Inside, the air smelled of floor wax and old paper.

Roman led me down a carpeted hallway to a room at the back of the house.

“This is the library,” Roman said, turning a brass key in a heavy oak door.

“You will work here.”

The room was cold.

A long mahogany table sat in the center, piled high with leather-bound ledgers, loose manila folders, and printed spreadsheets.

“The Vescari accounts are on the left,” Roman said, pointing to the neatest stack.

“The Rourke numbers are in the middle, and the Salvi family records are on the right.”

“They don’t match,” I said, looking at the chaotic piles.

“That is why you are here,” Roman replied.

Declan pushed past him, his heavy boots leaving damp tracks on the rug.

“I’m staying to watch her,” Declan said, pulling out a chair near the window.

“We need this done fast, Vescari. I don’t trust a flower girl with our codes.”

Roman looked at me, his expression unreadable.

“The doors are locked from the outside,” Roman said. “Only Declan has the key tonight.”