain peace, to not invade each others territory, and would you just look at how that turned out." There's an encompassing blackness in Louis Tomlinsons eyes that evades any trace of human emotion or empathy. The figure is an abyss of what a man used to be.

"You and I both know the Ports habitat the fucking port, Tomlinson. You picked a fight and you met your match."

"I recall the Mains winning, you fuck." Louis Tomlinson stalks closer to where Harry is standing, sharp blue eyes piercing right into his own gaze where nothing is shared but pure, raging hatred.