The fish arrived under armed escort.
It was still late.
I stood beside Maison Vaudrin's back entrance while Lucien opened the first Riverglass crate and pressed two fingers against the packed cooling cloth.
His expression darkened.
"How late?"
The driver swallowed.
"Thirty-seven minutes."
Lucien looked at me.
I looked at the driver.
The driver looked toward the two Baronna escorts as though hoping armed men might improve arithmetic.
They did not.
"Why?" I asked.
"Merchant checkpoint on Vale Street."
Céliane appeared behind Lucien with the morning delivery ledger.
"Inspection?"
"Registration."
She frowned.
"Riverglass is registered."
"The cargo was."
"Then what wasn't?"
One of the escorts answered.
"Us."
That interested me.
He wore plain dark clothes rather than the older Baronna street colors. No theatrical weapons. No protection token hanging openly from his coat.
The organization had learned presentation.
Apparently presentation had not learned the organization.
"What happened?"
"They asked for our commercial escort bond."
"And?"
The man hesitated.
"We don't have one."
I looked at Céliane.
She looked at me.
Lucien lifted one fish from the crate.
"Can I cook this or are we building a parliament around it?"
He smelled the gills.
Pressed the flesh.
Then nodded.
"This one survives government."
He carried the crate inside.
The driver relaxed.
Too early.
"How much did the delay cost?"
Céliane checked the delivery sheet.
"Nothing yet."
"Wrong."
She looked at me.
"Kitchen prep starts later. Riverglass wagon is stuck here while we inspect. Their next delivery shifts. The guards lost half an hour. If the char had warmed further, we would have rejected it."
The driver's relief disappeared.
I turned toward the escorts.
"What exactly did the checkpoint say?"
The older one produced a wooden token.
I recognized it.
La Baronna.
Old.
A blackened disk with the former protection mark burned into one face.
The kind of object that once meant:
Do not touch this cart unless you enjoy walking poorly.
"He showed them that?" I asked.
The younger escort looked embarrassed.
"We thought they'd recognize it."
"Oh, they recognized it?"
"Yes."
"And that helped?"
"No."
Céliane covered her mouth.
She was laughing.
Poor discipline.
The older man put the token away.
"The inspector said private protection marks have no legal standing for licensed commercial cargo."
Reasonable.
Hateful, but reasonable.
"What did they need?"
"Bonded escort registration. Named carrier. Liability mark. Route authorization if armed."
I stared at him.
La Baronna had spent years selling protection.
It knew which alleys belonged to whom.
Which dock thieves respected which names.
Which merchants paid whom.
Which debts could turn a shipment invisible.
It could move contraband through half the lower city without a customs officer smelling the crate.
But ask it to legally escort a box of fish between two registered businesses—
apparently civilization became complicated.
Céliane wrote thirty-seven minutes beside the delivery.
"What are you doing?"
"Recording it."
"It wasn't Riverglass's fault."
"It was our supply chain."
I looked at her.
She kept writing.
Good.
"Who paid the checkpoint fee?"
The older escort named the amount.
Not large.
The kind of small official fee that multiplied beautifully when repeated.
"And the bond?"
"They let us pass with a warning because the cargo papers were proper."
"Next time?"
"No escort without registration."
There.
Maison Vaudrin needed reliable deliveries.
Riverglass needed clients to believe its repaired cold chain.
La Baronna needed legitimate revenue.
I had connected all three.
And forgotten that three legal businesses tied together by one illegal habit did not create a legal network.
Marcus would enjoy this.
Terrible morning.
---
Serafine Korr enjoyed it more.
She read the inspection notice once.
Then again.
Then pushed it across her desk toward me.
"No."
I had not asked anything yet.
"We should improve your hospitality."
"You're about to ask me to spend money."
"Yes."
"No."
Her office remained in one of La Baronna's old administrative buildings beneath the merchant quarter.
We had repaired the front windows.
Removed two hidden weapon racks.
Kept the reinforced door.
Organizations can reform without becoming stupid.
Marcus sat to my right with three account books.
Korr sat opposite.
A pot of coffee cooled between us because nobody trusted the others enough to relax.
I placed the old protection token beside the notice.
"We need bonded commercial escort status."
Korr leaned back.
"You need it."
"La Baronna needs it."
"My people have worked these streets for years."
"Illegally."
"Profitably."
"Less profitably now."
Her eyes narrowed.
There were people one could persuade by telling them the future.
Korr preferred invoices.
Marcus opened a ledger.
"Protection revenue from coercive collections has fallen since conversion."
"Because he prohibited half the methods."
"I prohibited extortion."
Korr looked at me.
"You renamed half the methods first."
Fair.
La Baronna had not transformed into a charitable guild.
It still collected legitimate debts.
Still sold security.
Still moved information.
Still settled disputes for people who distrusted official courts.
Some old clients had left once refusing payment no longer resulted in creative injuries.
I considered that acceptable attrition.
Korr did not always.
Marcus continued.
"Contract security has grown. But mostly local premises. Shops. Warehouses. Fixed routes negotiated informally."
"Then formalize routes."
Korr looked toward the inspection notice.
"Whose routes?"
"Anyone who pays."
She smiled without warmth.
"There it is."
"What?"
"Your restaurant."
"Our first client."
"Your coldhouse."
"A second potential client."
"And we charge them?"
"Yes."
"How much?"
"Market rate."
She studied me.
I could almost see the trap being constructed.
"Maison Vaudrin pays full security rates?"
"Yes."
"Riverglass?"
"If Mara signs."
"Sierra?"
"If Sierra uses Baronna services."
Marcus looked at me.
Interesting.
Korr leaned forward.
"No owner discount?"
"No."
"No 'strategic affiliate' discount?"
"No."
"No sending six men to your warehouse and billing us for two?"
"No."
She became quiet.
I realized what she was doing.
This was not negotiation about price.
It was negotiation about ownership.
Korr wanted to know whether La Baronna was a business I controlled or a pocket I reached into.
"If Maison Vaudrin doesn't like the rate," she said, "Céliane can hire another security company."
"Yes."
"If I think escorting Riverglass is a bad contract, I refuse."
I almost answered too quickly.
Stopped.
Then nodded.
"Yes."
Korr tapped the old token.
"And this disappears."
"From commercial jobs."
"Completely."
"Keep it in archives if you're sentimental."
"I'm not."
"Wonderful quality."
Her mouth twitched.
Marcus ruined the moment.
"Bonding requires collateral."
Of course it did.
"How much?"
He told me.
I stared.
Korr smiled.
"Still want legitimacy?"
"I liked crime better fifteen seconds ago."
"That's why it survives."
---
The Commercial Escort Office occupied two rooms above a cooper's guild.
We waited forty minutes.
I learned several things about government furniture.
None positive.
A clerk eventually called:
"Baronna?"
Korr stood.
I followed.
She stopped.
"You're not coming."
"I am financing the bond."
"You are not listed as operating director."
True.
"Marcus?"
"Financial witness."
She looked toward him.
"You can come."
I was being excluded from my own bureaucracy.
Excellent.
"Why?"
Korr adjusted her coat.
"Because if you stand beside me, they will assume every contract belongs to you."
"It does not."
"Then prove it by sitting."
She entered with Marcus.
The door closed.
I sat.
This was unbearable.
A woman across the waiting room held documents for a courier license.
A man beside her had brought a broken wheel axle as evidence in some transportation dispute.
A boy ran between chairs until his mother threatened him with paperwork.
Twenty-three minutes later, Korr emerged.
"Provisional."
I stood.
"Cost?"
"Higher than Marcus estimated."
"Of course."
"Inspection of personnel. Weapon declarations. Liability deposit. Route records for three months."
"Three months?"
"They accept reconstructed records if counterparties attest."
Manageable.
"And?"
"Any serious violation can suspend the bond."
"Define serious."
"Unauthorized force. Cargo interference. falsified route logs. unregistered armed staff."
She handed me the paper.
A line near the bottom caught my eye.
**Bond holder assumes compensatory liability for loss caused by escort misconduct.**
There it was.
The difference.
Under old La Baronna rules, if an escort stole part of a shipment, the client had a problem.
Under the licensed structure, La Baronna had a problem.
Risk had moved.
That was what legitimacy actually cost.
Not uniforms.
Not clean windows.
Liability.
Korr watched me reading.
"You understand why I'm charging your restaurant full rate now?"
"Yes."
"Say it."
"You've all developed this habit."
"Say it."
"Because La Baronna is assuming contractual risk."
"And?"
"And Maison Vaudrin is not entitled to make that risk free because I own shares in both."
She took the paper back.
"Good."
I hated the word.
Still.
---
The second Riverglass delivery arrived twenty-eight minutes early.
Korr charged Maison Vaudrin for the escort.
Céliane complained about the rate.
I stayed out of it.
She negotiated it down four percent in exchange for a weekly fixed schedule.
Korr accepted because predictable routes reduced idle labor.
Neither asked my permission.
I stood beside Lucien while they finished.
"This is unsettling," I said.
He was trimming lamb.
"What?"
"People making decisions."
"Try cooking. Food obeys until it burns."
"That is oddly comforting."
He pointed his knife at me.
"Stay away from my stove."
Fair.
The dining room was nearly full for lunch.
Maison Vaudrin had now remained profitable for enough consecutive services that Marcus had stopped treating every good day as a clerical accident.
No distributions yet.
Supplier arrears first.
Cooling repair reserve second.
Staff wage adjustment third.
Céliane had created the order herself.
I owned forty percent.
I received nothing.
This was apparently wealth.
A courier arrived from the Royal Ward Administration at noon.
Céliane opened the packet.
Her expression changed.
"Raymond."
"What?"
"They want a ceremony service contract."
"How large?"
She gave me the number.
I stopped smiling.
The Western Patronage Ceremony was larger than I had understood.
Not a palace banquet.
A public royal event spread across the western terraces, academy patron halls and surrounding streets.
The princess would appear at the principal ceremony.
The Royal Ward expected additional guards, clerks, stable hands, attendants, road crews and temporary medical posts.
They needed food.
A lot of it.
Not noble dining.
Working meals.
Hot broth.
Bread.
Packed meat pies.
Fruit.
Drinking water.
Two evening service tables for senior personnel.
Three days of preparation.
One ceremony day.
Céliane kept reading.
"They approached six establishments."
"Competitive bid?"
"Yes."
"Prestige discount?"
She looked at me.
I smiled.
"No."
"You were thinking it."
"I was thinking strategic entry."
"You were thinking cheap."
"Temporary cheap."
"No."
Lucien appeared at the kitchen window.
"What's cheap?"
"Raymond."
"I've known that."
Cruel household.
Céliane placed the packet on the bar.
"They are not buying our name. Guards don't care what name is on a meat pie."
"Some do."
"They are buying delivery on time, measured portions and food that can sit during shift changes without becoming terrible."
I read the requested quantities.
"You can handle it?"
"Not with normal service unchanged."
"Close lunch?"
"No."
"Reduce dinner?"
"Maybe."
She was already calculating.
Lucien joined us.
"What are they asking us to cook?"
He read.
His face became offended.
"Packed meals?"
"Yes."
"I am not putting my food in wax paper."
"Then put someone else's."
He glared.
Céliane intervened.
"Papa."
"No."
"Three days."
"No."
"Paid deposit."
He hesitated.
I loved commerce.
Céliane continued.
"You choose the menu."
"That's how traps begin."
"One broth. One cold pie. One bread. One fruit portion. Nothing that pretends to be dining-room food."
Lucien read the requirements again.
"Riverglass handles cold holding?"
"If their repair passes."
"Separate vegetables?"
"Yes."
"Bread?"
"Tomas's uncle's bakery can quote."
Lucien thought.
Not about pride now.
Production.
"What price?"
Céliane gave a preliminary figure.
I frowned.
"Too high."
She looked at me.
Marcus, who had entered without anyone noticing, said:
"Don't."
I ignored him.
"If we enter twenty percent lower, we acquire the royal account, then—"
"No," Céliane said.
Direct.
Simple.
I stopped.
She tapped the quantities.
"They require exact windows."
"Yes."
"If we miss one, penalty."
"Yes."
"If guards add posts, we need extra labor."
"Yes."
"If they change the security route, delivery time increases."
"Yes."
"If Riverglass fails, we need backup cold storage."
"Yes."
She looked at me.
"Why are you pricing food and ignoring reliability?"
That was unpleasant.
Because she was using my own lesson.
Lucien leaned against the bar.
Enjoying himself.
I recalculated.
Not food cost.
Risk.
Backup.
Idle capacity.
Delivery contingency.
Penalties.
"Your price is still slightly high."
"I included eight percent reserve."
"Make it six."
"Seven."
"Six and a half."
She extended her hand.
I shook it.
Lucien stared.
"You two are disgusting."
"Thank you," Céliane said.
The bid went out at six and a half percent contingency.
Not cheap.
Not luxurious.
Profitable if nothing went badly.
Survivable if something did.
I was beginning to understand why good businesses seemed less exciting than criminal ones.
They planned for disappointment.
---
Balthazar arrived after lunch carrying a metal frame.
He almost dropped it when Hella opened the door too quickly.
She apologized.
He apologized to the frame.
Priorities.
"What is that?"
"The thing you kept asking for."
I looked closer.
Four narrow rods formed a square around a central glass plate.
Small calibration crystals sat at each corner.
Fine mana channels connected them.
No grand artificery.
No glow designed to impress.
"Standardized field?"
"Prototype."
That word mattered.
"Works?"
"Sometimes."
Better.
He set it on an empty table.
"The twenty-series block showed the mana-state discrepancy because we weren't controlling the operator field tightly enough. I reproduced the seventeenth and nineteenth-series difference under two known field conditions."
My attention sharpened.
"Meaning?"
"Meaning the material wasn't randomly changing."
"Operator mana."
"Probably a component."
"Probably."
He pointed at me.
"Do not turn that into confirmed in your book."
I lowered the pen I had already picked up.
Terrible friends.
"What does the frame do?"
"Creates a narrower standardized mana environment around the sample."
"Portable?"
"This is."
"Scalable?"
"No idea."
"Expensive?"
"Yes."
"Of course."
He looked around the restaurant.
"Why am I here?"
"Riverglass."
He blinked.
"The coldhouse?"
"Controlled temperature. Spare side room. Independent operator. Reliable logistics if repaired."
Balthazar's expression changed from irritation to suspicion.
"You want Éthérite next to food."
"No."
"Good answer."
"Different chamber."
"Different building section?"
"Possibly."
"Separate drainage?"
"We inspect."
"Separate tools?"
"Yes."
"Separate staff?"
"Yes."
He stared.
"What did Elisabeth say?"
"I haven't told her."
"Then nothing happens."
I sighed.
"Does everyone possess veto rights now?"
"Yes."
A disturbing trend.
We went to Riverglass.
---
Mara Kessel disliked Balthazar within four minutes.
By minute six they were discussing temperature variation with such enthusiasm that I became unnecessary.
There are worse humiliations.
Riverglass's repaired exchanger crystal had arrived that afternoon under creditor authorization.
The third chamber was still offline, but the main two held stable.
Mara showed us a side annex once used for flower storage.
Separate wall.
Separate access door.
No current food contracts.
Balthazar inspected the floor.
The vents.
The mana exchanger distance.
He asked questions I would not have thought to ask.
"How much field leakage from Chamber Two?"
Mara gave a number.
He frowned.
"How stable?"
"Depends on load."
"Then I can't calibrate beside it."
"Insulate."
"With what?"
She named a material.
Balthazar shook his head.
"Interferes with low-output sensing."
They argued.
I waited.
Finally Mara said:
"Upper storage loft."
"Temperature?"
"Worse."
"Variation?"
"Predictable."
He stopped.
Predictable mattered more than cold.
They went upstairs.
I followed.
The loft was ugly.
Dust.
Empty crates.
Hot near the roof.
One narrow ventilation line.
Balthazar smiled.
I worried.
"This."
Mara looked around.
"You rejected a cooled annex for this?"
"I can control temperature locally. I can't easily distinguish sample variation from your exchanger field."
"Rent?"
I asked.
They both turned.
I regretted reminding them I existed.
Mara named a rate.
Balthazar refused.
They negotiated without me.
Again.
The final agreement gave Balthazar the loft at a reduced research rate because his equipment required almost none of Riverglass's cooling capacity.
Riverglass gained stable rent from useless space.
Balthazar gained independent research premises.
Éthérite gained distance from Sierra and from Raymond.
I gained—
nothing immediately.
That was becoming suspiciously common.
Then Marcus whispered:
"Your Riverglass equity gains a tenant."
Ah.
There it was.
Small.
Real.
And Balthazar had created it without trying to make me rich.
Those were my favorite revenues.
---
The Royal Ward accepted Maison Vaudrin's bid before sunset.
Not because we were cheapest.
We were third.
Céliane read the award twice.
"Why us?"
The attached evaluation answered.
Existing private-service performance.
Documented kitchen controls.
Riverglass-linked cold capacity.
Provisional route security through La Baronna pending bond confirmation.
Three separate businesses had become one reliability argument.
I read the line again.
Marcus saw.
"Do not become emotional."
"I wasn't."
"You're holding the paper like Marduk wrote it."
I put it down.
Korr arrived ten minutes later.
"The city approved our provisional route bond."
Céliane handed her the Royal Ward award.
Korr read it.
"How many posts?"
Five primary delivery points.
Two fallback positions.
One medical station.
One western service lane.
Korr's expression changed.
"That requires more than two escorts."
"How many?"
"Depending on closures? Eight people minimum. Twelve if they expect active route security."
"Can you staff it?"
"Yes."
"Want it?"
She read the penalties.
Then the payment.
"Yes."
"Full market rate?"
"Higher."
I frowned.
"Why?"
"Royal route means public liability, inspection, weapons restrictions and fixed response times."
Céliane looked at me.
I looked at her.
She smiled.
Reliability.
Again.
"Fine," she said.
My restaurant had just hired my organization at a price I disliked.
This felt like either progress or a sophisticated form of punishment.
---
That evening Korr held her first route briefing.
I attended.
Did not lead.
Twelve people around a table.
Former collectors.
Former smugglers.
Two guards recruited after the annexation.
A clerk who had once maintained debt schedules.
Korr placed the ceremony map in the center.
Public version only.
No royal private route.
The city had marked food posts, guard barriers and approved civilian delivery corridors.
"Old habits stay home," she said.
Nobody laughed.
"Client cargo is client cargo. You do not open it. You do not borrow from it. You do not threaten an inspector because his queue is long."
One man raised a hand.
"What if he's taking bribes?"
"Document. Escalate. We don't become the second bribe."
Interesting.
Another asked:
"What if someone blocks the route?"
"Civilian obstruction goes to ward officers. Theft attempt, we protect cargo within bond rules. Serious attack, lives first."
Not cargo.
Lives.
Old Baronna would have had a different hierarchy.
I wrote nothing.
Korr saw me anyway.
"Problem?"
"No."
"Then stop looking pleased."
Apparently leadership was humiliating everywhere.
She pointed to two alternate streets.
"These are fallback routes if the western bells close the main way."
I recognized them from the drill.
One passed near the delayed relay.
The other curved south toward the lower market.
"What if both close?" someone asked.
"Then hold at designated post and wait for Ward clearance."
The man frowned.
"Even if food goes cold?"
"Yes."
Lucien would murder someone.
But correct.
Security over soup.
Mostly.
Korr continued.
No inspirational speech.
No declaration about reform.
Rules.
Responsibilities.
Names.
Who replaced whom if injured.
Who held the route papers.
Who carried no weapon because someone needed clean hands for documents.
La Baronna was changing in the least romantic way possible.
Through paperwork people could be punished for ignoring.
I found that reassuring.
---
Marcus gave me the consolidated figures at midnight.
I had expected a pleasant number.
He gave me four.
Liquid cash.
Committed cash.
Conservative equity value.
Contracted future revenue.
The first was bad.
The second worse.
The third—
I looked again.
"That is mine?"
"Your attributable interests, conservatively."
Maison Vaudrin.
Riverglass option-adjusted value.
Personal receivables retained.
Sierra.
Other holdings.
No La Baronna reserve counted as personal wealth.
Correct.
The number was substantially larger than anything I had personally controlled when we first reached Catington.
Not immense.
Not yet.
But no longer trivial.
"And the Royal contract?"
"Most revenue belongs to the businesses doing the work."
"Yes."
"Your benefit is indirect through equity."
"Yes."
"La Baronna earns its own fee."
"Yes."
"Which is not yours."
"I know."
Marcus waited.
I sighed.
"Which is not mine."
He nodded.
Happy man.
"What happens if this model repeats?"
"Depends what you repeat."
"Good distressed businesses."
"Most distressed businesses are distressed for reasons."
"Then we buy only when the reason is repairable."
"Capital."
"Operator."
"Demand."
"Governance."
He tapped the page.
"And time."
There it was.
The moon hiding in every ledger.
Twenty-seven days.
"Can this make me rich enough before Pandemonium?"
Marcus did not answer immediately.
Good.
"If you mean liquid enough to buy everything you want? Maybe not."
"And if I mean net worth?"
"Much faster."
"Useful."
"Until you need to purchase something."
Less useful.
"But," he continued, "the contract network changes the problem."
"How?"
"Stable businesses can finance part of their own expansion. You stop paying personally for every improvement."
I leaned forward.
Maison Vaudrin buying its own equipment from profits.
Riverglass funding maintenance reserve from storage revenue.
La Baronna buying legitimate equipment from service fees.
Capital that reproduced locally instead of coming from me.
That was the engine.
Not ownership.
Not one brilliant acquisition.
Compounding autonomy.
I looked at Marcus.
He was already packing the ledgers.
"You knew."
"I suspected."
"Why didn't you say it?"
"Because you only believe numbers after they hurt you."
Unfair.
Accurate.
---
I walked through the lower district before returning to Sierra.
La Baronna's old streets were quieter than months ago.
Not safer everywhere.
Cleaner in some places.
More expensive in others.
One old protection office now handled transport disputes.
A former debt runner carried sealed delivery manifests.
A woman who once paid protection at night had hired Baronna guards for her bakery warehouse under a written contract.
She could cancel it.
That was the difference I noticed.
She could leave.
A system built on people unable to leave was easier to control.
It was also weaker than I had believed.
At the western intersection, crews were repairing the delayed bell relay.
New cord.
New striker.
Two ward technicians.
A guard watched from below.
I stopped long enough for one technician to notice.
"Still delayed?" I asked.
"Fixed."
"What failed?"
He shrugged.
"Timing latch slipped."
"Wear?"
"Probably."
Probably.
I nodded and kept walking.
No mystery required.
Catington was full of ordinary failures.
That was what made extraordinary ones difficult to see.
Farther uphill, banners for the Western Patronage Ceremony had begun appearing between buildings.
Blue.
White.
Gold trim.
Children were already trying to steal the smaller ones.
The princess's crest appeared on several official notices.
Road closures.
Viewing zones.
Vendor restrictions.
Familiar prohibitions.
Public gathering schedules.
The city was preparing to celebrate.
Maison Vaudrin was preparing to feed the people guarding it.
Riverglass would cool part of the supply.
La Baronna would move it.
Three months ago those facts would have belonged to three different stories.
Now they belonged to one invoice.
I understood why that frightened me slightly.
Networks multiplied value.
They also multiplied consequences.
If Riverglass failed, Maison Vaudrin felt it.
If La Baronna failed, the Royal Ward felt it.
If Maison Vaudrin failed, the contract damaged all three reputations.
Dependency was profitable.
Dependency was also a route by which damage traveled.
I opened the Blacklist aboard Sierra.
The moon was visible through the cabin window.
I did not look at it immediately.
First:
**LA BARONNA — COMMERCIAL SECURITY**
Provisional bonded status approved.
Contract liability now real.
Clients pay market rates, including businesses in which I hold equity.
Korr controls operational acceptance.
Then:
**ÉTHÉRITE**
Independent pilot worksite identified at Riverglass loft.
No food-area integration.
No consumption.
Standardized mana-field prototype exists; repeatability still under test.
Balthazar controls research conditions.
Then:
**ROYAL WARD CONTRACT**
Maison Vaudrin: food production.
Riverglass: cold-chain support.
La Baronna: route security/logistics.
Patronage Ceremony.
Princess expected publicly.
Normal security preparations increasing.
Finally:
**WEALTH ENGINE**
Do not fund every asset forever.
Repair → operator → contract → reserve → reinvestment.
If the business cannot grow without another personal injection, autonomy has not been achieved.
I paused.
Then added one line beneath it.
**Every connection that produces value also creates a path for failure to spread.**
That one I left unclassified.
Not law.
Not philosophy.
Just something worth remembering.
Outside, Rex scratched at the cabin door.
I opened it.
He entered, looked at the floor, then at my shadow.
Training tomorrow.
Forty-three seconds yesterday.
Perhaps a minute next time.
Everything was becoming measurable.
Money.
Mana.
Trust.
Distance.
Time.
Twenty-seven days remained on the pessimistic Pandemonium assumption.
And for the first time since arriving in Catington, I could see the beginning of a fortune large enough to outlive a single successful deal.
The disturbing part was that the more it worked, the less of it truly belonged to my hands.