Chapter 3 - THE PRIVATE RESERVE
Ten minutes later, the atmosphere in L’Étoile Noir had shifted from tense to suffocating.
Sophie re-entered the dining room carrying a silver tray holding a dust-covered bottle of wine and a single crystal glass. She moved with a silent, feline grace, navigating around the frozen tables until she reached table four.
Camilla sat with her arms crossed tightly over her red dress, her expression twisted into a mask of pure venom, while Alessandro’s bodyguards watched Sophie’s every move like hawks.
Sophie knelt slightly, her movements precise. She used the estate corkscrew to pop the aged cork without a single sound, checking the cork's condition against her thumb before pouring a single ounce into the crystal glass for Alessandro to inspect.
Alessandro didn't take his eyes off her face. He picked up the glass, swirled the dark, ruby-red liquid slowly, took a deliberate sip, and closed his eyes for a fraction of a second to let the notes settle on his palate.
When he opened them, a slow, dangerous smile curved the corner of his lips.
"Impeccable," Alessandro murmured. "Properly decanted at sixty-fiveth degrees. You didn't just read the menu, mademoiselle. You knew exactly where this bottle was sleeping."
"My father had a vineyard in Provence before the market crash of 2012," Sophie said quietly, setting the bottle down on the white tablecloth. "I spent my summers turning the grapes and cataloging vintages older than I am. Recognizing a good year is like recognizing an old friend."
"A vineyard in Provence," Alessandro repeated, rolling the words around his tongue. "And how does the daughter of a Provençal winemaker end up starving in a Manhattan restaurant, dodging rent from a sweaty landlord named Mr. Henderson?"
Sophie froze. Her eyes widened.
How did he know about Mr. Henderson?
She hadn't mentioned her landlord to anyone except the kitchen porter in passing.
Alessandro chuckled—a low, dark sound that held zero humor. "Did you really think a Moretti sits at a table without knowing who serves him? My men run background checks on every establishment I visit within a three-mile radius. I knew your name was Sophie Dubois before I walked through those doors. I just didn't know you had teeth."
Camilla sneered, leaning across the table. "See? I told you! She’s a low-life scam artist! Her father probably went bankrupt in some shady tax evasion scheme!"
Sophie’s fists clenched at her sides. The memory of her father—a broken, honest man who had been framed by corrupt corporate partners and driven to an early grave—flashed behind her eyes.
"My father was an honorable man," Sophie snapped, her voice rising slightly before she caught herself and reined her temper back in. "He didn't steal from people to build his empire. He lost everything because he trusted the wrong men in suits."
Alessandro’s expression sharpened. The bored indifference vanished entirely, replaced by the calculating gaze of a mafia don evaluating a high-stakes asset.
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"Wrong men in suits," Alessandro repeated thoughtfully. He pulled a thick, black leather wallet from his jacket, withdrew a hundred-dollar bill—no, a stack of five hundred-dollar bills—and tossed them carelessly onto the table beside his wineglass.
"That's for the wine," Alessandro said, standing up from the table, towering over everyone. He looked down at Sophie, his dark eyes burning with an intense, unspoken challenge. "And as for your landlord, Mr. Henderson? Don't worry about your rent. It’s paid in full."
