Victor smiled to himself as he thought about it. The Irish were scared of her, the Jews were scared of her, even the German and Russian immigrants were scared of her. The Italians paid whoever asked them, so it was down to the Maltese or the Arabs to take advantage of this situation. It seemed the Arabs weren’t going to, so that left the door open for him.

Victor sipped his brandy slowly, savouring the taste as it slipped down his throat and warmed his belly. He looked up as the door of his office opened, and swallowed heavily as he saw who was standing there with his son Mario. A very subdued Mario.

‘Hello, Victor, how are you?’ Tommy’s voice was friendly and calm. ‘Do you know Marcus Dowling at all?’

Victor stood up slowly and nodded at Mario who shut the door and stood in front of it, trying to look menacing. Tommy turned and faced him, saying loudly, ‘Fucking hell, you two are so ugly you even look alike! Sit down, Mario, before I box you down. I ain’t in the mood tonight for anyone trying to annoy me.’

Mario stayed put and Tommy shook his head at Marcus. At the signal, he pulled a gun from under his coat.

‘Sit, Mario, or I’ll blow your legs from under you.’

A white-faced Victor rushed around the desk.

‘Mario, for God’s sake, sit down!’

Tommy pushed Victor back towards his seat and, looking at the two men, said loudly, ‘Did I ever tell you that I had a run-in years ago with Maltese Jack? Do you remember Maltese Jack, Victor? A big ugly bastard, a bit like you actually. He had a big hooter and all. Well, he tried to tuck me up so I shot him. No kidding, I shot him in both his feet. Now in the East End, if you shoot someone in the plates, it means they’ve tried to run you out of your business. Trod on their toes, like. Do you get my point? So in a minute, I’m gonna shoot you both in the feet, then everyone will know you tried to take what was rightfully mine.’

Victor shook his head.

‘I swear, Tommy, I have tried to take nothing of yours ...’

Tommy laughed gently.