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guessed she’d been something in her day. And if he’d known they were going to show up at the club, he’d have told the cocky bastards to fuck off out of it and take a taxi. Not smart. Despite that, Bishop recognised the deal with the Giordanos was the best chance he was likely to get to make the south London mob eat some of the same shit they’d dished out to his family. Until every Glass was history and he was standing at the bar in LBC, drinking Luke’s champagne and getting ready to fuck his hookers, Calum wouldn’t relax. The crew from New Orleans had their own reasons for being in London. He had no interest in them; they could cut off the sister’s tits and leave her to bleed out for all he cared, then with Glass beaten and broken he’d step in and deliver the final blow. And when her celebrated brother was history anybody who objected to the new arrangement was dead. The Giordanos were convinced he was on a mission to settle his uncle’s unfinished business. Wrong! To hell with revenge! He wanted what was good for Calum Bishop. As simple as that. George Ritchie was another name high on Calum’s hit list. The Geordie was a legend in his own right: he’d had a good innings, but his time was up. Persuading him to jump ship and join forces would’ve been the cherry on the cake. Not happening; he was Luke’s man. Yet, coming face to face with the old fucker, it was impossible not to have a sneaking pang of regret. In The North Star on Finchley Road, despite being outnumbered, Ritchie hadn’t flinched. Glass
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