Chapter 1 - THE ACCENT OF PROVENCE
The heavy silence inside L’Étoile Noir felt heavier than lead. Every eye in the dining room was glued to table four.
Camilla Russo tilted her head back with a triumphant, mocking smirk, waiting for the trembling waitress to break down, apologize, and scurry back into the kitchen. She expected tears. She expected humiliation.
Instead, Sophie Dubois stopped shaking.
The fear that had hollowed out her stomach for the past two days suddenly dissolved, replaced by a cold, razor-sharp clarity. Her fingers, which had been clutching the edge of the leather-bound wine list, relaxed. She straightened her posture, lifting her chin just enough to meet Alessandro Moretti’s dark, unblinking gaze.
When Sophie finally spoke, her voice didn't waver. It didn't carry the timid, broken pitch of a starving immigrant worker trying to protect a minimum-wage job. It rolled out smooth, effortless, and dripping with the haughty, unmistakable cadence of elite Parisian aristocracy.
"Si madame avait daigné tourner la page, elle aurait remarqué que le Château Latour 1982 ne se trouve point dans la section des vins de table, mais bien sur l’encart des réserves particulières, classé sous les crus de la Gironde," Sophie said, her French accent pristine, dripping with refined elegance.
(Translation: "If madam had deigned to turn the page, she would have noticed that the 1982 Château Latour is not found in the table wine section, but rather on the private reserve insert, classified under the growths of the Gironde.")
Camilla’s mouth dropped open. The rehearsed snarl froze on her face.
Across the table, Alessandro’s bodyguards instantly shifted, their massive shoulders tensing as their hands hovered near their suit jackets, trained to react to anything out of the ordinary. But Alessandro didn't move. He remained completely motionless, his dark eyes narrowing as he stared at Sophie with a terrifying intensity.
Sophie didn't stop there. She smoothly reached down, her manicured fingers—despite the scuffed shoes and frayed uniform—turning the exact page of the leather-bound book with practiced grace. She pointed a steady finger directly at a specific, handwritten line near the bottom of the page.
"And as for the vintage your companion attempted to pawn off on you, monsieur," Sophie continued, switching back to English, her voice ringing clear and crisp across the silent restaurant, "it is a 2014 acidic swill from an unclassified vineyard in the Loire that tastes suspiciously like vinegar mixed with regret. If you want a true 1982 Bordeaux that hasn't been improperly stored in a warm cellar, I suggest you ask Monsieur Laurent to unlock the cellar vault. Though, of course, that requires knowing who to ask."
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The room was so quiet you could hear the hum of the overhead chandeliers.
Monsieur Laurent, the maître d’, looked like he was about to suffer a fatal heart attack. He took a staggering step forward, his face turning the color of a bruised plum.
