Mike took another look at the poor dead woman and shook his head. He knew then why Stoneham wanted this gang caught and taken out. No way was this the work of some cocky little wannabe gangster outfit. In fact, he realized that he was facing an enemy who was not only evil but who also had powerful connections. It was downright demonic. As hard and calculated as he could be, this was in the realms of something far outside his own world. It crossed his mind that the man behind it was Colombian or Brazilian. Surely, the typical British gangsters wouldn’t do this, would they?

Chapter Fifteen

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Antonio’s was open: by 7 p.m., the restaurant was full and buzzing.

Three of his usual punters, all stockbrokers, eagerly arrived. They swiftly took their seats in the corner, ordered an antipasto starter each, and shared a bottle of champagne. After thirty minutes, they asked for the bill. Antonio went to the kitchen, pulled the packets of cocaine that were wrapped in gold foil to look like after-dinner mints, placed them on the plate, and nodded to the new waitress to take them over. Dressed in fashionable tight-fitting suits, the three young men pocketed the packets and went to the bar to pay. They left a ten-pound note as a tip for the waitress, who was very quick to pocket the money. That tip alone would pay for her to have a takeaway that night with her boyfriend.

‘Nice one, Antonio. Next week, we’ll have the main course,’ said one of the suited men. He winked and the three left.

By the time the restaurant had emptied all but the last of the customers, Antonio was a bag of nerves, and he struggled to string a coherent sentence together.

Neil was perched on a stool at the small bar and Shamus sat at one of the tables for two in a bay window. ‘Antonio, come on, mate. Look, your family are safe in Italy, yeah? I’m fecking tooled up, and me cousin over there is too. If anyone so much as gives you a dirty look, we’ll be on them like a couple of rabid dogs.’

Antonio was cleaning one of the glasses. The bags under his eyes were prominent from the overhead lighting. He looked old and his usual happy-go-lucky personality had been sucked out of him. He would have got on that plane and never come back, but he owed Zara and Izzy so much. They had set him up in business, and for years, he’d been running a successful restaurant. Even the police ate there; yet under everyone’s nose, he was dealing cocaine first for Zara and then the Lanigans. He couldn’t turn his back on her now.

‘Antonio, wipe that sweat from your face, mate. You look so fecking edgy. You’ve still got a few customers here.’