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Unfortunately, I heard Vito directly behind me as I went down the metal steps.
Brick and stone filled my vision as I reached the ground, with row after row of oak barrels stretched out under the low arches. Cool and dark, the underground cellar was one of my favorite parts of the estate. In the 1960s my grandfather built this place to keep the wine at an even temperature and out of the sunlight. And sometimes we rented the cellar out for private dinners and events.
Bruce was standing by the tasting table, wine glasses waiting on the rough wood. “Hey,” he said, and I could hear his confusion in that single word.
“Morning. This is?—”
In typical alpha-male style, Vito didn’t wait for me to introduce him. He walked over to Bruce, hand outstretched. “Buongiorno. I’m the new owner, Vito D’Agostiono.”
Bruce looked at me in alarm as he shook Vito’s hand. “New owner?”
“It’s a long story.” I curled my fingernails into my palms. “But for now, yes. It appears Mr. D’Agostino owns the winery.”
“I-I don’t know what to say.”
Vito clapped Bruce on the shoulder. “There’s no reason for concern. I only want what is best for the winery and its employees.”
No, you don’t. Because if you did, you’d give the winery back to the family and leave.
I didn’t say any of this aloud, of course.
Vito continued, saying, “We are telling the rest of the staff at a meeting today.”
I pressed my lips together, shocked. When had this been arranged? Were they going to include me? Hurt and frustration and anger were my constant companions these days, yet this still stung. Another thing to speak to my brother about.
And another thing to resent Vito for.
I took off my coat and flung it onto the back of a chair. “Should we get started?”
Bruce nodded and adjusted his glasses. “Yes, yes. Signore D’Agostino, we’re happy for you to join us. Let me know if you have any questions.”
“I’m not an expert.” Vito shrugged out of his overcoat, carefully hooking it over a chair back. “I’m happy to observe and learn.”
Momentarily, I was distracted by his tight sweater and designer jeans. Both pieces were expensive, I guessed, and fit him perfectly. Effortlessly. Like he rolled out of bed and threw this on, yet still looked edible. It wasn’t fair.
Bruce filled the temporary silence by addressing our new owner. “May I ask, signore, if you are a wine drinker and what wines you prefer?”
I didn’t want to play theget-to-know-Vitogame. I already knew everything I needed to. “We shouldn’t waste time on?—”
“Brunello,” Vito said, talking over me. “And Amarone.”
“Two very good choices,” Bruce said. “I went to Valle di Fumane seven or eight years ago. Such wonderful wines in Valpolicella.”
“Yes, I agree. I have all my favorites shipped to Toronto twice a year.”
“I can understand why.” Bruce gestured to the rows of barrels. “You might like our Barbera. It’s not ready to taste yet, but it ages in a bourbon barrel for around five hundred days.”
Vito’s eyebrows rose slightly. “I’m surprised you grow Barbera grapes here. I thought they were mostly in California and Washington state.”
I tried not to be impressed. Someone had been studying. “It’s too cold to grow them here,” I said. “We acquire them through a trade with a Virginia winery for our Marquette grapes.”
“Marquette?”
Resentment at the education lesson sharpened my voice. “A hybrid species developed at The University of Minnesota. The plants thrive in colder climates.”
“Ah.”
Bruce took over, his tone more reasonable than mine. “It’s relatively new here, but Marquette is the cousin to Frontenac and produces a medium-body red wine. Black fruits, lighter in color. We also use it for rosés.”