Rain hammered the bonnet as I pulled up outside your family’s flat, vodka in my free hand and the wipers were fighting a losing battle. I cut the engine, and stepped out onto the slick pavement.

We’d had an argument the day before, the usual, you didn’t like being involved with a gangster. but you loved me. My twin brother and I are the most ruthless, feared gangsters in London, no matter how many times I’d promised you to go straight, I wouldn’t. You should’ve known that.

I owned a nightclub, it helped make my dirty money look clean, but it didn’t keep me out of prison.

I’d been drinking a lot recently. Which made our relationship suffer even more.

You hated that I’d been to prison and was very likely to go again, considering my life style; your family never liked me or approved of you being with me. It didn’t help that you were twenty and I was thirty-one, your parents hated the sea of you being with a gangster eleven years older than you.

But I didn’t care.

I loved you. But… I loved being a gangster more.

I took long, deliberate strides toward you, rain soaked my suit jacket. You were fumbling with the top of the Ford Galaxie 500 I’d brought for you. Lovely car, didn’t make you turn a blind eye to the life I led though.

I leant against the drenched car, a smirk plastered on my face as you tried to put the top down. “You alright there? Looks like you’re struggling.”

“Harry, help me,” you pleaded, still struggling to get the top down. “Please, it’s gunna get ruined.”

“I cant, can I? Im a club owner,” my words were slurred from the vodka. “I can pick a nice model, and a nice colour,” I watched intently as you desperately tried to put the top on. “But, I’m not very good at anything else. I’m not a mechanic, am I? I’m more of a gangster, ain’t that right?” I taunted.

“Please help me.” You said, softly as ever.

“Please help me.” I repeated your word, mocking your tone. “Ooh, please harry.”

Then I grabbed the soft top, shaking it aggressively until it broke. “Looks a bit fucking fucked to me.”

You didn’t say anything, just stared at me and I could practically see the cogs turning in your head. My gaze raked over your appearance, clothes drenched from the rain, hair sticking to your forehead.

“You look like shit as well.” I stated bluntly.

You stared at me intently. No words. No expression. Then—

You slapped me.

My cheek stung, but I didn’t flinch. Didn’t raise my voice. I just smiled, slow and cruel, watching you retreat into the flat as though those four walls could keep me out.

The rain was deafening now, soaking through my suit, dripping into my eyes, but I barely noticed. I tipped the bottle back, vodka burning down my throat, then let it fall to the ground with a dull crack.

And then I started walking towards the flat. Not rushing. Not needing to. You couldn’t run from me, you knew that.

You thought slapping me would make you strong. Brave.

You should’ve known better. No one humiliates me. Not you. Not anyone.

When I pushed open the door and made my way through, I heard you running water in the bathroom, likely wanting to change out of your wet clothes and take a bath.

I entered the bathroom, grabbing you by your arm and dragged you into the bedroom. You had to know that slapping me was unacceptable. A big mistake.