EVERYONE PRAISED THE MAFIA BOSS'S WEDDING SUIT. THEN I CUT ONE RED THREAD AND FOUND THE TRAP MEANT FOR HIM.

The silence inside the penthouse fitting room of the Moretti estate was no longer the polite, holding-your-breath quiet of high society. It was the heavy, pressurized silence of an interrogation room.

The heavy, soundproofed double doors had clicked shut with a dull, hydraulic hiss, and the two bodyguards—men built like brick walls in custom-fit charcoal suits—now stood with their hands resting on the grips of their holstered semi-automatics.

Bastion Vera, my employer and the self-proclaimed genius of Vera Haute Couture, looked as if he might slide right down the silk-paneled wall. A thick, greasy bead of sweat rolled from his receding hairline, tracing a wet path down his pale cheek before dripping onto his pristine white collar.

"How many, Miss Ward?"

Luca Moretti’s voice was too quiet. It possessed the smooth, dangerous cadence of a man who didn't need to shout to be obeyed. He stood in his pristine white dress shirt, the silk suspenders framing his broad chest, his dark eyes locked entirely on me. He ignored his weeping fiancée. He ignored his trembling tailor. He only looked at the woman holding the silver shears.

"I need to check the rest of the suit," I said, my voice remarkably steady despite the hammer of my pulse against my ribs. "A tracking device is just the first layer. If someone had the access required to open a finished sleeve lining, they had access to the entire garment."

"Do it," Luca commanded.

Vivien Cross took a sharp, gasping step forward, her manicured hand clutching her diamond necklace as if it could keep her from choking. "Luca, please! This is insane. You’re letting a... a back-room seamstress rip apart a masterwork based on a piece of plastic! It’s probably a dry-cleaning tag, or a security sensor Bastion’s interns forgot to remove!"

"A dry-cleaning tag?" I didn't look up, but my fingers were already moving over the lapels of the jacket. "A military-grade RFID passive transponder, hidden beneath a double-blind silk stitch? No intern knows how to cast a blind stitch, Miss Cross. It takes ten years of apprentice work just to keep the tension from puckering the wool. This was done by a master."

I laid the jacket flat on the mahogany cutting table.

I didn't use the shears yet. I used my fingertips. The pads of my fingers had spent twenty years reading cloth like braille. I knew the exact weight of triple-ply silk lining; I knew the precise resistance of horsehair canvas used to structure the chest piece of a bespoke jacket.

I ran my hand down the right lapel. Then the left.

"Here," I whispered.

Luca leaned over the table. The subtle scent of cedar, expensive tobacco, and something metallic—perhaps gun oil—drifted off him. "What is it?"

"The weight is wrong," I said, pointing to the inner pocket where a gentleman would typically keep his fountain pen or his cigar case. "The drape of the left breast is off by less than three grams. To the eye, it’s perfect. But the wool isn't breaking naturally when the jacket folds."

I slid the silver shears into the seam of the inner pocket.

"Wait!" Bastion cried out, his voice cracking into a pathetic squeak. "Miss Ward... Clara, please! If you ruin the structural canvas, the jacket will never sit right on his shoulders again! The wedding is in forty-eight hours!"

"If he wears this suit in forty-eight hours, he won't live to see the reception," I said flatly.

I snipped the heavy black silk thread.

I pulled the lining back, exposing the stiff, textured horsehair canvas beneath. Stitched directly into the structural backing, right where the fabric would press against Luca's heart, was a flat, flexible patch. It looked like a standard piece of iron-on interfacing, but when I ran the tip of my blade along the edge, the fabric parted to reveal a network of microscopic silver wires woven into a circular pattern.

"A directional microphone," I said, looking up at Luca. "Woven into the stabilizing canvas. Every whisper, every private conversation you have on your wedding day... someone would have been listening to it in real-time."

Luca stared at the silver wires. His jaw didn't just tighten; the muscle in his cheek ticked with a slow, rhythmic violence.

"And the trousers?" he asked.

I picked up the trousers from the valet stand. I ran my hands down the waistband, checking the coin pocket, the zipper guard, the hem.

At the right hem, where the cuff would brush against the leather of his shoe, my fingers caught on a slight, unnatural stiffness. I didn't even ask for permission this time. I cut the hem open.

A small, heavy capsule—no larger than a grain of rice—slid out onto my palm.

"A chemical signature tag," I whispered, the cold reality of it settling into my own chest. "It’s a specialized marker. If you were targeted by a sniper or a drone, this compound emits a specific infrared frequency that cuts through standard counter-measures. It makes you a beacon."

"Three," Luca said, his voice dropping another octave. "Three separate compromises. In a suit that was kept in a locked room under twenty-four-hour guard."