‘Nobody gets to leave without my permission. Nobody, right? If he’d been respectful, and they’d given me a nice going-away present, then that would have been different.’ By which Joe had, of course, meant the betrayal of his rival by Nigel’s boyfriend in some significant way. ‘But just planning to fuck off and never be seen again? Totally disrespectful.’

And, it went without saying, Joe didn’t take disrespect well either.

‘Morning, Eddie.’

Joe was waiting for him in the kitchen. A quarter acre of Cotswold stone, gleaming chrome and white marble. Sipping a coffee and looking chilled in his zip-through Armani mohair.

‘Morning, Joe.’

Joe was a relaxed sort of bloke with his men. Which went with the image that he’d cultivated, encouraged by the family lawyer. His granddad had been old-school. Always “Mr Castagna”, unless he gave a man explicit permission to use his first name. And even then that man would have been well advised not to overdo the privilege. His dad had carried on that tradition. Big Giuseppe, like his old man, deeming respect to be all-important. So no guessing where Joe got that from.

But Joe tolerated informality, just as long as it was accompanied by instant, blind obedience. He’d turned to a blood, bone and brain-flecked Eddie on the terrace. The smoke still curling from the suppressor of Lewis’s .45 automatic. While the big enforcer had stood contemplating Nigel’s corpse with his usual weird, unreadable look. The psychopath incarnate, to Eddie’s mind, having read enough Jon Ronson to know. His weapon ostentatiously not returned to its holster. And Joe had asked him one quietly stated but life-defining question.

“We got a problem here, Eddie?”

And Eddie, knowing in his gut that any hesitation would be the death of him, had answered in both the negative and a heartbeat. He knew that some of the crew had taken to calling him “Brains” behind his back. And not because they thought he was all that bright. And Eddie didn’t give a fuck. Because Eddie was still breathing, and valued that fact beyond measure.

Joe looked at him questioningly across the spotless marble. Dark Italian eyes and skin tone to match. Always looking like he needed to shave, despite the fact he used a wet razor every morning. Jet-black hair kept that colour by something out of a bottle, Eddie suspected. Suspected, but never mentioned. Joe being proud of his youthful looks at forty-five years old. And a touchy bastard at the best of times.

‘So what brings you here unexpected on a Saturday morning?’