Chapter Text
Niall Horan was bored out of his mind as he sat in his chair, one leg on the floor, the other thrown over the armrest. His arm hung over the back rest, his head laid back and his crystal blue eyes were closed.
"I'm bored," he growled lazily, earning an amused laugh from the other man in the room.
He seemed to be a little older with fascinating green eyes and dark curls. He was staring at the smaller on for a few minutes now, trying to figure out what it was.
Why... why everyone, including himself, would die for this fragile person in front of him without hesitation. A question he got a headache from every time.
The blond boy looked like 16, not older as 18.
Never would anyone suspect him.
But he was older. He was much older than someone could guess.
"Styles do something."
Niall opened his eyes and turned his yet very aristocratic-looking face in Harry Styles direction, and Harry had the chance to see in bright blue eyes. A blue which hunted him in his nightmares and sent a shiver down his spine for centuries now.
"What do you think I could do?" He asked with a velvety, calm voice. He never managed to sound as cold as Niall. No one managed to sound as cold as him.
"Bring me a new toy."
Again a laugh escaped the lips of the other one. "You have by far the highest rate on dead toys," he reminded the smaller one. Thinking about the toy he brought him just last week.
He was cute. But he lasted what? Eight hours?
The blond boy stood up and ran his fingers through his hair, sighing. "Bring me one that doesn’t bore me immediately!" Cold blue eyes boring into the green of the younger ones.
There was this edge in his voice, which let Harrys skin crawl and was the reason why he nodded slowly.
"Well ... I'll see what I can do," Harry sighed, and got a satisfied nod as an answer.
The top boss of the Irish Mafia clans had already turned back to the window and so clearly signaled that he was waiting; waiting for the Styles to go to the dungeons right now to pick a toy from the prisoners, so that Niall had a new Hobby. A Hobby which would be dead in a few days anyway, just like its predecessors.
Harry sighed as he made his way down to the dungeons. Someone may say it was stupid to keep the prisoners in their headquarter. But nobody would ever get even the chance to escape. And whoever was a real threat, wouldn’t live long enough down there to even start imaging how the sunlight looked like.
The dungeons, or better, the catacombs of Ireland, where the safest prison in Europe.
The second Harry opened the last door, loud cries, pleading, whimpering, sobbing resounded. Harry wasn’t a big fan of the dungeons, they gave him a mean headache every time he had to get down here, what was way too often for his liking. Sometimes Harry hated it to be good enough to work as Nialls first consultant. But then he remembered his salary and the power. So damn much power…
Rolling his eyes Harry walked down the aisle between the cells, without stopping even once. Suddenly every voice was falling silent as he passed. Everyone knew him, knew what it meant to be taken by him. Not only death, but torture. Torture which made you begging for death.
And if it wasn’t for that?
Then Niall was looking for a new toy and really nobody wanted to be said toy.
Once Harry stepped into the death row, he slowed down his pace. He was looking for someone who didn’t betrayed them – Niall never wanted a traitor – but someone who would die anyway.
Niall wanted someone young, but off age. They should be beautiful, something special. No one broken. They should at least look like fighters. Someone who could represent the power of the Irish empire.
In the corner of his eyes he caught the glimpse of black eyes. No, not black. But a really dark brown. So dark that it looked like as if they would just swallow the light. It was fascinating.
Harry took a step forth. He was stunning. Dark hair, olive skin and those dark eyes, which starred directly in his own green ones full of hate and will to fight.
He looked like twenty-five or something and the small sign on the cell door gave him a name. Zayn. No sure-name, no age. He killed eight men, trying to get out of his debts. Harry raised one eyebrow… no… not his debts. Looked like he found a bodyguard…
The small smile which played around his lips could only be described as pure evil. Niall would have fun with this one… of that he was sure…