Chapter Seven
Vinnie loved his job. Hell, he lived for it. He ate, slept and s**t for it. He felt like the luckiest man alive. Just knowing he had a big job planned—the kind that involved some real hands-on labour—gave him a stonker to end all stonkers. Pity any bird that crossed his tracks when that happened. She wouldn’t be able to sit or walk for a month!
He considered his work an art. There was nothing he enjoyed more than the feel of his boot stomping in some geezer’s skull. That melodic crunch—it was a rush better than any hit of some poncey designer d**g. These were moments to be savoured, tasted. Not even shagging a really fit bird could compare. He reckoned he probably had some Kray blood running through his veins. Sure, plenty of people from the East End laid claim to the Kray
