I hate that I'm a Drug Lord

Next Of Kin

The old man sat at the head of the table, his breath shallow, his voice thinner than it once was—but his eyes, cold and sharp, still ruled the room.

"This will be my last meeting with you," Lord Alastair Blackthorn said.

"Death is already breathing down my neck.”

The room remained silent. The same thoughts were running through the heads of the remaining five mafia bosses: Who would be the leader now? Are we going to vote for one of us to take the seat?

"My son will be taking over from me. The next meeting will have him sitting in this chair. Please give him the same respect you would give me."

Murmurs erupted.

"Does he have a son?" Rafe, a Jamaican mob boss, asked his colleague in a hushed tone.

"I heard he had a son, but I don’t think he’s in the country," another mob boss whispered.

"The old bastard... even at death’s door, he still wants control," Victor Langford, an English mafia boss, muttered with a laugh.

"As—" Lord Alastair began, and the room immediately fell silent again.

"As there’s nothing else to discuss, the meeting is now adjourned. The ports will be open by this time tomorrow, so you can continue business as usual. Bring your dirty money for me to make clean. That will be all," Lord Alastair Blackthorn said.

He was a London mafia boss who laundered money for top drug lords under the guise of a tech company and port shipments. He stretched out his hand to his assistant, who helped him up and into his wheelchair. The rest of the mafia bosses exited the house.

"Boss, I never knew you had a son," Sloane, his assistant, said.

"Oh, I never told you about my boy?" he asked, more rhetorical than curious. "Well, since he ran away from home eleven years ago, we haven’t really communicated—except on his birthdays."

He paused, a flicker of sadness in his eyes.

"He’s a good lad. He works in accounting for one of those big companies in China. Now take me to my room, Sloane. I need to sleep."

She wheeled him to his room and helped him onto his bed.

I stood at the airport, dressed in a black suit and some ridiculously expensive red-tinted glasses I didn’t even like. A tall, light-skinned Black guy waiting alone probably stood out, but I didn’t care. I kept glancing at my watch, tapping my foot like that would magically summon the damn cab that was supposed to pick me up.

It had been over an hour. I’d had enough.

I pulled out my phone and dialed my father.

“Dad, I’ve been waiting here at the airport for over an hour and the driver’s nowhere to be found. Where the hell is he?”

“Sloane should be there,” he replied, calm as always. “She left before your flight even landed.”

“She?” I muttered. “Never mind. Just send me her number.”

The moment he hung up, a text came in. I tapped the number and called.

“Hello, is this Sloane?”

“Who’s this?” she snapped, voice sharp.

“Is this Sloane? Yes or no—just answer the question.”

“Mr. Damien?” Her tone changed instantly.

“Where are you? I’ve been out here for over an hour. You’ve wasted my time. I don’t have time for this—wherever you are, get here. Now.”

“Sir, I’ve actually been here for over four hours,” she said, suddenly polite. “If I may ask… what are you wearing, sir? And where exactly are you standing?”

“I’m outside the airport. Black suit. Red shades.”

There was a pause.

“Sir, I—I think I’m looking at you right now. Could you raise your hand for me?”

I raised my hand.

She froze. I saw the realization hit her from across the lot. She’d been watching me the whole time and just didn’t think I was… me.

She pulled the car up and got out to open the door for me—but I’d already opened it and got in.

“So you’ve been staring at me for over an hour and didn’t think to walk over and say something? What kind of game are you playing?” I said, clearly pissed. I’d been eyeing her car since it parked.

“I’m really sorry, sir. I didn’t realize it was you. I didn’t expect the boss’s son to be…”

She paused. She was about to say "Black." I could see it written all over her face.

“…this young,” she recovered.

I didn’t bother replying. Just pulled out my phone and started texting.

“Arrogant prick,” she muttered under her breath.

I heard her. I just didn’t care.

When we pulled up to the house, I stepped out and took a good look around. Not much had changed—just the flowers. Someone had planted new ones, and the colors popped more now. Brighter. Almost too cheerful.

I took a breath, let the past flood back, then walked inside.

And there he was.

“Dad?” I said, shocked.

He was in a wheelchair. That image hit harder than I expected. The last time I saw him, he was standing—angry, yelling, chasing me down the hallway.

“Damien, get back here! Where are you gonna go? I’m sorry! We can figure this out!”

That memory came with another. One I couldn’t ever forget. My mum—bloodied, lifeless. Killed in a gang hit meant for him.

And I’d run. Just like that.

Now here he was. Smaller. Frailer. Sitting.

I walked straight to him and pulled him into a hug.

“Damien… I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I’ve missed you, son. I wish I could stand, but… the cancer’s eaten away my legs.”

His voice cracked. Tears fell.

The staff around us just stared. These were people who’d only ever known him as this cold, brutal man. The kind of boss you feared. Now here he was—crying in front of them like a broken father.

“Take him to his room, Sloane,” I said quietly. “Dad, I need a shower. I’ll come check on you after.”

Sloane moved toward him, but he gripped the wheels, not wanting to let go.

“Dad… please. I’ll be with you shortly.”

He finally released it, and Sloane did her job.

I headed upstairs. Back to the room I’d sworn I’d never return to. Back to where it all started.

And unknowingly…

Back to where it would all begin again, back to where I would become a “Drug lord” something I detested, the very thing I hated, the one thing that took my family away from me.