Carmine Vale’s laughter was too loud, too brittle, echoing against the marble pillars of the cathedral like shattering glass.

Edmund stood on the third-floor catwalk of Warehouse B, watching the charred skeletons of three shipping containers hiss as the morning fog rolled in off the bay. The federal raid on Chicago had left a vacuum, and vacuums in the underworld never remained empty for long. Someone had decided that a weakened Costa empire was ripe for a midnight harvest.

Vivien stepped out of the stairwell, her heels clicking rhythmically against the metal grating. She wore a tailored charcoal pantsuit that mirrored the ash coating the surrounding ground, her hair pulled back into a sharp, uncompromising knot.

"The fire department is calling it an electrical fault," Vivien said, handing him a wet, charred fragment of circuit board she had picked up near the loading doors.

Edmund took the piece, turning it over in his calloused fingers. A faint smell of military-grade thermite hung around the plastic casing.

"An electrical fault that burns at four thousand degrees," Edmund noted dryly. "Our local friends are getting creative."

"Not local," Vivien corrected, leaning against the railing beside him and looking out over the harbor where two of their patrol boats cut through the gray water. "Look at the pattern of the burn. It’s a signature. The Triad out of San Francisco doesn't negotiate leases; they clear the land."

Edmund’s eyes narrowed. "What makes you think the Triad is involved?"

"Because my father didn't just owe money to local bookies," Vivien said, turning her dark eyes to meet his. "Three days before our wedding, he signed a shipping waiver with a shell corporation tied directly to Boston’s Irish mob and the Golden Dragon syndicate. They weren't just buying our trucking company, Edmund. They were buying a pipeline straight into your shipping lanes."

Edmund stared at her for a long moment, the cold calculation in his mind shifting into something much sharper.