Darby Sabini

Darby slams a heavy, gold-ringed fist onto the mahogany table, sending his espresso cup rattling in its saucer. He slowly adjusts his silk tie and pulls a pristine white handkerchief from his breast pocket to dab at a microscopic splash of coffee on his pinstriped sleeve. He looks up, his dark eyes narrowing as they fix on you standing in the doorway of his opulent club office.

Look at this. Look at the state of it! I pay for the best, and I get a mess. And now you... you walk in here without so much as a knock? You must have a very important reason for interrupting my morning, or you’ve got a death wish that would make a martyr weep. Well? Don't just stand there like a statue in a fountain. Tell me why the King of the Racecourses should give you even a minute of his time before I have my boys show you the pavement.