"What is wrong with your dog?"
"He's found something." Ronan was already moving toward Fitzgerald, his casual demeanor suddenly gone. "Something old."
"There's nothing old here. This section was replanted in 1987?—"
"Not the vines." He knelt beside the dog, pressing his hand to the earth. "Underneath. Something's been buried here for a very long time. And it wants to come up."
"That's ridiculous. Nothing 'wants' to?—"
The ground shifted.
Not dramatically—not an earthquake or a sinkhole or anything that would make sense. Just a subtle movement, like the earth was breathing. And then, slowly, impossibly, something began to push its way up through the soil.
Valentina watched, frozen, as Fitzgerald dug frantically, sending dirt flying. As Ronan reached into the shallow hole and pulled out?—
A bottle.
Old. Covered in earth. And glowing.
Actually glowing—a soft amber light pulsing from within the dark glass, like a heartbeat.
"What the hell is that?"
"That, Ms. Torres, is why I'm here." Ronan held the bottle up to the light, examining it with an expression of profound satisfaction. "I've been looking for this for a very long time."
Valentina's mind—her practical, spreadsheet-loving, bullshit-detecting mind—caught up with his words.
"Wait." Her voice went flat. Dangerous. "You've beenlookingfor this. This specific thing. In MY vineyard."
"I have."
"Which means you didn't come here to consult on my irrigation problems."
"I did not."
"You used my colleagues' recommendations to get access to my property so you could dig up—" she gestured at the glowing bottle, "—whatever the hell that is."
"That's a fair assessment, yes."
Valentina had built her entire life on control. On seeing problems before they became problems. On never, ever being caught off guard.
She had been played. By an Irishman with a scruffy dog and an infuriating smile.
"Get off my land."
"Ms. Torres?—"
"Now."
"I understand you're angry?—"
"Angry doesn't begin to cover it. You lied to get onto my property. You wasted my time with this ridiculous 'consulting' charade. And now you're holding something that came out of MY ground, which means it belongs to ME, and I want you gone."
She held out her hand for the bottle.
Ronan didn't move. His expression had shifted—less charming now, more serious.
"I can't give this to you."
