“Harry, are you alright?” You ask, peering around the lounge doorway. The now familiar sweet tone infuriates me as always, and I don’t miss the hint of concern in your expression as you take in the way I’m zoned out, staring at the wall.

“Uh- what? I’m fine.” I mutter, my tone sharp. Cold. I keep my gaze locked on the wall. I don’t know why you think you have any right to ask me personal questions. I’m not fine but I’d never fucking admit that, especially not to you. I’m a callous, ruthless mob boss — the most feared in London. I don’t let my guard down with anyone.

I’m good at my job but that doesn’t mean I enjoy it. I was born into a bloodline of monsters; me becoming one myself was inevitable. Before me was my father, the man who shaped me into the devil incarnate. Growing up, I never heard ‘I love you’, never held when I cried, never taught to show any emotion other than rage and greed for power. In fact, I was punished when I showed any other emotion. My father beat me until I became the man he wanted me to be. He laughed at my pain and only ever praised me when I showed that the monster within him was in me too. He even beat me when I cried for my mother. She passed away when I was only seven. I wasn’t allowed to grieve for her.

My father passed away when I was twenty-four. The relief I felt disappeared as quickly as it came. I had to step up and rule his empire. Luckily, the training and beatings I had endured did in fact toughen me up enough; immediately I was good at what I was born to do.

A year after I took over, I met Amelia. She was a sweet girl, gentle smiles and soft giggles. I visited the diner she worked at often, and we ended up having many conversations that turned into me taking her back to my place after her shifts. Before her I had never been interested in women beyond a quick fuck. I’d never care to get their names.

But Amelia was different.

I found myself not wanting her to leave after. I wanted her to stay with me in my mansion, in my bed, and never leave. I knew I was fucked. I’d never felt any emotion even close to that in my entire life. I hated it. Softness, care and love is a weakness when you’re a mob boss. A weakness I couldn’t afford.

Eventually, I couldn’t keep my walls up. I felt an overwhelming sensation coursing through my veins every time she was away. I needed her close; I needed her to be mine. She knew who I was — knew the blood on my hands and the monster within — and she wanted to stay. I made her my girlfriend. She moved in, and my life was no longer just darkness.

At twenty-five, I made her my wife. She was my solace, my comfort, the only person who’d ever shown me love and managed to bring out a softer side I thought died when I was a boy. If I was the storm, she was the calm that followed. If I was the darkness, she was the only light. If I was the devil himself, she was the only angel who ever saw any good in me.

But when I was twenty-eight, she left.

Being by my side in the underworld became too much. The man I was outside wasn’t the man she wanted beside her anymore.

She divorced me.

When I met her, my soul was already broken. She put some pieces back together, but when she left, she shattered me all over again.

I was cruel and cold before I met her. But after she left, the devil within me only grew darker.

Now I’m thirty-one. I’ve never let another person in since. I never will.

And now I’ve got a fucking housekeeper — you — a twenty-year-old who doesn’t know when to leave me alone. I hired you to help around the house, not psychoanalyse me.

You step into the lounge, nerves written all over your face. “Harry, something’s up, you’re not acting like yours—“

“Shut the fuck up,” I growl, cutting you off sharply. My eyes flick up to yours, narrowed and dangerous. “I’m fine. Don’t ask again unless you want to find out what happens when someone pisses me off.” Your flinch is satisfying. At least you finally understand your place.