“You and Saffron. ’Bout time.” He slugged my shoulder, and I laughed. “Yeah, Bit said the same thing.”
“Is she on board?”
“If you mean is she into me as much as I’m into her, then no. Not yet anyway.”
“She is. She’s just as unwilling to admit it as you were.”
“So seriously, it’s that obvious?”
“Since high school, bro.”
My brothers all arrived within a few minutes. Alex said she couldn’t get here right away but to video her in for whatever I wanted to talk about. I did, and as Cru predicted, everyone was all in.
Los Caballeros had been part of my life since birth. The secret society dated back centuries—to our grandfathers’ grandfathers and beyond. The name itself connected us to the Knights Templar, the medieval warriors who’d defeated the Moors and taken control of Jerez in southwestern Spain. They’d renamed it Jerez de los Caballeros. Jerez of the Knights.
When our ancestors immigrated to America in the late 1860s, they brought the society with them. They’d settled first in Napa Valley, then moved down to the Central Coast, where they’d replaced the apple orchards with grapevines. Soon after, my family started Los Caballeros Vineyards and Winery. Since the property had natural caves, those were developed for barrel storage, and at the same time, a secret meeting room was added.According to a sign carved of wood that hung in the space, the first gathering was held in 1865.
Eleven members currently served. My oldest brother, Brix, led us now that Tryst had stepped down.
He’d earned his nickname as a teenager when he became obsessed with measuring degrees Brix, the sugar content in grapes that determined optimal harvest timing. Our father thought it fit him perfectly.
The rest of us—Cristobal, Cru, Bit, Kick, me, along with Noah and Dalton Ridge, Press and Beau Barrett, and Zin Oliver—formed the active brotherhood. We met only when necessary, usually when someone needed our help, like now. We used our wealth, our connections, and our resources to protect our own. Sometimes we operated outside the law, but regardless, always in secret.
TheViejoswere the generation before us. Tryst had served as their leader after our father, Alfonso, died. The others—Hewitt Ridge, Martin Barrett, Michael Oliver, Charlie Jenson, Lucas Hope, Malcolm Warwick, Noah Cullen, and Baron Van Orr—were the remaining elders.
The temperature droppedtwenty degrees as soon as I stepped inside the caves’ entrance. I’d spent a lot of time in here over the years—for wine events, parties, and of course, Los Caballeros meetings. But this would be the first time I was the one requesting help. I watched everyone enter and take their places around the large round table that dominated the center of the room—solid oak, scarred by centuries of use, surrounded by high-backed chairs that had been here longer than I’d been alive. Sconces on the walls provided light, and a single ventilation shaft in the ceiling ensured we wouldn’t suffocate.
After all those expected had arrived, we remained standing. Brotherhood protocol dictated we wait for the leader to call the meeting to order.
Brix made eye contact with each of us in turn. Then with each of theViejos. Tryst last.
“Los Caballeros,” he began. “We’re here this morning because our brother needs our help.”
TheViejostook their seats, and out of respect, the current members stood behind them.
Brix turned to me. “Go ahead.”
My mouth went dry. Public speaking had never been my strong suit—that was more Brix’s territory. But this was too important to fumble.
“Earlier today, Saffron Hope came to me with a request.” I reached for my phone and brought up the photo I’d taken of the journal page. “She found this in her great-grandmother’s attic—evidence that in 1955, Marilyn Hope and Concepción Avila, along with their husbands, created a wine called the Christmas Blessing.”
I handed my phone to Brix, who viewed the image before passing it along.
“The wine was remarkable. Made only once. Sold out in hours. Those who tasted it said it was extraordinary.” I paused. “Saffron wants to recreate it. This year. To have it ready by Christmas.”
“That’s six to eight weeks,” Cristobal said. “Barely doable even with carbonic maceration.”
“I know. But the point is, it is possible. Cru’s confirmed we have the grapes she needs, along with the equipment and space.”
“What do you need from us?” Zin asked.
“This endeavor must be undertaken with the utmost secrecy.”
The room remained quiet; I hadn’t expected anyone to disagree.
“And that means, we need a crew. We’ll be harvesting three varietals in separate pickings over the next fourteen days.”
“Handpicked?” Tryst asked.
