Vicious — 27 (Patreon)

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The world tilted violently as Harry blinked awake.

The floor was cold beneath his cheek, slick with blood. His blood.

He groaned, hand reaching instinctively for the back of his head where the pain radiated like fire. His fingers came away wet and red. Another sharp sting pulled at his side — when he moved, he realized he’d been stabbed or torn open in the scuffle.

But none of that mattered.

Through the haze, through the ringing in his ears, he heard it—

“Harry!”

Y/N’s scream. Muffled now. Fading.

Being taken.

“Y/N…” he rasped, dragging himself forward across the floor, one hand clawing at the wood, the other gripping his side.

He tried to push himself up but collapsed again, wheezing through blood-soaked lips. His vision swam. Still, he moved. Crawling.

“Y/N—” His voice cracked from how raw it was. “Y/N!”

“Harry!”

Boots thundered toward him. Two figures dropped to his side — Lex and Charlie, both bloodied and breathing heavy.

Lex knelt quickly, grabbing his shoulder. “Jesus Christ, boss—don’t move!”

Harry shoved at him weakly. “They took her…”

Charlie was already checking the wound at Harry’s side, grimacing. “You’ve got a deep gash. Your head’s a mess. You need to lie down before you—”

“They took her!” Harry shouted, the sound raw, echoing off the broken walls. He tried to stand, but his knees gave out.

Lex caught him. “Harry—listen. This is exactly what Silas wants. He wants you unstable. Bleeding. Desperate. You can’t go after her like this.”

Harry's head lolled slightly, his eyes barely open, but his jaw clenched.

“I don’t care what he wants,” he growled. “He’s got my wife.”

Silence followed, heavy and grim.

Lex looked at Charlie, who nodded once, his expression tight.

“Then we get her back,” Charlie said. “But we do it right. Armed. Together.”

Harry’s breathing was shallow. His face was pale, blood still dripping down his temple.

But when he looked up, those green eyes — still burning beneath the haze — were steady.

“Find out where he’s taking her,” he muttered. “And bring me a gun.”

The manor was chaos.

Glass crunched under boots. Blood streaked the once-pristine marble floors. The scent of gunpowder clung to the air like smoke after a storm.

Harry sat in the center of it all, shirt peeled open and slick with dried blood. His head was bowed, sweat dripping down his jaw as the doctor worked fast, needle gliding through the torn skin at his side. His knuckles were white where he gripped the chair's armrests, refusing any sedative.

He didn’t make a sound.

Not when the alcohol bit into the open wound.

Not when the thread dragged through his skin.

Lex stood nearby, pacing like a caged animal, gun still drawn. Charlie spoke into a burner phone across the room, barking out names, locations, rally orders.

“You’re lucky the stab missed anything vital,” the doctor muttered, wiping blood away with shaking hands. “The head wound needs to be monitored. You lost a lot of blood.”

Harry didn’t answer. His eyes were locked on the floor, jaw flexing hard.

When the final stitch went in, he finally spoke.

Low. Hoarse. Icy.

“How long?”

Charlie turned. “We picked up a trail. They had a van waiting in the back fields. Cameras were disabled fifteen minutes before the attack, and one of the external guards—Frankie—he’s gone too. Could be dead, could’ve flipped.”

“Silas wouldn’t move without a plan that precise,” Lex added. “They’ve probably cleared the borders already. Might be headed south.”

Harry stood.

The doctor tried to stop him. “You need rest—”

Harry grabbed the towel from the table and wiped the blood off his face. “I need my wife.”

His men fell silent.

He reached for the holster on the table and strapped it tight around his chest. His movements were slower than usual, but calculated. Controlled. The kind of calm that came right before a storm.

“This wasn’t a hit,” he said, voice razor sharp. “It was a message. He came into my house. Touched my wife. Knocked me bloody unconscious.”

He glanced at the window where smoke still drifted outside.

“He wants war?”

Harry turned to Lex, then to Charlie.

“Give it to him.”

Charlie nodded. “We’ve got eyes on the motorways. I’ll call in the south units and check the ports—if they’re moving her internationally—”

“They won’t make it to the coast,” Harry snapped. “Not with what’s coming.”

Lex handed him another gun. Harry took it without hesitation.

“Suit up. All of you,” Harry said. “If anyone’s with Silas, they’re dead. If they’re standing in the way, they’re dead.”

He took a breath, eyes blazing.

“Bring me my wife.”

The world was muffled.

Her ears rang from the blows. Her vision was dark — a sack or cloth tied tightly over her head. She could barely breathe through it, her mouth tasting blood and salt, her lips cracked. Her wrists burned where they were bound, skin rubbed raw by zip ties.

She had never felt so powerless.

So alone.

Rough hands had dragged her down the halls of her own home — Harry’s home — and thrown her into the back of a van like she was nothing. She remembered the slam of the doors. The engine growling to life. The jolt of motion that made her head smack hard against the metal wall.

And now—

Now she was being dragged again.

Through another hallway, maybe. The floor beneath her feet felt different. Cold. Slick. Concrete?

She could hear voices. Cheering.

Laughter.

Celebrating.

She tried to scream, to thrash, but her body betrayed her — weak from the fight, bruised from the beatings. Her ribs ached. Every breath came with a stabbing pain.

Then she was shoved forward.

She stumbled, nearly fell, but arms yanked her upright again. The cloth was yanked from her head, and the sudden light blinded her.

The room she was in was crowded — men lining the walls, smoke curling toward the ceiling, low chatter like wolves circling a wounded doe.

Her heart hammered in her chest.

“Welcome to the party,” someone sneered in Italian.

She blinked hard, vision still unfocused. Her cheek throbbed where Silas had hit her. She could feel her blood drying against her temple, the metallic taste still on her tongue.

And yet, despite it all — despite the pain and the fear pressing down on her like stone —

Her thoughts went to him.

Harry.

She pictured his face — the way his eyes narrowed when he was angry, the sharp set of his jaw, the warmth in his voice when he called her “darlin’,” the way he always made her feel safe, even when he barely said a word.

She’d seen the look on his face before the pipe struck him from behind. The rage. The fear. He had tried to save her. He’d fought for her.

And he would come.

No matter what they did to her.

No matter how deep they buried her.

Harry would come.

So she closed her eyes. Held onto that image. That love. That fire.

Because they hadn’t broken her yet.

And they wouldn’t.

Y/N’s knees ached where they pressed against the cold floor.

The room reeked of smoke, sweat, and cheap whiskey. Men lined the walls, some seated on crates, others standing, all of them laughing, drinking, and watching her like she was some prize won in battle.

She kept her chin up, barely.

Her face stung — her lip was split, her cheek swollen. Blood had dried sticky against her temple, and her ribs screamed every time she breathed.

But she didn’t cry.

She wouldn’t.

That’s what they wanted.

That’s what her own father always told her. “You don’t give men like them the satisfaction. You bleed, but you do it with your head held high.”

So she did.

Even now, when every bone in her body begged her to collapse.

The cheers and jeers grew louder as the doors opened again — the crowd parting as three figures strode in like kings of a dark empire.

Silas. Federico. Augusto.

Three snakes in tailored suits, eyes gleaming with victory.

Silas looked like he’d been reborn through violence — blood on his collar, a smugness carved into his face. Federico strolled beside him like this was a celebration, and Augusto — older, colder — gave Y/N a look that made her stomach twist.

“Brothers,” Federico said, lifting his glass, his voice rising above the noise, “tonight, we drink to what the English never thought possible!”

The men roared in response, raising their bottles.

“To taking back what’s ours,” Augusto said next, his accent sharp as a blade. “To burning the peace they thought they could buy with a wedding dress.”

More cheers. Laughter. The clink of glass.

Silas stepped forward last. His eyes never left Y/N. Not once.

“To Harry,” he said, voice quiet but venomous. “To the brother who had everything handed to him. The name. The empire. The girl.”

The room hushed slightly — enough for every man to hear what came next.

“I took what he valued most. I took her,” Silas said, walking slowly toward Y/N, stopping just a few feet in front of her. “And now the whole world will watch him burn for it.”

Y/N stared up at him, defiant, even as her lip trembled.

“You’ll regret this,” she whispered. “You all will.”

Silas crouched to her level, resting his elbow on his knee like he had all the time in the world. “Oh, sweetheart,” he said, voice low and taunting, “I regret nothing. But Harry will. When he sees what’s left of you, he’ll regret every breath he ever took while I was still in his shadow.”

He stood again, turning back to the crowd. “Let him come,” he declared. “Let the king ride in — bleeding and broken. We’ll bury him beside her.”

Another cheer broke out. Louder. Meaner.

But through it all, Y/N stayed still.

Refusing to break.

Because she knew one thing they didn’t:

Harry wouldn’t die before he buried every last one of them first.

Y/N’s knees scraped against the stone floor as Silas dragged her deeper into the underground. Her head throbbed, her lip split, her arms barely able to hold her upright.

But none of the pain compared to what she felt in her chest.

Because the voice that echoed in her head wasn’t Silas’s.

It was her father’s.

"She’s just a girl, Federico."

"She’s my daughter, mine to sacrifice."

"She’s an investment," he had once said coldly. "And investments have to pay off."

He’d helped them take her.

Federico — her own father.

Silas shoved the iron door open and flung her into the dungeon like trash. Her knees hit the cold stone. She tried to stand but couldn’t. Her body gave out.

“Welcome home,” he said darkly.

The chains clinked as he fastened her wrists above her head, securing her to a bolt driven into the wall. She sagged against them, teeth clenched.

Silas crouched in front of her, eyeing her like she was something pathetic. “You should’ve seen the way your father toasted with me when you were taken. Not a single tremble in his hand. Cold, like you were just another deal on paper.”

Y/N didn’t respond. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

But he saw it. The flicker in her eyes.

He grinned. “Oh? You didn’t know? Daddy Federico signed off on all of it. Said Harry made you soft. Said you were turning into a liability.”

Tears stung at her eyes — but none fell.

Because if she started crying, she feared she wouldn’t stop.

Silas stood and leaned in close, his voice like poison in her ear.

“You’re here because the men who were supposed to love you gave you away. Remember that when you start praying for Harry to save you.”

And with that, he left her chained in the dark, the door groaning shut behind him.

Silas didn’t leave right away.

He stood at the threshold of the dungeon, arms crossed, watching her like she was something caged. Something his. The iron door groaned as it creaked shut behind him, but he didn’t lock it — not yet.

Instead, he stepped closer again, slow and deliberate.

Y/N’s breathing was shallow, arms straining above her, her body sagging against the chains, but her eyes were locked on him. There was hatred there. And worse — defiance.

He hated that most.

“You don’t look so royal now, Mrs. Styles,” he murmured, crouching to her level, the taunt curling on his lips. “No guards. No silk sheets. No ring on your finger.”

He looked down at her trembling hand. “I’ll be sure to sell that when I pry it off your corpse.”

Y/N didn’t flinch.

“You’ll be dead before that happens,” she said, voice hoarse but firm.

Silas’s eyes flickered with something amused.

“Still have that fight in you? Even after your own father sold you like livestock? How adorable.”

She looked away, jaw clenched tight, pain swelling in her chest.

“I used to envy him, you know,” Silas went on, circling her slowly. “Harry. All that control. All that quiet power. People listened when he walked into a room. Even our father treated him like a king in training, and me like the spare. The invisible one.”

He leaned closer to her, voice soft and venomous. “And then you showed up. Beautiful. Sharp. Strong. And I thought — surely this one will see through it. Surely she will recognize what he really is.”

Y/N looked back at him then, disgust written across every inch of her bruised face.

“And I did,” she whispered. “I saw exactly who he is. That’s why I married him. That’s why I love him.”

Silas’s jaw clenched. The word love hit like a slap.

His smile returned, but it was strained. “You think he’ll save you?” he asked, voice sharpening. “You think he’s not bleeding out in some gutter already? He’s a man, not a god. And he’s not invincible.”

“No,” Y/N said, chin lifting slightly. “But he’s Harry Styles. And he’s coming for me.”

The silence that followed was thick with something heavy — rage, old wounds, and the undeniable truth that her words struck a nerve.

Silas stood upright.

Then, without warning, he drove the heel of his boot into her ribs again.

Y/N let out a muffled cry, biting down on it, refusing to give him more than that.

He crouched again, breath warm against her face. “You’ll beg before the end,” he said, eyes dark. “You’ll wish you’d died in that hallway instead of waiting down here for him to disappoint you.”

He stood and turned to leave.

But her voice followed him, sharp despite the tremble in it.

“No, Silas. You’ll beg. When he gets here — and he will — you’ll beg for a quick death. And if he doesn’t give it to you…” she coughed, blood at her lips, “I will.”

Silas paused.

And then he smiled — slow, eerie, venomous.

“I look forward to it.”

The door shut behind him with a heavy clang, leaving her in silence.

Alone. But not broken.

Not yet.

It had been three days since Y/N was taken.

Seventy-two hours of blood, sweat, and rage.

Harry stood at the edge of a warehouse in East London, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles had split again. The air was thick with smoke, dust, and the stink of gunpowder. Behind him, Lex and Charlie were dragging the last of the men they'd interrogated out of the building — another dead end. Another lie.

Another hour lost.

He hadn’t slept.

Not really.

Maybe a few minutes here and there in the back of an armored car, his head pressed against the window, one hand still gripping a loaded gun.

He hadn’t eaten more than a piece of stale bread in two days.

His shirt was wrinkled, stained — his jacket long gone. His hair hung low over bloodshot eyes. There was a fine tremor in his hand he tried to ignore. His jaw was locked so tight it ached.

The truth was: Harry was unraveling.

But no one dared say it out loud.

Because underneath that exhaustion, beneath the bruises and hollow eyes, was a man growing more dangerous by the hour.

The silence behind him was broken by Charlie’s voice.

“Boss,” he said, quiet, “that was the last one.”

Harry didn’t turn.

Charlie hesitated, then added, “They didn’t know anything. Or if they did, they died with it.”

Harry’s hand curled into a fist. He breathed through his nose.

Y/N...

Her name was a constant chant in his head. Her face haunted every shadow. Every closed door felt like it might open to reveal her. Every knock might be the one that shattered this nightmare.

But it never was.

He’d broken into five safehouses, raided three private docks, torched a dozen loyalty fronts—threatened and dismantled anyone with even the faintest tie to Augusto or Federico.

Still nothing.

“I should’ve seen it,” he muttered, voice low and frayed. “Federico. The way he looked at her that day. Cold. Distant. I should’ve known.”

“Don’t do that,” Lex said from beside him, stepping closer. “Don’t start digging that hole.”

“I already have,” Harry said flatly, finally turning to face them. His green eyes were hollow, but still burning. “I let her down. I let them in. Into my house. I brought her into this life thinking I could keep her safe, and now—”

He stopped himself.

His hand ran through his hair, yanking slightly at the roots like he was trying to stay present. Grounded.

“She’s still alive,” Charlie said. “She’s got to be. If Silas wanted her dead, he would’ve left her body behind.”

That was the only thread holding Harry together.

That, and the promise he made to himself.

He would not stop.

If he had to turn over every street, every safehouse, every city block from London to Rome — he would.

If he had to burn down every alliance the Italians had built — he would.

And if he had to rip Silas apart with his bare hands to get her back…

He would do that too.

“We focus on the deal,” Harry finally said, voice steady again. “That was the exchange. The alliance. Federico and Augusto didn’t do this for chaos. They did it for power. There’s money behind it. Somewhere.”

Charlie nodded. “We’re working our way through the ledgers. Lex is tracing a few wire transfers. One of them was flagged by one of the accountants—offshore, but might lead us to—”

“I don’t want maybes,” Harry snapped, sharp enough to silence them both. “I want her.”

He stepped forward, eyes blazing.

“I want every man with a badge, a name, or a fuckin' shadow tied to Federico hunted. I want Augusto’s safehouses burned to the ground. I want my brother—” his jaw flexed, “—brought to me breathing, so I can take him apart piece by fuckin' piece.”

And then, quieter—

“Because if she dies, I swear to God, I’ll make this world choke on its own blood.”