Meeting the Don
1391 Words
No. 22 Kings Road didn’t look like a house. It looked like a fortress.
The car stopped 50 meters from the gate.
10-foot gates. Black iron. Spiked at the top. Armed guards. Two of them outside, two more on the roof. Cameras on every corner.
Red lights blinked on them. Recording everything.
The driveway was lined with cypress trees. Perfect. Trimmed. Like soldiers.
At the end, the house sat like something from a magazine. White stone. Black windows. Three stories.
A fountain out front that cost more than James made in a year. Water shot up 3 meters and fell into a marble basin. Even in the rain it looked perfect.
The driver didn’t speak. Just opened the door for them.
James’s parents were terrified.
His mom kept clutching his arm. Her nails dug in. She’d worn her best dress. It was 10 years old. Navy blue. She’d ironed it twice this morning.
She kept smoothing it down like that would make it newer.
His dad kept straightening his cheap suit. The one he wore to funerals and weddings.
“We don’t belong here, son,” he whispered. His voice shook.
Thomas Carter had worked construction his whole life. His hands were rough. He kept wiping them on his pants.
“Yes we do,” James said. He wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince.
Because looking at the gates, he wasn’t sure either.
The gateman opened the gate. He was 6’3, suit, earpiece. “Miss Chloe is expecting you.”
His eyes scanned them. All three. Like he was memorizing faces.
The gates closed behind them with a hydraulic hiss.
Heavy. Final. Like a vault door.
The driveway took 30 seconds to drive. No one talked.
Inside, the house smelled like money. Leather. White flowers. Something expensive and cold.
Not perfume. The smell of rooms that get cleaned every day by people who aren’t allowed to touch anything.
The foyer was big enough to fit his entire garage.
Marble floors. White. Veins of gray running through them.
A chandelier hung overhead. Crystal. 12 feet wide. His mom stared up at it with her mouth open.
There was a staircase that split in two. A painting above the fireplace that looked like it was 200 years old.
A housekeeper appeared. “Miss Chloe will be down in a moment. Tea?”
Chloe met them in the foyer. She was in black again. Always black.
Tailored pantsuit. No jewelry except a watch. Thin. Silver. Her hair was pulled back.
She looked like she’d been carved from ice.
“These are my parents,” James said. His voice sounded wrong in here. Too loud.
Chloe nodded. Polite. Distant. “Come in.”
She didn’t smile. Didn’t offer her hand.
But she did tell the housekeeper to bring tea for them.
“Earl Grey. No sugar. And biscuits.”
They were led to a bedroom on the second floor.
The stairs were marble. Their shoes echoed.
Two guards followed, one in front, one behind. Neither looked at them. Both had their hands where James could see them.
The hallway had paintings that probably belonged in museums. Gold frames. Landscapes. A portrait of a man who looked like Josh but younger. Meaner.
At the end of the hall, one guard knocked once and opened the door.
Josh Carter was in bed. Oxygen tube. IV. But his eyes... his eyes were still the Don’s eyes. Sharp. Assessing. Dangerous.
He looked smaller than James expected. The cancer had taken weight. But the presence was still there. It filled the room.
The room was dim. Machines beeped. The curtains were drawn. The only light came from a lamp by the bed.
It smelled like antiseptic and expensive cologne.
“So,” Josh said. His voice was rough. Like gravel. “You’re the mechanic.”
“Yes, sir,” James said.
He stood straight. He didn’t know why. Habit.
“You don’t sound like a mechanic.”
“I am one, sir.”
James’s hands were in his pockets. He pulled them out. Didn’t want to look like he was hiding anything.
Josh looked at Chloe. “Leave us.”
“Dad—”
Her voice was tight.
“Leave us,” Josh said again. Not louder. But final.
Chloe went. His parents went.
His mom squeezed his arm once before she left. _Be careful._
The door shut.
Click.
Now it was just James and a dying Mafia Don.
The silence stretched.
Josh studied him. From the top of his head to his shoes.
Took in the suit that didn’t quite fit. Rented. The callouses on his hands. The way James stood. Feet apart. Ready.
“You love her?” Josh asked.
The question came out of nowhere.
James didn’t lie. “No. It’s a contract.”
“Good,” Josh said. He coughed. It sounded wet. He lifted a tissue to his mouth. There was blood on the tissue. He folded it away.
“Because love gets you killed in my world.”
He coughed again. “My brother Chris wants this empire. He killed my son for it. He’ll kill my daughter for it too.”
James said nothing. His throat was dry.
He thought about the €100,000 in his account. About his mom upstairs. About the g*n he’d bought last week.
“Marry her,” Josh said. “Protect her. And I’ll make sure your father never sees the inside of a prison. Deal?”
The offer was simple. One life for another.
Protection for protection.
James swallowed. The room was too warm.
“Deal.”
Josh nodded once. Like that was that.
“Victor will show you the house. The rules. You break them, you’re gone. You hurt her, I’ll kill you myself. Even from this bed.”
“I won’t,” James said.
“See that you don’t.”
When he came out, Chloe was waiting in the hall.
She was leaning against the wall, arms crossed. She looked younger without the guards. Without the CEO mask.
24, maybe. Tired.
“How was it?” she asked.
“He’s dying,” James said. “And he’s scared for you.”
Chloe looked away. Down the hall. At the painting.
“He should be.”
Downstairs, the tea was cold. His parents barely touched it.
The ride home was worse.
The drive home was silent.
His parents cried in the backseat. His mom kept saying “thank you Jesus.” Over and over.
His dad just stared out the window. Like he couldn’t believe they’d been inside.
That night, James didn’t sleep in the guest room.
The room they gave him was bigger than his flat. King bed. TV on the wall. Bathroom with a tub.
He couldn’t sleep in it.
He dragged a blanket to the couch outside Chloe’s door.
The hallway was dark. Marble floors. One lamp on a table.
Somewhere, a guard made rounds. Boots on marble. Every 20 minutes.
He laid down. The couch was too short.
He slept on the couch outside Chloe’s door. With a g*n under the cushion.
A Glock. 9mm. Victor had given it to him that afternoon. “Just in case.”
Because the contract said no feelings.
Clause 3. In bold.
But it didn’t say anything about keeping her alive.
At 2:14am, he heard a sound.
A gasp. From her room.
James was on his feet before he was awake. Hand on the doorknob.
He didn’t open it.
After 10 seconds, it was quiet again.
He sat back down. g*n in his lap.
At 5am, the door opened.
Chloe.
She was in sweatpants and one of his t-shirts. Hair down. No makeup.
She stopped when she saw him.
“You didn’t sleep in your room.”
“No.”
She looked at the g*n. Then at him.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
Then she went to the kitchen to make coffee.
The house was starting to feel like a prison.
And the only person in it who made it feel less like one was the person he wasn’t supposed to feel anything for.
Victor found him at 6am, asleep on the couch.
“You look like s**t,” Victor said.
“I feel like shit.”
“Get used to it,” Victor said. “This is your life now.”
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