Tom Holland & Peter Parker Imagines & Preferences (book 2)

KIngS and QUeeNS (Part 2)

"Told you what would happen if you didn't pay up, Marcel. So, tell me, why the fuck have I still not received my money?"

Tom sits behind the desk, a cocky smirk adorning his face and he holds a glass of scotch on the rocks in his hand. His feet are cooped up on the desk, his Oxford shoes glistening ever so slightly when the lights hit them.

Currently, Marcel Quince sits opposite him, one of Tom's many business associates. However, Marcel has yet to pay the money he owes, and the mobster before him is growing impatient.

"Tom, the clubs been going through some trouble. It ain't getting the hype it used to," Marcel tries to bargain, watches as Tom kisses his teeth and shakes his head, clearly not pleased by the shitty excuse.

"That's because you're fucking useless, Marcel. When I leased the club, I expected you to keep it in the shape it was in. The business was thriving when Haz and I were in control, and all we did was make an appearance once a month. You're there every fucking day, so it seems. So, where the fuck is my money?"

He's sitting forward now, glass empty as the cubes of ice begin to melt. His feet are placed firmly on the floor, legs wide and he leans his elbows on them as he speaks, can practically smell the fear dripping from Marcel.

"I... I don't—I don't have it..." Marcel mutters, his fate practically sealed as the words struggle to stumble passed his lips, and though Tom is now short of half a million quid, a sick smile graces his lips, nonetheless.

"Well that's just peachy, isn't it, Marcel?" he quips, glass placed on the desk and he rises from his seat, adjusting his suit as he rounds the chair and wanders to Marcel, reaching for the gun in the back of his waistband.

Harrison simply sits in the corner of the room, slumped in the seat as he scrolls through his phone, mindlessly ignoring the pleads and screams of Marcel as Tom breaks his fingers, one by one.

With a few more clicks of his phone, a familiar face graces his screen, a hint of a smile tugging on the corners of his mouth and he begins to scroll through the photos. His smile only grows at the sight of hers in every post, her eyes drawing him in and he takes a deep breath.

Olivia Richards (the sister of Y/N Wyatts) has officially caught Harrison Osterfield's eye. It isn't as weird as it seems, she was seventeen and he's barely twenty. Yes, it's three years, but in five months, she'll be eighteen and he'll still be twenty. Though, Tom will argue otherwise.

The screams quickly die out and Haz looks up from his phone, Tom using the white cloth to clean the blood from his hands. He nods to the door, walking out of it and Harrison follows, phone shoved in his pocket and long forgotten, but her smile is still on his mind.

"Get James to take care of the body. I have a few errands to run."

———

He eyes the art supplies that fill the shelves in search of something for his mum. Nikki Holland, a lover of all things art, including her precious boys.

Her birthday is coming up, and Tom is determined to spoil her with the finest brushes and oil paints he can get his hands on. Nikki, however, has other ideas.

Since she was young, her supplies were always somewhat vintage. Canvases were always the cheapest available and her brushes, well, that was a similar story. Even after her husband had been the biggest mobster of the decade, she still refused to pay anything over forty pounds on a set of brushes.

So, here Tom is, in the middle of a vintage art store in Downtown London, eyes scanning over the supplies and he huffs to himself. All he wants is to spoil the woman he loves more than anything, and yet she insists he spent no more than a hundred.