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“If it’s okay, Rocco, I’d like to give Mira a tour of the old cellars so we can do some tasting.”

Rocco nodded. “Of course, Gio. I will set it up.” He shuffled off excitedly.

“I don’t want to impose. If he has work to do today we can—.”

“Nonsense. Those are my cousins, the workers,” he nodded to the vineyard. She could see two men on top of a large truck, and others in the distance. “They will handle the business, and we’ll tour the old wine cellars.”

“How old is this place?”

“Over a hundred years old, before Mussolini. My grandfather bought the land, and Rocco and many other family members made it fertile.”

Rocco waved from a distance signaling for them to follow. She walked a bit ahead, around the mowed path to an older building made of wood instead of stone. When she entered the cool atmosphere it made goose bumps rise along her arms. Mira took note of the dark stone walls and large barrels lined up in the center next to blocks of steel containers for crushing grapes. She inhaled the acidic smell of fermentation and was overwhelmed by the odor. She glanced back to see Giovanni pick up some very crude looking pair of sheers with a long wooden handle. He inspected them closely.

“What’s that?”

“My uncles would use these to cut grapes free from their vines. They’d fill barrels that they wore strapped to their chest and then haul them in to be picked free of stems and leaves.”

“Wow, that seems like a lot of work.”

Giovanni hung the sheers back on the wall. “It was.” He nodded goodbye to Rocco who closed the barn door giving them privacy. “Until we bought those.”

Mira looked over in the direction he pointed out the window. She saw a tractor looking vehicle with a large container in the front and two mechanical arms that had sheers on the end.

“That is amietitrice meccanica,what you would call amechanical harvester. It fills those containers with the amount of grapes ten harvesters could haul in within a matter of minutes as opposed to hours. They are brought into a room like this and dumped into crushers.”

The more he talked, the more he touched her. First his hand reached for hers, and then he stroked her arm. Now he was behind her, running his fingers up and down her hips. Mira relaxed against his chest as the low timber of his voice spoke smoothly against her ear. In her mind’s eye she saw a family of brothers, relocated to Chianti from Sicily, out in the fields doing honest hard work. How did that life lead them down the path of a life of crime?

“Sounds interesting,” she said, folding her arms and pressing into his tall frame.

“The crushers?”

“Yes. I thought most of it was done with their feet?” she asked softly as he kissed the inside of her neck.

“Would you like to?”

“No,” she chuckled.

“I think it’ll be sexy to see you stomping grapes for me.” He let his hand ease from her hip down the front of her thigh.

“Is that so?” she sighed.

Giovanni let her go, and Mira collected her thoughts again. She stepped away from temptation to get a closer look at the large containment barrels, as if she cared.

“Come with me. The tour isn’t over.” He again captured her hand and led her to the back of the barn to a closed wooden door. He opened it, and she saw the stone steps that went to a dark cellar. Hesitant at first she braved the steps, careful to follow close in the dark cramped hall. An unknown light source beckoned them at the end. They arrived to find it to be from a single bulb in the center of the wine cellar, and walls of bottled wines, some covered in cobwebs. There was a small bench and table at the back of the room with a ceramic bucket used in tastings to pour out excess wine. To her left there lay a thick yellow quilt with a white picnic blanket on top. She counted three bottles of wine and a tray of meats and cheeses. Giovanni led her over to the large blanket.

“You planned this?” she asked. “A picnic in a wine cellar?”

“Zia honored my wish. You will meet her soon. Shall we?” he said.

She smiled at how sweet and secluded the setting was. With him a dusty wine cellar felt like the Taj Mahal. He reached behind his back and removed his gun. He turned to put it up over on one of the shelves. Mira dropped to her knees. She picked a bottle with its black lettering and read the family name across it. “It’s a 1987 Chianti. Only two years old?”

“It’s from our best harvest. Mark my words, ten years from now people will proclaim 1987 the best crop Chianti has ever produced.”

She liked how he spoke of wine, how confident he was. It was the kind of strength most women found attractive in a man. After the long drive, she was a bit hungry. She lifted the lid to the basket to find fresh baked bread wrapped in red napkins. “What’s for lunch?”

“Prosciuttoandsoprassata.Think of it as different salamis and cold meats. The cheese is fresh. Zia makes it and the olive oil too, from scratch. This here israveggiolocheese you should spread across sliced bread.” He stretched out and laid down on his side, observing her. She took the lead to fix their tiny plates and spread the cheese as he suggested over the sliced loaves. She found a container of plump olives, her favorites, and fed him one from her fingers.

“I like when you feed me, care for me,” he winked.