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

The scotch caught the flame instantly, blooming into a violent blue and orange inferno across the velvet drapes.

Within seconds, the heat was blistering. The smoke alarm shrieked, a piercing wail that shattered the quiet of the estate.

"Get down!" Vincent shouted, pulling his coat over his mouth.

I dropped to the floor, my eyes watering. Footsteps thundered in the hallway. The heavy study doors burst open. The guards rushed in, coughing, completely blinded by the thick black smoke.

We didn't hesitate. We crawled hard and fast, slipping past their legs in the chaos. By the time they realized the room was empty, we were already sprinting down the servants' hallway toward the kitchen exit.

We burst out into the cool, rainy night, gasping for air. Sirens wailed in the distance. The entire security detail of the estate was rushing toward the main house to fight the fire.

"Go to the cottage," Vincent wheezed, leaning against a stone pillar. "Get the ledger. I need to get to the boardroom and stall the council."

"You can't go in there alone," I argued. "Irene will have you restrained."

"I am still the boss for another hour," Vincent growled, straightening his spine. "I will make them wait. Just get the book, Peter. Don't fail me."

I ran. I was sixty-four years old, my knees aching with every step, but I ran like a man half my age. The mud sucked at my shoes as I cut through the woods toward the cottages.

When I reached number four, the guards were gone—drawn away by the fire at the main house.

I scrambled through the broken cellar door, ignoring the fresh concrete dust, and climbed the creaking wooden stairs to the main floor.

The cottage was stripped bare. Irene’s men had taken everything of value when Walter was evicted.

I rushed into the living room. My heart stopped.

The mantel was empty.

The hollowed-out clock was gone.

"No," I gasped, tearing through the small room, ripping open cupboards, throwing aside loose floorboards. "No, no, no."

It wasn't here. Irene must have found it when she swept the house.

I slumped against the wall, defeated. The fire was for nothing. Irene had won.

Then, a small voice echoed in the darkness.

"Are you looking for this?"

I whipped around, aiming my flashlight.

Standing in the doorway, soaked to the bone, was little Leo. Walter’s grandson.

He was holding a heavy, tarnished brass mantel clock in his small arms.

"Leo!" I breathed, rushing forward. "What are you doing here? Where is your grandfather?"

"Grandpa told me to run," Leo said, his voice trembling. "Some scary men came to our apartment. They took Grandpa. But Grandpa told me to grab the clock from his duffel bag and hide."

My blood ran cold. Irene hadn't found the clock. Walter had taken it with him when he was evicted. And now Irene had Walter.

"Did they hurt him?" I asked, taking the heavy clock from the boy.

"They put him in a black car," Leo cried softly. "He told me to find the man who pours the wine."

I pulled the boy into a hug, shielding him from the cold.

"You did good, Leo," I whispered fiercely. "You did so good."

I opened the back of the clock. Nestled among the gears was a small, red, leather-bound ledger. I pulled it out.

"Come with me," I told Leo, taking his small hand. "We are going to save your grandpa."

We hurried back toward the main estate. The fire trucks had arrived, their red and blue lights painting the rain in frantic flashes.

I didn't go to the boardroom. I went straight to the driveway.

Mr. Sterling, the developer, was standing by his Mercedes, watching the fire with a look of immense irritation, holding a briefcase. He was waiting for the vote to finish so he could sign the papers.

I marched right up to him.

"Mr. Sterling," I said loudly.

He turned, looking at my muddy clothes and soot-stained face with disgust. "Who are you?"

"I am the man who pours the wine," I said. "And I am about to save you eight million dollars."

I opened the red ledger and shoved it against his chest.

"Read page forty-two," I demanded. "Before you buy a toxic waste dump."

Sterling frowned, taking the book. He turned on his phone flashlight. His eyes scanned the old, faded ink. The color drained from his face.

"Arsenic," Sterling whispered. "Industrial solvents. Buried under the southern tract?"

"If you sign those papers," I said, "the EPA will seize the land, fine you for cleanup, and bankrupt your firm. The Bellandi family knew. They were using you."

Sterling’s jaw tightened into a furious knot.

He slammed his briefcase onto the hood of his car, opened it, and ripped the contract in half.

"Tell Irene the deal is dead," Sterling spat. He got into his car and sped away into the night.