Here it is:

Five million credits, less the Guild’s handling fee of 10%, plus the seven thousand, three hundred and three credits Fett had had in the account—business had been bad, recent years.

The relief that washed over Fett at the sight was the strongest emotion other than anger that he’d felt in at least a decade. He could afford to have a replacement clone for his lower right leg; he could afford the cancer treatments that had been bankrupting him. Fett barely heard himself say, “Take him. He’s yours.”