“We go to the penthouse,” Aries told Killian.

“Yes, Boss,” Killian said.

The car pulled away from the curb, tires hissing on the wet asphalt.

We drove in complete silence through the dark streets of Manhattan.

The penthouse was quiet when we arrived.

The air inside smelled of beeswax, lemon polish, and old paper.

Aries led me into his private study.

The midnight blue tuxedo hung inside a climate-controlled glass case.

I took the brass shears out of my coat pocket.

“Are you sure about this?” Aries asked.

“It is the only way to prove I am telling the truth,” I said.

I opened the glass doors.

The fabric felt heavy and stiff under my fingers.

I turned the left lapel over, exposing the black silk facing.

With the tip of the shears, I carefully snipped the securing thread.

I slid my fingers inside the lining, feeling for the stiff, cold wire.

My fingers caught on a thin, metallic cord.

I pulled it gently, and a spool of ultra-fine silver wire slid out.

It was threaded through a series of tiny, punched leather cards.