Chapter 2 - The Curse of the House of Dubois
Sophie took a slow, deep breath. The ambient noise of the restaurant felt miles away.
"Madame is mistaken," Sophie said. Her voice did not shake. It rang clear and crystalline across the dining room. "That line you pointed to is not a Bordeaux, madam. It is a 2014 Chinon from the Loire Valley, a light-bodied Cabernet Franc featuring notes of bell pepper and gravel. It would clash catastrophically with the dry-aged ribeye Mr. Moretti intends to order."
Alessandro’s eyebrows hitched upward by a fraction of an inch. A flicker of genuine curiosity crossed his dark eyes.
Camilla’s face flushed a violent, mottled crimson. "How dare you—"
"Furthermore," Sophie continued, stepping closer and looking directly down at the open leather-bound book, her finger tracing the cursive script effortlessly, "if monsieur desires a true 1982 Bordeaux that matches his exact palate—one characterized by notes of blackcurrant, cedar, and truffle without the excessive acidity of a poor harvest year—he should bypass the standard list entirely and request the private cellar reserve. Specifically, the Château Margaux, vintage 1982. Bottle number forty-two. Which Monsieur Laurent keeps locked in the cellar sub-basement because its valuation exceeds the annual property tax of this establishment."
Silence descended on L’Étoile Noir. It was absolute. Even the busboys stopped clearing tables.
Monsieur Laurent emerged from the kitchen doors, his face pale as lard. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
Alessandro did not blink. He stared at Sophie, assessing her as a general assesses a hidden battery on a ridge. The boredom had vanished entirely from his features, replaced by a sharp, lethal intelligence.
"Bottle number forty-two," Alessandro repeated, his voice smooth as silk over obsidian. "You speak fluent French. Not just fluent—the accent of the Île-de-France. And you possess an intimate knowledge of private reserve indexing. A girl working for minimum wage in a Midtown bistro does not casually quote vintage cellar architecture."
Sophie kept her posture rigid. She had said too much. The invisible armor she wore every day had cracked, and now she was exposed.
"I am a waitress, Mr. Moretti," Sophie said softly, lowering her gaze once more, adopting the mandated posture of submission. "I read a lot in my spare time."
Camilla scoffed, recovering some of her venom. "She’s lying, Alessandro! She’s probably a grifter, a thief casing the restaurant. Fire her! Have her thrown out into the alley!"
Alessandro ignored Camilla completely. He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a thick gold-plated lighter, and flicked it open, though he carried no cigarette. The small flame danced, reflecting in his dark eyes.
"Laurent," Alessandro called out without turning his head.
The maître d’ practically scampered to the table, bowing frantically. "Yes, Don Moretti? Anything! The meal is on the house, I assure you—"
"Bring me bottle number forty-two," Alessandro commanded quietly. "And bring me this girl's employment file. Right now."
"Mr. Moretti, please," Sophie whispered, panic finally leaking through her defenses. "I need this job. I didn't mean to overstep."
"You didn't overstep, child," Alessandro murmured, leaning back in his chair, steepling his long fingers together. "You just made yourself the most interesting person in New York tonight. Let us see if you survive the attention."
May you like
Ten minutes later, the bottle was opened with reverence, poured into crystal stemware that caught the dim amber lighting. Alessandro took one slow sip, let the liquid coat his tongue, and closed his eyes. When he opened them, they were locked onto Sophie.
"Flawless," Alessandro whispered. He set the glass down. "Now, Sophie Dubois—let us discuss why a woman who recites nineteenth-century Bordeaux classifications from memory is scrubbing plates in a tourist trap."
