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Then, a young intern arrives with a tray of red wine. Astrid takes one look at the glasses and recoils as if the kid handed her a tray of sewer water.

“Jesper, what the flipping flip is this?” she gasps in horror, and the poor intern turns pale. “Mr. Harrington-Hale only drinks the ’82 Château Margaux.”

Alistair leans in close and whispers, “You really only drink one specific wine, mate?”

“What can I say?” I shrug. “It’s incredibly delicious, and I have the money to be a picky fucker.”

“Return that immediately!” Astrid glares at the boy, and I watch as the intern flees in horror to get my bottle.

Okay…

Maybe I’ve taken this “I only drink one wine” bit way too far.

“I apologize for the oversight, Cillian,” she says, smoothing down her skirt. “How about you and Alistair go ahead into the main vault to begin the selection, while I personally go fetch your wine from the cellar?”

Yep…

Definitely taking it too far.

“That sounds great, Astrid. Thank you.”

Lola rushes over and hands me a pen with a stack of color-coded Post-it notes. “Here you go, Mr. Harrington-Hale.”

“Thank you, Lola,” I say, turning toward the main vault doors. “Come on, Alistair. Let’s get to work.”

We pass a bulletproof door that looks like it was built by Iron Man, and step into a smaller anteroom built to keep the outside temperature out.

Once the outer door shuts, the anteroom’s doors open into a huge, climate-controlled warehouse filled with rows of walls covered with some of the world’s greatest masterpieces and surrounded by sculptures.

I take a step in, and I instantly feel like crying.

Oh, God.

The place smells of resin and preservation balm. It’s a scent that hits me with a bittersweet wave of nostalgia, making me feel as if my grandfather is still beside me.

The smell is a bit of an acquired taste, but I always loved coming here with him.

Well…

To be perfectly honest, at first, I hated it.

The first time I came here, I was eleven years old. My parents had just died; I was a mess, and all I saw was a smelly room with boring pictures and creepy statues.

But the more my grandfather taught me, the more I learned to spot the nuances, the brushstrokes, and the hidden stories the painters wanted to tell.

Through the oil and canvas, I learned to see and understand pain, happiness, romance, and fear.

It was as if everything I was feeling was painted right there on the walls, and I felt understood.

So, without realizing how or when, I fell in love with art.

“Hi, boys, I'm back,” I murmur, trailing my fingers over the golden frame of a Cézanne and sigh.

Damn… I wish Knox were here to see this.

But would he even be interested in this?

Would bringing Knox here show him another side of me?