“All of it?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. “The wire was melted down yesterday. The data is gone.”

“Are you safe now?”

“Safer than I was,” he said. “But in my world, safety is relative.”

He walked over to the cutting table and touched the walnut wood.

“This shop is yours,” he said. “No one else will ever set foot in here without your permission.”

“And you are my only client,” I said.

“Yes,” he said. “An exclusive arrangement.”

“It is a heavy responsibility,” I said.

“I trust no one else with my measurements,” he said. “Or my life.”

He picked up his coat from the chair.

“I will return next Thursday for the first fitting,” he said.

“The basted garment will be ready,” I said.

He walked to the door and paused, his hand on the handle.

“Have a good evening, Sienna,” he said.

“Goodnight, Aries,” I said.

He stepped out into the Manhattan evening.

The door closed behind him, and the silence returned to the room.

I looked at the measurements in my book.

They were precise, perfect, and locked in my mind.

I picked up the brass shears and began to cut the dark charcoal wool.

The blade sliced through the fabric with a soft, satisfying hiss.

I was no longer just a woman surviving in a dangerous city.

I was the tailor who held the secrets of the underworld in her stitches.

And I would make sure those stitches never came undone.