“Why?” I asked.

“Because a weak boss can be guided,” Killian said. “A strong one gets us all slaughtered.”

I ignored him and turned back to the desk.

My fingers brushed the rough texture of the ledger pages.

The yellow light from the desk lamp flickered slightly.

I needed to understand what was actually written in these pages.

The pinpricks had given me Killian’s name and the midnight deadline.

But there was more.

I turned to the first page of the ledger, holding it up to the light of the lamp.

The watermark was faint, a circular crest pressed into the linen fibers.

As a tailor, I knew paper.

High-grade bond paper had specific weight and density.

This paper was imported, Italian linen, used only by high-end firms—or old-money families.

I ran my thumb along the bottom edge of the page.

There was a slight stiffness to the seam of the binding.

I picked up a small letter opener from the desk organizer.

“What are you doing?” Killian asked, his eyes narrowing.

“Finding the truth,” I said.