“You’ve been awake too long,” he said.
“So have you.”
He set the plate down beside her keyboard. “What did you find?”
Lydia pulled up a map. “Every message labeled bluebird aligns with high tide arrivals. At first I thought it was a person or a vessel. It’s heroin. Peterson was hiding product inside the guidance casings in your tech shipments.”
Damon’s face went still.
“You don’t traffic narcotics,” she said. “At least, not according to the =”.”
“We don’t.”
“Peterson did. With someone above him.”
She clicked again. A Cayman shell company appeared on screen.
“Aurelius Holdings.”
Damon swore under his breath. “Sebastian.”
“Who?”
He looked out across the dark water. “Sebastian Cole. My godfather.”
Lydia knew the name. Everyone in New York knew the name. Philanthropist. museum donor. hospital benefactor. the type of old-money patron whose face belonged on boards and fundraising brochures.
“Your godfather is using your empire to smuggle heroin?”
“He’s using my empire to frame me,” Damon said. “If federal agencies find the product in my containers, I become the public monster and he becomes the man who saves the city from me.”
Lydia searched the final messages.
“There’s more. One of the last communications mentions January twelfth, the red room.”
Damon turned sharply. “Tonight.”
“The Met gala annex at the museum?” Lydia asked.
“Sebastian is hosting a private charity event there.” Damon looked at her, and the intelligence in his eyes turned predatory. “He invited me months ago.”
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