Lucy didn't know what to say, whether to believe such a bold statement coming from his mouth.
'Layla,' he continued. 'My lovely sister Layla. Had never been involved in the family business - in fact, she was a veterinary nurse. It fitted her kind and caring personality perfectly.'
Lucy's ears burned in horror as she listened to him describe his dead sister. How Oliver had shot her dead, and sent her body back to him in a green, white and orange coffin. The colours of the Irish flag.
She shook her head. 'No,' she stammered, 'he wouldn't do that.'
Joey watched her for a moment, studying the shocked expression plastered across her face.
'All because he wasn't happy that I took over his London patch, and poached his workers for my much fairer working conditions.' He stared down at his soup, took another sip and then drew back his chair.
'I sense you don't believe me,' he made his way to the main door that Lucy had entered through. 'But I can prove it.'
He slipped out of the room, his words still echoing in Lucy's ear.
He killed my sister.
Unless she brought in his sister's dead body, she wasn't going to believe him.
She listened to the pianist for a few minutes, as her blood bubbled with anticipation.
Lucy had no idea what Joey was going to come back with, but she still wasn't ruling out a gun. Or a knife. Or a blunt object he could whack her around the head with.
A thought suddenly occurred to her, however. Now she had met him, and has seen where he lives, she highly doubted that he would ever get his hands bloody himself.
The door swung back open with the help of the well-trained butler, and Joey's presence was felt again immediately. He walked back over to the table and slipped an envelope in front of her.
She stared at him, as he took a swig of wine before sitting back down.
'Open it.'
With shaking hands, she did as she was told, and slid out the well-thumbed piece of paper inside.
When she unfolded it, she realised it was a handwritten letter. Smudged, and threadbare, it had obviously been read a fair few times. She squinted under the candlelight to read it.
Joey,
I hope this letter receives you well.
I am writing to you in regards to our little territory dispute, as I feel that I have a fair deal for you to consider.
As we both know, this dispute is not going to get us anywhere, especially considering that we are both as stubborn as each other, so I have decided on a plan of action that will settle this disagreement once and for all.
Joey, you have until Friday afternoon to leave not just London, but England as a whole. Perhaps you will go back to Italy, perhaps, you will move on to set up your business in another European country. Regardless of what you choose to do, I wish you the best of luck.
If you choose not to leave, however, luck, unfortunately, will not be on your side.
I do not wish to make empty threats, so I shall tell you my plans straight, like the good, honest man that I am.
Joey, if you do not leave by Friday, I will have Layla killed. Please, do not disregard this as me being dramatic - I will have her shot, and her body will be returned to you in a coffin.
I do hope you will consider my offer, and that we can resolve this issue like the gentleman that we are.
I hope to hear from you,
Oliver.
Lucy stared at his name at the bottom of the page, numb. Her eyes traced the big, loopy 'O', and she tried to imagine him writing this letter, in a fit of anger, scribbling down his thoughts before he lost them, and became the cheeky, charming man again.