Paradise Gold: The Mafia and Nazis battle for the biggest prize of World War II (Ben Peters Thriller series Book 2) by Vic Robbie

metalled driveway for about a hundred yards before he saw the lights of a large house with several cars parked outside. They pulled up at the front door, and the minder on his right climbed out and the other ordered him ‘Out’. He was delivered to two other men, who looked equally unwelcoming, and they led him up some steps before knocking on a large wooden door, more resembling the entrance to a castle than a house.
    A small man, slightly bent over and wearing a black suit like an undertaker, opened the door a matter of inches. His eyes swept over the three of them studying Durant the longest before stepping back and pulling it open. One of the minders nudged him over the threshold.
    ‘Ah, there you are, you dumbfuck.’ Paradiso hoved into view.
    At last, a familiar face. He was almost relieved to see the gangster, who days before had been intent on blowing out his brains, as if they were old acquaintances although the feeling was soon overtaken by a sense of dread. Was Paradiso preparing to kill him this time?
    The butler took his coat and led them to double doors across the lobby.
    Paradiso grabbed his arm. ‘Listen, you dumbfuck. Tell them everything you told me about the gold and make it good or else we’ll have to go for a walk. Capiche ?’ Paradiso gave him a hearty slap on the back and he stumbled into the room, lit only by two table lamps on either side. A fire roared in a marble fireplace and the flames cast shadows leaping up the oak-panelled walls. When he’d adjusted his eyes to the gloom, he saw two middle-aged men, one sitting on a leather couch and the other over by the window in front of heavy brocade drapes. They appeared to be complete opposites. The man on the couch rose to greet him. He had the look of a lawyer, dressed in a navy, three-piece suit with his black hair slicked down either side of a centre parting, and he had an amused expression in his eyes. Durant wondered what he was finding so funny. The other man, whom he took to be around the same age, had short, wiry grey hair and wore a sports shirt and sweater and slacks, all in a bright lime green colour, as though he had just walked off a golf course. He was the kind of guy who was taller sitting down than standing up. He couldn’t see his eyes although when the fire flared they glinted a warning.
    No greeting, no exchange of words, just an outstretched arm pointing towards a seat equidistant from the two men. It was as though they knew they already owned him and as such he didn’t deserve their respect.
    ‘What say we dispense with the preliminaries, Manny?’ the lawyer, who he found out later was Al Rovicco and was known as ‘the fixer’, was talking.
    Manny had a look of distaste on his face as if Durant had brought in a dead rat. ‘Get the fuck on with it, Al. This ain’t goin to be anythin but a waste of my fuckin time.’
    ‘I’ll give the man a chance to talk, Manny. If you don’t like it, say the word and Paradiso can take him away.’
    He sat still, wondering what was coming next.
    ’It’s D D, isn’t it?’ Rovicco asked.
    He nodded.
    ‘Okay, D D, you’re in the fuckin shit.’ He paused to see if his words were being taken in. ‘You owe us big time. You’re in our debt–‘
    ‘Get on with it, Al,’ Manny growled. ‘I got some place I gotta be.’
    Al gave him a pained look. ‘So it’s down to you, D D, to do us a favour to pay off your debt. Unless you have the cash?’
    He shook his head.
    ‘Thought not. Our man, Tony, tells us you gotta idea how you might do it.’ He glanced over at Paradiso, who was standing by the door with his hands clasped in front of him.
    ‘If I can be of help…’ he stuttered.
    ‘Tony,’ Rovicco pointed in Paradiso’s direction and didn’t look at him, ‘says you gonna make us rich.’ He laughed and Manny joined in
    Not sure what he should say, Durant stayed silent.
    ‘Don’t think anythin Paradiso says means a fuck,’ Manny said, shifting in his seat as if getting