Without missing a beat, my mom reached across the head table and picked up a massive, freshly poured glass of red wine—a deep, dark Cabernet.

Two weeks into the project, the demo crew began stripping away the false drywall installed in the estate's library during a botched 1970s renovation.

I was on site until midnight, wearing heavy work boots, safety goggles, and a canvas chore jacket, covered in eighty-year-old plaster dust. Julian had insisted on keeping an office on the second floor, working late into the evening on his international trade portfolios.

"Clara! Come down here for a second!" yelled Marco, my lead master carpenter, from the cavernous study.

I wiped the dust from my brow and hurried down the spiraling iron staircase. Marco and two laborers were gathered around a massive oak chimney breast where a section of cedar paneling had been pried open.

"We thought this was a dead flue," Marco explained, shining a high-powered work light into the dark cavity. "It’s not. It’s an iron safe, flush with the brickwork. And look at the emblem on the lock."

I leaned in, brushing away spiderwebs. Etched into the brass dial was a crest—a swooping falcon clutching an anchor.

My stomach plummeted. "That’s the Davenport family crest."

Before Marco could say another word, Julian appeared in the doorway, his tie loosened, a glass of bourbon in his hand. His gaze flicked from my face to the iron safe.

"What did you find?" he asked quietly.

"The Davenports owned this land before the St. Claire family bought them out in 1912," I murmured, recalling the town deeds I had combed through in college. "Local folklore says old Josiah Davenport went bankrupt and was forced to sell. But why would their safe be hidden behind a false flue in a manor built after the sale?"

Julian set his glass on a wooden sawhorse and stepped forward, pulling a small silver Swiss tool from his pocket. "Because Josiah Davenport didn't go bankrupt. He hid his assets from the federal revenue agents."

With Marco’s crowbar and Julian’s mechanical precision, the iron door finally gave way with a deafening screech of rusted metal.

Inside lay not gold or jewels, but stacks of leather-bound ledgers wrapped in wax paper, and a thick legal parchment stamped with a faded red wax seal from the Supreme Court of New York, dated October 14, 1914.

I carefully unfolded the parchment. My eyes scanned the yellowed cursive, and my heart began to pound like a war drum.

"Julian..." I breathed, my hands shaking. "The original deed... Josiah Davenport never sold this ridge. He used forged land patents to steal four hundred acres of public commons and deeded it to a shell syndicate to avoid estate taxes. The entire Davenport family fortune—their country club holdings, their trust funds, Abel’s entire inheritance—is built on fraudulent title deeds."

Julian leaned over my shoulder, the scent of cedar and clean rain clinging to him. A dark, dangerous grin spread across his face.