Chapter 3 - The Price of Being Seen
For one long second, nobody spoke.
Mr. Bellini stood at the bottom of the cellar stairs with one hand still gripping the brass handle of the door.
Sophie held the bottle of Lafite beneath the pale cellar light.
Alessandro stood beside her.
Bellini recovered first.
“Mr. Moretti,” he said. “I didn’t realize anyone was still here.”
Alessandro’s expression gave away nothing.
“You saw the lights.”
“I thought the staff forgot to switch them off.”
“At one-thirty in the morning?”
Bellini’s smile appeared slowly.
“You know how busy service can be.”
Sophie watched him.
She had worked under Bellini for eleven months.
He was demanding but rarely careless.
He noticed everything—the angle of a folded napkin, a water spot on crystal, a server using the wrong side of a table.
A man like that did not come downstairs because someone might have forgotten a light.
His eyes flicked toward the bottle again.
Sophie lowered it carefully.
“Is there a problem?” Bellini asked.
“No,” Alessandro replied.
That surprised Sophie.
Apparently it surprised Bellini too.
Alessandro continued.
“Sophie is reviewing the reserve list.”
Bellini stared at her.
“Why?”
“Because I asked her to.”
“I see.”
He very clearly did not.
His gaze settled on Sophie.
Something had changed there.
The irritation he usually reserved for minor staff mistakes had disappeared.
In its place was caution.
“Is there anything you need from me?”
Alessandro shook his head.
“No.”
Bellini hesitated.
Then climbed back upstairs.
The door closed.
Sophie waited three seconds.
“He knows.”
“Maybe.”
“No. He definitely knows something.”
Alessandro took the bottle from her hands.
“You’re sure this may be fake?”
“The bottle isn’t fake. That’s what makes it dangerous.”
“Explain.”
Sophie looked at the cork through the glass.
“There’s a market for empty bottles from famous vintages.”
His face hardened.
“People refill them.”
“Sometimes. Or replace labels. Or manipulate provenance records. I can’t prove that happened here from looking at one bottle.”
“But you noticed something.”
“The capsule is wrong.”
Alessandro looked closer.
“To anyone who hasn’t handled enough old Bordeaux, it looks perfect.”
“And to you?”
“It looks too perfect.”
She pointed to the edge.
“The aging doesn’t match the label. And the fill level is suspicious for the year.”
Alessandro studied her.
“This could be worth twenty thousand dollars.”
“More, depending on provenance.”
“And if it’s fake?”
“A few hundred dollars of decent wine wearing a very expensive costume.”
His eyes moved across the cellar.
“How many?”
“That’s what we need to find out.”
They worked until four in the morning.
By the time Sophie finished the first review, she had marked seventeen bottles for further examination.
Seventeen.
The potential loss was staggering.
But Alessandro appeared less concerned about the money than the fact that someone had been doing it inside a business he controlled.
“Whoever did this assumed nobody would check,” Sophie said.
“Or assumed the people checking were involved.”
She looked at him.
“The auditor?”
“Possibly.”
“Bellini?”
“Possibly.”
“Camila?”
Alessandro’s expression changed almost imperceptibly.
“She introduced the Russo family’s auction consultant.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“No.”
Sophie closed the inventory binder.
“You don’t like suspecting her.”
“I don’t like assuming guilt.”
“That’s surprisingly reasonable.”
“You expected something else?”
“I expected you to have people taken into dark rooms until somebody confessed.”
His eyes narrowed.
Sophie lifted both hands.
“You have a reputation.”
“So do New York waitresses.”
“What reputation?”
“Brutal honesty.”
She smiled despite herself.
It was almost five when he offered to drive her home.
Sophie refused.
He offered again.
She refused again.
Finally Alessandro said, “It is raining.”
“I own an umbrella.”
“It is four fifty-three in the morning.”
“The subway still exists.”
“Sophie.”
“Alessandro.”
He stared at her.
She stared back.
Ten minutes later she was seated in the rear of a black car.
“I hate that you won,” she muttered.
Alessandro sat across from her.
“This is not winning.”
“You have a driver.”
“That doesn’t make every car ride a victory.”
“It helps.”
He gave the driver her address without asking.
Sophie noticed.
“How do you know where I live?”
He looked up from his phone.
“Payroll.”
“That is mildly horrifying.”
“Would you prefer I pretend I don’t own the company employing you?”
“Yes.”
“Noted.”
The city moved around them, wet and nearly empty.
For a few minutes there was no conversation.
Then Alessandro said, “Why did you stop your training?”
She looked out the window.
“You already asked.”
“You didn’t answer.”
“My mother got sick.”
His tone changed.
“How sick?”
“Stroke.”
“I’m sorry.”
Sophie expected the usual questions.
Is she better?
Was it bad?
Instead Alessandro remained silent.
It was strangely considerate.
Finally she said, “I came home thinking it would be for three months.”
“How long ago?”
“Two years.”
“You want to go back?”
The answer came too quickly.
“Yes.”
She looked down at her hands.
Then corrected herself.
“I wanted to.”
“That isn’t the same answer.”
“No.”
The car stopped outside her building.
Alessandro glanced at the narrow entrance.
“Thank you for tonight.”
“You’re paying me.”
“That does not make gratitude unnecessary.”
Sophie opened the door.
“Don’t test those bottles without me.”
“Why?”
“Because whoever switched them may have manipulated the corks. We need documentation before anyone opens anything.”
“Understood.”
She stepped onto the sidewalk.
“Sophie.”
She turned.
“Be careful at work tomorrow.”
Her face changed.
“Why?”
“Bellini saw you.”
“You think he’ll do something?”
“I think people become unpredictable when they believe you know something they need hidden.”
“That sounds like experience.”
“It is.”
The car door closed before she could ask what kind.
The next evening, Sophie arrived for work at four.
Bellini summoned her at four-oh-three.
He was waiting inside the small office beside the kitchen.
Camila Russo sat in the second chair.
Sophie stopped in the doorway.
Of course.
Camila wore a cream-colored designer suit and a smile that contained no warmth.
Bellini gestured toward the empty chair.
“Sit.”
Sophie remained standing.
“What is this?”
Bellini folded his hands.
“There was a complaint.”
“About?”
“Your behavior Friday night.”
Sophie looked at Camila.
“I assume the complaint is wearing cream.”
Camila’s smile tightened.
Bellini’s face reddened.
“This is serious.”
“So am I.”
“A guest alleges that you were disrespectful, intrusive, and attempted to embarrass her publicly.”
“Which guest?”
Camila sighed.
“Oh, Sophie.”
Sophie turned fully toward her.
“You called my manager because I speak French?”
“I spoke to management because professional standards matter.”
“You followed me into the service corridor and insulted me.”
Camila looked genuinely amused.
“Can you prove that?”
No.
Sophie could not.
Bellini pushed a paper across the desk.
“Management has decided to suspend you pending review.”
Sophie stared at him.
“You’re suspending me?”
“Three shifts initially.”
“You know Alessandro hired me to review the cellar.”
Bellini’s eyes changed.
Only slightly.
Camila leaned back.
“Alessandro occasionally gets distracted by people who interest him.”
Sophie looked at her.
“And that worries you.”
Camila’s smile disappeared.
Bellini stood.
“That’s enough.”
Sophie picked up the suspension notice.
Her hands were steady.
“Am I being suspended for my job performance?”
“For conduct.”
“What conduct?”
“It’s stated there.”
“It says ‘inappropriate interaction with guests.’”
“That is correct.”
“No. It’s vague.”
Bellini’s jaw tightened.
“You are not in a position to dictate terms.”
Sophie looked at him.
That sentence sounded familiar.
Women like you.
People like you.
Stay in your place.
She folded the suspension notice once.
“Fine.”
Camila looked surprised.
Perhaps she had expected begging.
Sophie removed her apron.
Set it on the desk.
Then her name badge.
“If I’m suspended, I’m leaving.”
Bellini blinked.
“We’ll contact you after review.”
“I’m sure you will.”
She walked out.
She made it halfway down the block before her composure cracked.
Rain had started again.
Of course it had.
Sophie ducked beneath the awning of a closed bookstore and stared at the paper in her hand.
Three shifts.
Three nights of tips.
Rent.
Her mother’s therapy.
Groceries.
Everything in her life was calculated in hours.
And Camila Russo had just erased twenty-four of them because she was embarrassed at dinner.
Sophie pulled out her phone.
She stared at Alessandro’s number.
Then put the phone away.
No.
She would not call him.
That was exactly what Camila expected.
So Sophie did what she always did.
She figured out another plan.
By midnight she had sent applications to four restaurants.
By two she had answered an advertisement for private event service.
By noon the next day, she had scheduled an interview.
At three, someone knocked on her apartment door.
Sophie looked through the peephole.
Alessandro stood in the hallway.
She opened the door three inches.
“How do you know which apartment is mine?”
He looked annoyed.
“You told the driver your building number. Payroll has the unit.”
“That explanation is not reassuring.”
“May I come in?”
“No.”
His eyes lowered to the chain.
“Sophie.”
“You cannot show up at my home because your restaurant suspended me.”
“I did not suspend you.”
“Your manager did.”
“I fired him.”
She stared.
“What?”
“Bellini no longer works for Maison Aurelia.”
Her grip loosened on the door.
“Why?”
“Because when I asked him why he suspended the person auditing a suspected inventory theft, he lied.”
Sophie said nothing.
Alessandro continued.
“And because he attempted to delete six months of purchasing records this morning.”
The hallway seemed suddenly colder.
“Did he succeed?”
“No.”
“How?”
“My accountants had backups.”
Sophie opened the door slightly wider.
“What did the records show?”
“That several questionable purchases came through a distributor connected to Russo Fine Estates.”
Camila’s family.
Sophie exhaled.
“Does Camila know?”
“I don’t know.”
“You think she might be involved?”
“I think I need evidence.”
For the first time since meeting him, Alessandro looked tired.
Not bored.
Not controlled.
Tired.
“What do you want from me?”
“To finish what we started.”
“You fired Bellini. Have your auditors handle it.”
“They still don’t know enough about wine.”
“Hire someone.”
“I am.”
His eyes held hers.
“You.”
Sophie almost smiled.
“I told you. Temporary coworker.”
“Then temporarily come back.”
She shook her head.
“I’m not returning as a waitress.”
“Good.”
That surprised her.
“What?”
“I don’t want you waiting tables.”
The sentence landed badly.
Her expression hardened.
“Careful.”
Alessandro immediately understood.
“That came out wrong.”
“It absolutely did.”
“I mean I want you working on the wine program.”
Sophie folded her arms.
“In what role?”
“Consultant.”
“No.”
He looked almost offended.
“You haven’t heard the salary.”
“That’s because salary isn’t the problem.”
“What is?”
“Authority.”
He went silent.
“If I’m responsible for finding what’s wrong,” Sophie said, “I need access to purchasing records, auction records, invoices, and the cellar. I don’t report to whoever replaces Bellini. And nobody gets to overrule me because they’re richer than I am.”
Alessandro stared at her.
Then nodded once.
“Done.”
“You agreed too quickly.”
“I came here intending to offer you the same authority.”
“Oh.”
A pause.
“That’s inconvenient.”
“Why?”
“I was enjoying the argument.”
His mouth moved slightly.
Sophie finally removed the chain.
“Five minutes.”
He stepped inside.
Her apartment suddenly looked much smaller with Alessandro Moretti standing in it.
He noticed the wine books.
She noticed him noticing.
Neither commented.
Sophie opened her laptop at the kitchen table.
“Show me the records.”
Alessandro sat beside her.
For the next hour they worked through invoices.
The pattern emerged slowly.
Rare French bottles were purchased at legitimate prices through intermediaries.
Then replacement bottles appeared in the cellar under identical inventory numbers.
The originals had vanished.
Sophie leaned closer to the screen.
“There.”
Alessandro followed her finger.
A digital signature.
C. RUSSO.
Camila.
But underneath it was something else.
A forwarding address.
Not Manhattan.
Brooklyn.
A private warehouse.
Alessandro went very still.
Sophie looked at him.
“You know that address.”
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
His jaw tightened.
“My father used it twenty years ago.”
“For wine?”
“No.”
Sophie waited.
“For what?”
Alessandro closed the laptop.
“That is where this becomes dangerous.”
She stared at him.
“It was already dangerous.”
“No.”
His eyes met hers.
“Until now, it was theft.”
“And now?”
He stood.
“Now someone is using my family’s past to hide what they’re doing in the present.”
Sophie looked at the closed computer.
Then back at him.
“Camila?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you’re going to find out.”
“Yes.”
Alessandro reached for his coat.
At the door, he stopped.
“I need you to stay away from Maison Aurelia tonight.”
Sophie folded her arms.
“You just rehired me.”
“And now I’m telling you not to go.”
“You really have trouble deciding whether I’m an employee or someone you can order around.”
His expression hardened.
“This isn’t about authority.”
“What is it about?”
“Someone accessed your employee file this afternoon.”
The irritation left her face.
“What?”
“Your address. Emergency contact. Family information.”
Sophie felt the blood drain from her face.
“Who?”
“We’re checking.”
“My mother’s address is in that file.”
“I know.”
That frightened her more than anything else he could have said.
Alessandro opened the door.
“I already put someone outside her building.”
Sophie stared at him.
“You did what?”
“You can be angry later.”
“I’m angry now.”
“Good. Be angry here.”
He looked back at her.
May you like
“But lock this door behind me.”
For once, Sophie did not argue.
