Aries’s eyes narrowed.

“The Biella mills are owned by my family,” he said.

“Only three people have the authority to alter the production line.”

“My uncle is one of them,” he added, his voice dropping an octave.

“And who manages the receiving end?” I asked.

“Marcus Vance,” Killian answered.

“He runs the importing firm at the Hudson pier.”

“Every yard of fabric that enters our ateliers goes through his warehouse first.”

The burner phone stopped vibrating, plunging us back into near-total darkness.

Only the tiny red backup light of the security monitor remained.

“If the wool was treated at the loom, Marcus had to know,” I said.

“He inspects every shipment for quality and weight.”

“A chemical treatment of this scale would change the hand of the cloth slightly.”

“A master importer would notice the difference immediately.”

Aries stood up, his tall frame cutting a stark silhouette against the window.

“We go to the pier,” Aries said.

“If Marcus is part of this, he will have the shipping manifests.”

“And the chemical formulas,” I added.