Hurriedly, Alfie clicked off his phone, throwing it across the room as he took deep, long breaths, wiping the prickles of sweat off his face, trying to calm his trembling, trying to stop the wave of nausea overwhelming him as he swallowed the vomit back down along with his panic.

It was stupid. So stupid. How could a few letters and calls make him feel so jumpy? Maybe it was just the coke making him twitchy. Paranoid. Christ almighty.

But as Alfie stood – his handsome face pale and strained – in the large, newly decorated front room, still holding the letter in his hand, the second one he’d received that day and feeling like it was burning a hole in his palm, he knew the real problem wasn’t the substandard coke. The real problem was he was scared – really scared – and he hated himself for it. He was disgusted at his fear, and God knows he’d never admit it to anyone. The worst thing was, no matter how much he drank and snorted coke to take away the panic, the fear still sat there like a stone in his stomach.

He couldn’t even tell Franny – his long-term lover – about it, although it was clear she knew something wasn’t quite right. She’d asked him on several occasions if there was some kind of problem, even going as far as suggesting that he took a break, went back to Spain, set up again there, anything to make him feel better. But all he’d said to her was that he was fine. That everything was just fine, but fine couldn’t be further from the truth.

It was a joke. He was a joke, and the shame of it all sat on his shoulders like a weighted barbell. And besides, even if he wanted to tell Franny, what would he actually say to her? How would he say it? And how could she look at him afterwards with any kind of respect when he told her he was afraid? Afraid of the calls. Afraid of a letter. A flipping four-line letter. It was pathetic because after all when it came down to it, he was the great Alfie Jennings, the same Alfie Jennings who’d put fear into so many men over the years and the same Alfie Jennings who’d taken on gangs and notorious crime families to become one of the biggest faces there was. Yet here he was trembling like a girl over a poxy note, which this time had been left on the window of his car. But then, it wasn’t just any note, was it? Because the note wasn’t from just anybody, was it? No, because he was certain he knew exactly who the note was from.

Shaking and with his thick, dark hair stuck to his sweating forehead, Alfie glanced down again at the letter.

Roses are red,

Violets are blue,