The money led to Monaco.
It took us three days to trace it. Three days of sifting through the transaction logs on Mira's USB, cross-referencing shell companies, following a labyrinth of offshore accounts that wound through the Cayman Islands, Luxembourg, and finally to a private bank in Monte Carlo that specialized in discretion. The kind of bank that didn't ask questions. The kind that had probably been laundering money for men like Aldric Vane since before I was born.
I worked in the library, surrounded by Dante's ledgers and a laptop that never connected to the internet. Greta brought meals I forgot to eat. Leo came by twice, but I sent him away both times. I didn't want him near this. I didn't want him anywhere near the names and numbers that spelled out exactly how much his uncle's
