“I spent three weeks cross-referencing your internal receipts with the port authority’s secret registries,” I said.

Roman reached out and took the folder from my hands, his leather gloves dry and rough against my skin.

He flipped through the first few pages, his eyes darting across the rows of numbers with practiced speed.

Declan leaned over Roman’s shoulder, his scarred face tightening as he recognized the shipping codes.

“This is the eastern harbor layout,” Declan muttered, rubbing his scarred jaw.

“It shows the exact discrepancy in the grain shipments from two winters ago,” I said, pointing to a red-inked marginal note.

“The Vescari family was shorted four hundred thousand dollars by the harbor master,” I told Roman.

“And that money went directly into the Salvi transit accounts,” I added, looking at Victor.

Victor did not flinch, but his eyes narrowed slightly as he looked at the open page.

“A clerical error, surely,” Victor murmured, though his tone lacked any real conviction.

“It was no error,” I said, turning the page to reveal a second set of receipts.