When Danny slipped out half an hour later, Peter sat in his chair and, pouring himself another large brandy, he closed his eyes. He was tired tonight, tired and worried. He had so much riding on the next few years. He had invested in numerous new enterprises, from the drugs trade – which was so lucrative it was fucking outrageous – to gentlemen’s clubs with private dancers and guaranteed privacy. He had more clubs opening for this new generation of youngsters who were convinced that the only thing that mattered was getting out, getting drunk, and having a good time. He envied them being born into an era when responsibility was something from a bygone age, and where nothing really mattered except doing what the fuck you liked. The sixties had started the drug culture, the seventies had cemented it into the public psyche – thanks to pop stars who had glamorised it – and now the eighties were all about money, clothes and chemical highs. It was almost like printing money, it was so fucking lucrative. But, by the same token, it was also about keeping that part of the business as low profile as possible.

Now his brother was not only attracting unwanted attention, but Peter was facing problems with his own sons. In particular Peter Junior – or Petey as he was known – who, it seemed, had more of his uncle in him than his own father. Petey believed he was more important than his father, his brothers, his uncle, his cousins – in fact, anyone else in his orbit. Peter had always perceived this weakness in his eldest son, this snide side to his personality; Petey had such an inflated opinion of his own worth it was frightening. But it was the lack of loyalty that was the real worry. Loyalty was paramount in the world they inhabited – it was what kept them out of stir, what kept them on the street. Petey was basically a bully, just like his uncle. He needed to be taught a lesson that he would not forget in a hurry, and tonight Peter intended to have it out with him.

He sighed. Might as well get this over with. He knew Petey was down in the club and he picked up the phone to get him sent in. When Petey came in, looking decidedly sheepish, Peter let rip.

‘You had better explain yourself, boy. I know you have been claiming money in my name, and I will fucking take you out, seriously harm you, son or not, before I let you fuck up me, my brother or his family.’

Petey looked at his father; he guessed his cousin had told his father the story. Even though he was ashamed of his actions, he still felt there was a justification. ‘I didn’t expect Danny to get the flak, I was supposed to go there myself. But Danny took it on himself to collect all the rents . . .’