“Juliana—”
“How about you take me to the famous Bellanti tasting room? I’m dying for a drink.”
I ask Donovan to take us to the tasting room, then text Armani to let him know where we’re headed, even though I’m sure security is keeping him in the loop.
When we arrive at the tasting room, the place is empty save for a few Bellanti Vineyards employees. It’s a cloudy day and a weekday to boot, which is why we have the place to ourselves. Taking advantage of the lull, I show Juliana around. Frankie is in the retail area with a clipboard in one hand, taking inventory of the wine that’s currently out on display. Baby Lili is dozing next to her, in her car seat, which Frankie has placed on the floor at her feet. She sees me and Juliana and waves.
“Welcome in,” Frankie says. “Just browsing?”
“For now,” Juliana says, wandering off.
“Actually, there is something I’m looking for,” I tell Frankie.
There’s a particular wine I’d love for Juliana to try. It’s a celebration wine, something normally reserved for weddings, births, or other joyful occasions. Today, I want to celebrate Juliana’s return to her true family. And—by marriage, at least—mine as well.
I get Frankie’s blessing, locate the prized wine, and then snag my friend so I can take her to the back room for some privacy.
“I have the best wine for you to try,” I tell her excitedly. “It’s not for sale yet, but we have some sample bottles that were just poured from the aging cask. It’s Bellanti Brunello, made from Sangiovese grapes, with a technique that’s a Bellanti family secret. Allegedly.”
With a flourish, I pull out a stool for her at the ornate, Art Nouveau-style bar. Then, I display the bottle to Juliana as if I’m running a real tasting. The bottle has a hand-written white label, and nothing about it screams “fancy,” but I know it’s going to be incredible.
“Only four bottles were set aside for family use, or to gift to important guests if they popped in for a tasting. An official selection will be offered later in the year, and I have no doubt it will become a leading Bellanti bestseller,” I explain.
“Wow. You sound like you’d make a killing in sales for this place,” Juliana teases.
“Ha ha,” I say. “This isn’t just one of my usual sales pitches, though. I really believe in this wine. You will too, when you taste it.”
Juliana looks around the room with its rough stone walls and matching floor, the ornate iron chandelier, the windows facing the vineyard. This is a nice, private room that doesn’t get used much. It’s usually reserved for either private parties, celebrity guests, or the Bellanti family.
“It’s so pretty in here,” she says.
“Yeah. Frankie had the Bellantis invest in a huge renovation last year. Worth it.”
Using a corkscrew, I open the bottle. The cork comes out with a loud pop, and a powerful scent wafts from the opening. My stomach turns, revolting at the smell. My brain was expecting the sweetness of a rich, red wine made from heirloom Italian grapes, but instead, all I’m getting is something…sour, metallic, oily.
Must be pregnancy hormones, I think as I pour. The wine comes out in a thick stream. Much thicker than normal.
It clumps into the glass with a layer of lighter liquid on top. What is that? There shouldn’t be sediment. And it shouldn’t smell like this.
“Um, I need to ask Frankie something real quick,” I tell Juliana. “I’ll be right back.”
Grabbing the glass and the bottle, I hurry back to the retail area.
“Frankie, can you take a look at this? The wine is off. It’s…not right.”
I hold up the glass. Her brows knit.
“Did you pour from an already opened bottle?” she asks.
“No, I just opened a new one.”
Gingerly, she takes the glass and has a sniff. She recoils and covers her nose.
“It smells like blood.”
Nausea hits me full force. “Are you sure?”
Taking the bottle over to a sink behind the bar, she dumps it. Small, coagulated clumps pour out. There’s no question.
