Murder. Frank was a murderer, if you wanted to call it that. Then men he'd gone after were murderers. He thought of Grotto and the Kitchen Irish, every gangster, every thug, every bastard he'd put down because they could not be allowed to get back up and do it all over again. But he thought of Zubair as well, hanging from a ceiling, beaten and bloody and shot in the head to silence him.

"Yeah," he said with a nod. He looked at Jim, silent. He didn't strike him as a man that murdered. Killed, maybe. The thought of it being murder meant that Jim thought of it that way. There was a fine line. "Yeah, okay."

He picked up a knife and stepped close to Jim. He handed it over, but also gently gripped the back of Jim's neck, leaning their foreheads together. Familiar. Understanding. Neither of them wanted to do this, but they could.