“Fifty-two centimeters,” I murmured, writing the number down in my book.

“You have a steady hand,” he said.

“A tailor cannot afford to shake,” I said.

I moved to his side, measuring his chest.

I could hear his steady, slow breathing.

“We will place the inner pockets at an angle,” I said. “For easier access to your holster.”

“And the lining?”

“A custom silk weave,” I said. “No static. No rustle when you move.”

He smiled slightly, a rare sight that softened his hard features.

“You think of everything,” he said.

“That is what you pay me for,” I said. Let’s make this line simple. “It is my job.”

I measured his sleeve length, my fingers brushing against his wrist.

His pulse was calm.

“The fabric is being delivered tomorrow from Biella,” I said. “The finest wool in Italy.”

“And the color?”

“A dark charcoal,” I said. “It absorbs light. You will be invisible in the shadows.”

“I like that,” he said.

I finished taking his measurements and stepped back.

He turned to face me, his hands in his pockets.

“The ledger has been destroyed,” he said quietly.