“This lining was taken from the bespoke suit delivered to Mr. Thorne’s penthouse three days ago,” I said, my voice clear.

I pointed to the exposed linen layer.

“The embroidery on the outer silk was used to conceal this ledger,” I continued. “The stitches were made using a German-manufactured Pfaff machine with a modified feed dog.”

I looked directly at Vancamp.

“Only three workshops in New York use that specific model with that modification,” I said. “One of them is owned by a subsidiary of Vancamp Enterprises on West 39th Street.”

The older council member, a man named Henderson, leaned forward to inspect the linen.

He squinted at the silver-nitrate writing, his face hardening as he recognized the vessel names.

“These are the shipments from Rotterdam,” Henderson whispered. “The ones we were told were seized by federal customs.”

“They were not seized,” Aries said. “They were rerouted to Vancamp’s private warehouse in Newark. The proceeds were split between Vancamp and the three of you who voted to approve his transit licenses.”

Aries looked at the three men sitting on Vancamp’s right.