Chapter 4 - The Cellar Door
Sophie slept for forty-seven minutes that night.
She knew because she checked the clock before closing her eyes and again when she woke from a dream in which she was standing inside Maison Aurelia’s cellar while every wine bottle whispered her address.
At six in the morning, she called her mother.
Sophie did not mention the stolen wine, Bellini, Camila, or the man Alessandro had stationed near the rehabilitation apartment.
She simply asked, “You okay?”
Her mother laughed softly.
“You called me at six in the morning to ask if I’m okay?”
“I was awake.”
“You’re always awake.”
“I sleep.”
“When?”
Sophie smiled despite herself.
Her mother had recovered enough speech after the stroke to weaponize sarcasm again. Sophie considered that one of medicine’s greatest achievements.
They spoke for fifteen minutes.
Afterward, Sophie stood in the kitchen and realized something unpleasant.
She trusted Alessandro.
Not completely.
Maybe not even wisely.
But enough to believe that if he said someone was watching her mother’s building for protection, there was someone watching.
And that meant the world she had spent years keeping at a distance had already entered her life.
At eight-fifteen, Alessandro called.
“We found who accessed your file.”
Sophie sat down.
“Who?”
“Bellini.”
Her relief was immediate.
Then vanished.
“Why would he need my family information?”
“We asked him.”
“You found him?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“That he wanted leverage in case you discovered the counterfeit bottles.”
Sophie closed her eyes.
“So he threatened my family?”
“He says he never intended to.”
“That’s what people always say after getting caught.”
Alessandro was silent.
“What happens now?”
“He’s cooperating.”
“With who?”
“My attorneys.”
The answer was carefully phrased.
Sophie noticed.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing you need today.”
“I decide what I need.”
His exhale traveled through the phone.
“Bellini says Camila introduced him to the man running the counterfeit operation.”
Sophie stared at the wall.
“Camila knew.”
“He claims she did.”
“You don’t believe him?”
“I believe men facing consequences become extremely creative.”
“That’s not a no.”
“No.”
She stood and walked to the window.
“What does Camila say?”
“I haven’t asked her yet.”
“Why?”
“Because she is attending a charity dinner tonight.”
“And?”
“And if she is involved, I want to know who she contacts before she realizes Bellini is talking.”
Sophie turned from the window.
“You’re watching her.”
“Yes.”
It should have sounded sinister.
Instead, Alessandro made it sound like reviewing financial records.
“Where is the dinner?”
“Maison Aurelia.”
Sophie almost laughed.
“Of course it is.”
“You are not coming.”
“There you go again.”
“Sophie.”
“I work for the wine program now.”
“You have been a consultant for approximately seventeen hours.”
“And I’m already indispensable.”
A pause.
“That is unfortunately true.”
She smiled.
“Then I’ll see you tonight.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Sophie.”
“Alessandro.”
Silence.
Then:
“You enjoy this.”
“More than I should.”
She hung up before he could continue.
At seven-thirty that evening, Maison Aurelia looked flawless.
The restaurant’s central dining room had been rearranged for a private charity dinner benefiting children’s hospitals. White roses stood in tall arrangements. Candles flickered inside crystal cylinders. A string quartet played near the windows while rain shimmered beyond the glass.
Sophie wore no waitress apron.
For the first time, she entered through the front doors as a consultant.
Her clothing was simple: black tailored trousers, white silk blouse, black jacket. Her hair remained pinned loosely back in the style she always wore.
Several employees stared.
Nina nearly dropped a tray.
“You look expensive.”
“I’m wearing shoes from three years ago.”
“You look like someone who fires people wearing expensive shoes.”
“Better.”
Alessandro appeared behind Nina.
“I told you not to come.”
Nina vanished instantly.
Sophie looked at him.
“You need to stop terrifying the staff.”
“I didn’t say anything to her.”
“You exist aggressively.”
His mouth twitched.
He wore black again.
Naturally.
His gaze moved over Sophie’s clothes.
“You’re not dressed as a waitress.”
“I noticed.”
“So will Camila.”
“That’s the point.”
Alessandro’s expression cooled.
“You want a confrontation.”
“No. I want her to underestimate how much we know.”
“Then wearing a jacket probably won’t change that.”
Sophie leaned closer.
“Women like Camila notice uniforms.”
His eyes sharpened.
“She saw me as a waitress. Tonight I want to see whether she reacts differently when I’m not dressed like someone she can dismiss.”
Before Alessandro could answer, a photographer called his name from across the room.
He stepped away.
Sophie watched him become someone else in public.
Not fake.
Controlled.
Every movement calculated.
Every handshake brief.
Every smile measured.
Then Camila entered.
She wore silver.
Not red.
Her hair was swept over one shoulder, diamonds at her ears.
People turned.
Camila knew they would.
Then she saw Sophie.
Her expression stopped.
Only for a second.
Sophie pretended not to notice.
Camila recovered and approached Alessandro.
She kissed his cheek.
Sophie hated the small reaction in her chest.
It was irrational.
Camila and Alessandro clearly shared a history.
Whether romantic, social, or familial through old circles, Sophie did not know.
She had no right to care.
So why did she?
Camila said something to Alessandro.
He answered.
Then she looked directly at Sophie.
“You’re still here.”
Sophie smiled politely.
“I work here.”
“I heard Bellini had some trouble.”
“He did.”
Camila’s eyes flicked toward Alessandro.
“Such a shame. He was very loyal.”
“To whom?” Sophie asked.
Alessandro glanced at her.
Camila’s smile hardened.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“That makes two of us.”
A server approached with champagne.
Camila accepted a glass.
Sophie did not.
“Are you attending the dinner?” Camila asked.
“I’m working.”
“You changed uniforms.”
“I changed jobs.”
The champagne glass paused near Camila’s lips.
Alessandro watched silently.
Camila looked at him.
“You promoted her?”
“I hired her.”
“For what?”
“Wine acquisitions.”
It was not technically the full truth.
But it was enough.
Camila laughed once.
“After one performance in French?”
Sophie answered before Alessandro could.
“Apparently I interview well.”
Something flashed across Camila’s face.
Anger.
Then she turned to Alessandro.
“Can we speak privately?”
“No.”
That answer surprised everyone.
Especially Camila.
“We have things to discuss.”
“They can wait.”
Camila lowered her voice.
“You’re embarrassing me.”
Alessandro’s expression did not change.
“No. I’m disagreeing with you.”
Sophie almost felt sorry for her.
Almost.
Camila walked away.
Alessandro watched her go.
“You pushed too hard,” Sophie whispered.
“She threatened your job.”
“That’s personal. We need evidence.”
He looked at her.
“You’re worried I let emotion interfere.”
“Yes.”
“Interesting.”
“Why?”
“Because you are the emotion.”
Sophie stared.
For once, she had no answer.
The dinner began.
For two hours, everything appeared normal.
Sophie monitored bottle service and watched the staff move wine from the cellar.
At nine-forty, she noticed something.
A server carrying a bottle she had not approved.
She stepped into his path.
“Where did that come from?”
“The private reserve.”
“Which one?”
The server pointed toward the rear cellar.
Sophie’s pulse changed.
The private reserve had been locked since the audit began.
“Who told you to take it?”
“Ms. Russo.”
Sophie looked toward Camila’s table.
Empty chair.
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know.”
Sophie turned.
Alessandro was across the dining room speaking with donors.
She could have called him.
Instead she headed for the cellar.
Bad decision.
She knew that before she reached the stairs.
Still, she continued.
The cellar door stood slightly open.
Sophie pushed it wider.
“Camila?”
Nothing.
The lights near the front racks were on.
The private reserve door at the back was open.
Sophie walked toward it.
A shadow moved behind the glass.
She stopped.
Then someone stepped out.
Not Camila.
A man Sophie had never seen.
Mid-forties.
Dark coat.
Gloves.
He held a padded wine carrier.
They stared at one another.
He moved first.
Sophie stepped backward.
The man reached for her arm.
She twisted away.
The wine carrier struck the rack.
Bottles rattled.
“Don’t,” Sophie warned.
He reached again.
She grabbed the first thing available—a metal inventory clipboard—and slammed it against his forearm.
He cursed.
Sophie ran.
The cellar door slammed shut ahead of her.
Locked.
Her stomach dropped.
The man approached from behind.
“Stop making this difficult.”
Sophie backed toward the wall.
“That line has never worked on a woman in history.”
He lunged.
A violent crash sounded from the door.
Once.
Twice.
Then the lock tore away.
Alessandro entered with one of his men.
Everything happened in seconds.
The stranger froze.
Alessandro did not shout.
“Step away from her.”
The man looked toward the second exit.
Alessandro’s security blocked it.
Sophie had never seen his face like that.
Cold was not the right word.
Cold suggested absence.
There was something beneath Alessandro’s restraint.
Something fierce enough that restraint itself looked dangerous.
The stranger raised his hands.
Sophie exhaled.
Alessandro crossed the room.
He did not touch the man.
He went directly to Sophie.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Your wrist.”
She looked down.
Red marks were already appearing where the stranger had grabbed her.
“I’m fine.”
Alessandro looked at the marks.
His jaw tightened.
“I said I’m fine.”
“I heard you.”
“Then stop looking like you’re planning a murder.”
The security guard very carefully looked away.
Alessandro met Sophie’s eyes.
“I’m not.”
“Good.”
He glanced toward the man.
“Police are coming.”
That surprised Sophie.
Perhaps her face showed it.
Alessandro noticed.
“You expected something else?”
“I told you. Reputation.”
His expression almost softened.
Then Sophie saw the padded wine carrier.
“Wait.”
She moved toward it.
Alessandro caught her elbow gently.
“Don’t.”
“He was stealing something.”
“The police can inspect it.”
“No. Look at the shape.”
The carrier was designed for two bottles.
One compartment was empty.
One was full.
Sophie crouched without touching it.
The visible label made her breath catch.
Mouton Rothschild.
1982.
The exact wine Alessandro had been looking for the night they met.
He saw it too.
“That bottle was not in our suspect inventory,” Sophie said.
“Where did it come from?”
“I don’t know.”
The stranger laughed.
Everyone turned.
“You really don’t know, Moretti?”
Alessandro’s expression hardened.
The man looked at Sophie.
“That bottle was never meant to be sold.”
Sophie stood.
“What does that mean?”
May you like
He smiled.
“It was meant to destroy him.”
