I carefully slid the metal blade of the opener into the glued seam of the spine.

The dried adhesive cracked.

A thin, folded slip of parchment slid out from the hidden recess of the leather spine.

It was translucent paper, covered in tiny, elegant handwriting.

I spread it flat on the desk.

The letters were written in a cipher, but the structure was familiar.

It was a shipping manifest, written in double-entry columns.

On the left were dates and cargo numbers.

On the right were names of customs officials, dock managers, and city inspectors.

Every single one of them had a dollar amount written next to their name.

At the top of the page was a crest.

Two crossed keys beneath a roaring lion.

“The Marcone family,” I whispered.

Killian went completely silent.

His chest rose and fell heavily as he stared at the paper.

“They didn’t just buy the docks,” I said, reading the names. “They bought your entire security detail.”

“I didn’t know about the inspectors,” Killian muttered, his voice losing its edge.

“They used the poison to blind Aries while they moved their own shipments through Pier 42,” I said.