My mother showed up at my house demanding I sign over a $4 million trust my grandfather left me.

The brass sextant felt heavier than its polished frame suggested, cold against my palms as the autumn wind howled across the marina. Hayes stood directly behind me, his jacket pulled tight against the spray, his hands resting gently on my shoulders. On the teak table in the pilot house of Captain Miller’s cutter, the 1890 sea charts were spread wide, anchored at the corners by heavy brass weights.

"Isle Royale," Captain Miller muttered, tapping an ink-stained fingernail against a faded cluster of topographical rings on the oldest parchment. "It’s not just an island, Lenora. In November, it’s a graveyard. The gale season is rolling in. Commercial freighters don’t even like hugging those shoals when the Canadian fronts collide with Superior's deep troughs."

"Grandfather didn't hide this charter for it to collect dust in a vault," I said, tracing the intricate copperplate calligraphy at the bottom of the map. My voice didn't waver, though my pulse hammered against my ribs. "He kept it hidden from Beatrice and the Vance family because he knew what it represented. The four million dollars kept the school alive, but this... this is the sovereign deed to the northern deep-water passages. It controls the transport rights from Thunder Bay down through the locks."

"Which means whoever holds this doesn't just own real estate," Hayes said, leaning in, his sharp gaze dissecting the coordinates stamped beside the silver key's wax seal. "They own the commercial lifeline of the entire upper basin. If the Vance cartel had gotten their hands on this instead of just the liquid cash in Milwaukee, they wouldn't have just broken your school, Lenora. They would have choked every independent harbor from Duluth to Sault Ste. Marie."

Before Miller could answer, the radio on the dash hissed violently, spitting white noise before a gravelly, unfamiliar frequency broke through the squelch.

*"Slip four... confirm package retrieval. The girl has the brass case. I repeat, the Sterling girl has the brass case."*

My breath caught. Hayes lunged for the dash, killing the audio, but the damage was done. Captain Miller immediately moved to the porthole, his weathered face darkening as he peered through the salt-crusted glass toward the harbor bluffs.

"We were watched," Hayes whispered, his hand instantly dropping to the concealed holster beneath his canvas coat. "The dive team that pulled the box from Slip Four—did you vet every single contractor, Thomas?"

"They were men I’ve known for thirty years," Miller said defensively, though sweat beaded at his temples despite the biting chill. "Local boys. Honest dredgers."

"Someone bought one of them," I said, piecing together the shadow that had hung over our hard-won victory. Beatrice was locked in a cell at Taycheedah, her high-priced attorneys crushed by the probate court, but her web was never spun entirely by her own hands. Richard Vance had backers—shadowy maritime syndicates that operated far above the petty extortion rackets of Kenosha.

Suddenly, the harsh beam of a high-powered spotlight cut through the darkness outside, blinding us as it smashed against the pilot house windows. The deep, guttural thrum of twin diesel engines vibrated through the floorboards.

"Federal harbor patrol doesn't run unflagged black cutters," Miller snarled, reaching under the bench and pulling out a heavy twelve-gauge shotgun. "Get down, Lenora!"

"No," I said, adrenaline flushing through my veins as I rolled the ancient charts into an oilskin tube and looped the silver key around my neck on a rawhide cord. "We aren't running anymore. If they think they can intimidate me out of Grandfather’s legacy the way Beatrice tried to bully me in my own foyer, they’re about to learn what a Sterling does when backed into a corner."

Hayes took my hand, his grip unyielding. "We fight together. Just like before."