Immaculata went to Mass, she cooked, she kept her lovely hair covered, and never spoke unless spoken to. She would not marry until her brothers had left home, as she was a great help to her mother with all the cooking and cleaning for the seven men of the household. Victor already had his eye on a husband for her, a Maltese baker who ran a bookie’s on the side and had buried his wife a year before. He was older than Immaculata, but that was good. A man should be older than his wife. Women needed to be looked after. They had no right to opinions other than their husband’s, and needed a man to guide them and their children. He himself was twenty years older than his wife and it had been a satisfactory arrangement.

He watched his eldest son Mario eject a troublesome man from the club, and smiled to himself. Mario was a good boy. Big and strong, he was not the most intelligent of Victor’s sons, but his physical prowess was legendary around the East End.

Victor’s little Soho club was in Greek Street. It was a basement really, but he had made it into a gambling house ten years before. He also allowed certain girls to work his place for a small percentage of their earnings. He treated the toms with contempt, not being a great lover of the female sex.

Tonight his eyes scanned the basement room with interest. The smoky atmosphere and constant buzz of conversation gave him a thrill every night of his life.

Victor poured himself a small medicinal brandy, staring at his bulbous hands which were becoming stiff with arthritis. Sighing, he went to his office and sat behind his desk. In front of him were the ledgers, telling him who owed what, and how long the debt had been outstanding. He would go through them tonight, then in the morning one or another of his sons would chase up the late payers. It was a good arrangement. He was toying with the idea of starting a protection racket in the West End. Now Tommy Lane was seriously East End, and his relationship with Briony Cavanagh was over with, Victor felt the time was right to make his own mark. He already collected from Maltese and Italian businesses in Soho. Now he felt he could extend his operation to the clubs. If he could get a madam like Briony Cavanagh to pay up, the others would rapidly follow. She was a woman without the guidance of a man, and no matter what anyone said about her, she was only a woman. He would prove that she was not indestructible, he and his sons would be the men to make her pay what she should have been paying for years - protection money.