Page 9 of Empire of Seduction (New York State of Mafia #2)

“Because I don’t like it. This is a working winery, not some mobster hangout. And aren’t you worried about your security?”

“Because someone here might try to kill me?” He sipped from his coffee cup, his gaze never leaving mine. “I think we both know you would fail, bella.”

“Do not call me that. You’re married.”

Flicking the fingers on his free hand, he said, “Italian men call every woman bella. It means nothing.”

The tips of my ears burned in the morning frost. “God, I want to punch you again.”

My words seemed to amuse him, his lips tilting on one side ever so slightly. “Then perhaps I shouldn’t tell you that I’m making improvements to the cottage today.”

I gaped at him. When I collected my thoughts out of the flaming dumpster fire that was my hatred for this man, I said, “The cottage is practically brand new. It needs no improvements.”

“I won’t do anything major.” He lifted a heavy shoulder. “Just an espresso machine and some blinds.”

Except the windows were purposely bare so visitors could enjoy the full beauty of the vineyard during their stay. At least those could be removed after Vito went back to Canada. “Fine, but we’re keeping that espresso machine when you leave.”

The alarm on my phone went off, reminding me of my meeting with Bruce. I shut it off, then put my cell into my jacket pocket. “I have to go. Stay in your cottage, keep out of the way.”

“Off to mulch your plants again?”

“Not that it’s any of your concern, but I’m meeting with our vintner this morning to taste some reserve wines.”

He sipped his coffee again, calmly observing me with his sharp eyes. “This sounds like an activity for the winery owner as well, no?”

I dug my toes into the ends of my boots and seriously debated kicking him. “No, it doesn’t, actually. The owner should return to his cottage and concentrate on his business, not everyone else’s.”

That got a chin lift out of him, the infuriating man. “I will come along. Lead the way, bella.”

I didn’t wait for him. I strode rapidly toward the processing facility, hoping to lose him along the way.

Stainless steel vats and cases of empty bottles stood silent as I passed through.

The vats held what would become our signature whites, while the bottling machinery remained dormant on the far wall.

This was the less romantic part, the practical part, of crafting wine.

All the exciting stuff was below ground.

The heavy metal door swung open as I pulled. Going through, I didn’t bother holding the door open for anyone else. Let him figure it out.

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 the get-to-know-Vito game. 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.”

Vito wrapped his hands around the chair back and leaned on it. “Would you want to import Barbera grapes from Italia?”

Bruce and I exchanged a glance. I mean, what dummy would say no? But I didn’t want Vito’s help. With anything. “We’re good with our current arrangement.”

“But maybe we could discuss it,” Bruce offered, his mind no doubt spinning with blend and aging possibilities. “It would certainly be unique.”

Vito looked at me. “What other grapes do you grow?”

“Cabernet Franc, Riesling, Merlot, and Cayuga White.”

“So, five varieties? Isn’t that a lot of work?”

“Not for me,” I snapped. What was he implying?

He straightened off the chair. “Should we get started?”

Bruce took a glass over to a barrel by the wall.

He turned the spigot and a small amount of wine splashed into the glass, which he brought back to the table.

He repeated this three times, so we all had a glass.

“This is the special reserve Cabernet Franc.” To Vito, he said, “It’s been barreled for fifteen months. We’re tasting it to see if it’s ready.”

I picked up a piece of white paper off the table and held the wine in front of it to study the color. “Looks clear.”

Bruce did the same. “I agree. Brighter than the last time we checked.”

Holding the glass by the stem, I swirled the wine, round and round, watching the red liquid on the side of the bowl.

When I was sure enough air had helped the wine breathe, I put my nose into the glass and inhaled.

“Oh, that’s nice.” I paused and did it again, letting my brain fill in the scents. “Blackberry. Clove. Black raspberry.”

Bruce’s forehead creased as he did the same. “I’m not getting any violet. Are you?”

“No.”

“Hmm.” Bruce took a sip and swished the wine around in my mouth. I did the same.

It was . . . okay. “Not as rich as I’d hoped.”

“I agree. It needs two to three more months.” He wrote some notes down in the book he always carried around. “But it’ll be great for next winter.”

Vito sipped from his glass. He swallowed and said nothing, expression unchanging, then returned the glass to the table.

I waited for a reaction. When none came, I prompted, “Nothing to say?”

“I don’t like it.”

Bruce didn’t appear offended in the least. “It might take some time for your palate to adjust to American wine and the sulfates. Try this again in a few months. It’ll be fantastic.”

“I look forward to it,” Vito said—at the same time I blurted, “Too bad he’ll be in Toronto.”

“I have a wine that might impress you,” Bruce said to Vito before he took three fresh glasses to a different barrel. “Try this.”

Upon first sniff, I knew this was our dry aged reserve Cabernet Franc/Cabernet Sauvignon blend.

There were notes of tobacco and woodsmoke, along with the dark fruits.

It was fantastic, full-bodied and balanced, thanks to two years in an oak barrel.

The price would be upwards of fifty dollars a bottle.

Vito swirled the wine a few times, then sipped. “Decent.”

Did he realize what an arrogant asshole he sounded like? And how offensive to Bruce, whose literal job it was to produce this great wine? After I stared daggers at him, I turned to my vintner. “Well, I love it. Bruce, this is a winner. When can we start bottling it?”

“Next week. We need to finish with the dry Riesling first.”

“That’s good news. We should do a promo campaign for it. Maybe Valentine’s Day, when people are ready to splurge on a more expensive bottle of wine. I’ll talk to Celeste.”