THE BUTLER’S VOW: A DEBT OF BLOOD AND HONOR

The three men flanking Irene didn't draw their weapons, but their hands hovered near their jackets. I recognized two of them. They were supposed to be Vincent's loyal soldiers.

The poison had spread deeper than I thought.

I slowly lowered the sledgehammer to the cracked concrete.

Vincent stood up, wiping the dirt from the rusted license plate. He didn't look afraid. He looked profoundly disappointed.

"You hit a girl fifteen years ago," Vincent said, his voice steady. "Your father covered it up for you. He buried your car, buried the truth, and then he died carrying your guilt. And now you’re trying to pave over his sacrifice."

"I was eighteen," Irene said, her voice icy and detached. "I was terrified. He did what any father would do to protect his blood."

"And Walter?" I asked, unable to stop myself. "Did you have to destroy his life, too?"

Irene finally looked at me, a flicker of irritation crossing her perfect features. "Walter was a casualty of geography. He lived over the grave. I couldn't risk the estate eventually selling to someone who might do renovations. I had to secure a total demolition, fast."

"So you framed him for theft, manipulated me into firing him, and used my guilt to strip my veto," Vincent summarized, nodding slowly. "A brilliant, bloodless coup."

"The family needs a leader who doesn't let sentimentality dictate business," Irene said. "You're soft, Vincent. You brought Walter back because you felt bad. You let a servant dictate your conscience."

She gestured to the armed men. "Escort them to the main house. Lock them in the study. The council votes in four hours. Once the demolition is approved, they can come out."

"You think the council will vote for you when they know you’re a murderer?" Vincent asked.

"They won't know," Irene smiled. "Because if you tell them, you implicate your own brother in the cover-up. You taint the entire Bellandi name. The feds will use it to tear the family apart. You love this family too much to destroy it, Uncle."

She was right. It was a perfect trap.

They marched us through the rain. I walked beside Vincent, my mind racing. I had promised Walter I would fix this. I had looked at his grandson, Leo, and silently vowed they would get their home back.

We were shoved into Vincent’s heavy, oak-paneled study. The heavy doors slammed shut, and the lock clicked.

"She has us," Vincent said, sitting heavily in his leather chair. He dropped the rusted license plate on his desk. "If I expose her, I expose Michael. The family loses everything."

I walked over to the mahogany liquor cabinet. I didn't pour wine this time. I poured two fingers of the oldest scotch we had. I walked over and set it firmly on his desk.

"With respect, sir," I said quietly. "You are looking at the wrong board."

Vincent looked up. "What are you talking about?"

"Irene believes the only leverage is the murder," I said. "But what did she bring to the council to force the sale?"

"A proposal from the developer. Sterling."

"Exactly," I said, leaning closer. "She presented an eight-million-dollar buyout. She sold the council on the profit. But developers don't buy land with environmental hazards."

Vincent’s eyes narrowed. "Where are you going with this, Peter?"

"Thirty years ago, before the cottages were built, your father used that southern tract to dump toxic chemical runoff from the old dry-cleaning businesses," I said. "He logged it in the family ledger to ensure no one ever built commercial property there."

Vincent sat up straight. "The red ledger."

"Yes, sir. If Sterling finds out he’s buying a toxic dump, he will pull the offer immediately. The council vote becomes useless. Irene loses her leverage, and the demolition is canceled."

Vincent’s eyes sparked with life. "Where is the red ledger?"

"Your father gave it to Walter," I said. "To keep it safe from the police."

Vincent stood up. "Walter has it? Where?"

I paused. The answer made my stomach turn.

"He told me he hid it inside the hollowed-out mantel clock," I said softly. "Inside cottage number four."

We were locked in a study. The ledger was in a house surrounded by Irene’s men. And in three hours, the sun would rise, and the council would vote.

Vincent looked at the heavy grandfather clock in the corner of his study.

"We need a distraction," Vincent said.

I looked at the heavy velvet curtains covering the study windows.

"Sir," I said. "How much do you love this room?"

Vincent followed my gaze to the curtains, then to the bottle of scotch on the desk, and finally to the silver lighter in his pocket.

A slow, dangerous smile spread across his face.