ROXIE

The space between us on the mahogany desk felt less like a distance and more like a live wire waiting to electrocute us both.

"Look at the third registry line, Roxie," Garrison commanded smoothly, his voice dropping into that low, flat baritone he used to command executive boards.

He didn't look at me. He kept his dark eyes fixed ruthlessly on the glowing spreadsheet of the Rotterdam shipping manifests, but his posture was entirely rigid under his suit jacket. He had moved a secondary leather chair directly alongside his, forcing us to sit shoulder-to-shoulder so we could cross-reference the grandfather's Swiss ledger against the active European port logs.

Every...