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.
—-