Harry Styles, the cold and calculating son of a powerful mafia don, must consolidate power after his father's passing. He faces challenges from his unpredictable younger brother, Silas, and navigates a complex world of alliances, ruthless decisions...
🌷 PATREON (for early access to chapters) — patreon.com/user?u=82988391
🌷 INSTAGRAM LINK (for updates) — https://www.instagram.com/unabashedgirl?igsh=OGQ5ZDc2ODk2ZA%3D%3D&utm_source=qr
🌷TUMBLR (for any other piece I've written) — https://unabashegirl.tumblr.com/
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The air inside St. Anthony's Cathedral hung heavy with the scent of incense, a somber melody playing on the organ as mourners dressed in black filed into the pews. The grandeur of the cathedral seemed to amplify the gravity of the occasion—the funeral of the late mob boss, Arthur Francis Styles. The flickering candles cast shadows on the marble pillars, echoing the secrets and sins concealed within the heart of the city.
Amidst the sea of black-clad mourners, a solitary figure stood out—one of sons of the deceased, Harry. His sharp gaze, inherited from his father, scanned the room with a mix of grief and determination. The weight of his heritage rested upon broad shoulders, and the tailored suit he wore could not conceal the burden of responsibility that had been abruptly thrust upon him.
The funeral was a spectacle of contradictions. The cathedral, a symbol of divine sanctity, now played host to the final farewell of a man whose life had been entwined with shadows and whispered alliances. Harry's eyes swept across the assembly, recognizing familiar faces, each harboring a tale of loyalty or betrayal. As he approached the casket to pay his respects, the gravity of his new role settled on his shoulders like a heavy cloak.
Arthur Styles' passing had left a void, a vacuum that would inevitably draw power struggles and rivalries. Harry, the heir apparent, found himself at the epicenter of this storm. The funeral served not only as a farewell to his father but as the beginning of a new chapter—a chapter stained with blood, loyalty, and the unspoken code of the Mafia.
As Harry stood in the dimly lit cathedral, he felt the weight of his father's legacy press upon him, and the whispers of the past seemed to echo through the hallowed halls. The mournful hymns played on, but the symphony of the streets would soon drown them out, revealing the true nature of the shadows that lurked within the city's underbelly. The funeral was over, but the legacy of Arthur Styles would live on, casting a long, ominous shadow over Harry's uncertain future.
Harry observed as his father's supposed friends and family offered their condolences, each reverently kissing the ring that adorned his father's lifeless hand. It was the very same ring around which they had sworn allegiance and loyalty, seeking resolution to their problems.
The wooden bench in front of him felt the weight of a pair of hands settling on its back. The distinctive ring on the third finger of those hands revealed the identity of the person without Harry needing to turn his head.
"Harry," Anthony started, his voice a subdued murmur blending with the somber atmosphere. "I never thought this day would arrive." Anthony, the younger brother of Harry's father, continued, "He appeared to have the capability of outliving all of us."
Harry nodded subtly but chose to keep his silence. His mind was a tumultuous sea of thoughts, and his head felt burdened, almost oppressively heavy. He was acutely aware that the path ahead would be arduous. His father had been grooming him for leadership since he could articulate words. Yet, Harry never anticipated ascending to power without his father by his side.
"Taking the reins of the English Mafia won't be a stroll in the park. Your father maintained a delicate balance, and stepping into his role makes you a target." His uncled warned.
Harry nodded solemnly, the weight of responsibility settling on his shoulders. "I know. But someone always must lead."
Anthony's gaze bore into Harry's, a grave understanding passing between them. "You're right. But brace yourself—old alliances may crumble, and new foes will emerge. The English Mafia is a beast, and maintaining control is a constant struggle."
Harry surveyed the mourners, his gaze lingering on the faces of those present, contemplating the intricate challenges that loomed, he spoke, "I worry the most about the Italians and the Russians. Dad always said that dealing with them required finesse, and I'm not sure we've earned enough goodwill in those circles." The gravity of the situation hung in the air as he acknowledged the potential pitfalls that awaited them in the unpredictable world of the English Mafia.
"You can anticipate the maneuvers of the Italians and Russians, and they don't reside under your roof. Your brother, on the other hand..." A shadow fell over Anthony's countenance. "He's a wildcard, Harry. Young, impressionable, his allegiance might sway. Keep a vigilant eye on him, especially when you make your move. Not everyone in the family will readily embrace the change."
A furrow deepened on Harry's brow. "You think Silas might turn against us?"
Anthony's response was as measured as the somber atmosphere around them. "In our world, blood doesn't guarantee loyalty. Silas has his own battles, and he might choose a different path."
Harry tightened his jaw, the mere thought of his younger brother betraying him causing his blood to simmer with anger. After their mother's passing, Harry had essentially taken on the role of raising Silas. Harry had played more of a father figure to Silas than Arthur ever did. Their father had shown minimal concern for Harry, the firstborn, which made Silas seem like nothing more than a contingency, a spare kept in reserve in case of some unforeseen tragedy.
Anthony leaned in, his gaze piercing. "I believe you will rule righteously, Harry. But be prepared for anything. The English Mafia is a game where pieces move without warning, and the stakes are higher than you can fathom." With that, he offered a reassuring pat on the back, bidding Harry farewell.
Harry bided his time, waiting patiently for the crowd to disperse, before rising from his seat. Straightening his suit blazer and fixing his tie, he approached the casket at the cathedral's end—the final resting place of his father. The familiarity of the suit caught Harry's eye, a garment he had seen his father wear countless times. A small blood stain near the boot of the pants, a detail his mother had frequently lamented, marked the attire. Suppressing a smile, Harry noted the irony that his father had been laid to rest in the suit his mother detested.
Leaning down, Harry whispered into his father's ear, "Omnes sumus peccatores," before deftly sliding the ring off his father's finger.
