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Sofia touches my forearm, her expression softening because she hears what I don’t say. “The flowers for Elena arrived yesterday. She called me after dinner.”

I had ordered white lilies for Misha’s mother, the same flowers I have sent every September for twenty years. “How is she?”

“She says she is well, which means she does not want anyone to worry.” Sofia rubs my arm once before lowering her hand. “She asked about you.”

“I’ll call her tonight,” I promise.

“She would like that.” My aunt waits, giving me room to add more, but I have nothing I can say here with harvest moving around us and memories already pressing too near. She doesn’t force the issue. “Eat before Reid traps you in the office with numbers.”

“He doesn’t trap me,” I tell her.

Leo takes the parcel from my hand and opens the cloth. “I’ll protect half while you argue.”

“That’s mine,” I tell him.

“Then you should defend it better.” He tears the cinnamon bread in two and hands me the larger piece before walking toward the winery.

Sofia watches him go with fond resignation. “He was less troublesome when he was young.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You are right not to.” She pats my cheek as she did when I was ten, then continues toward the tasting lodge with her basket on her arm. “Noon, Andrei. If you do not approve the menu, I will choose for you.”

“You intended to choose anyway,” I call after her.

“Of course,” Sofia calls without looking back. “I simply prefer your cooperation.”

I eat the bread as I follow Leo into the production winery. The air changes inside, cooled for the fruit and rich with crushed grapes, yeast, wet concrete, and oak. Stainless-steel tanks rise beneath the high ceiling while cellar workers direct hoses across the purple-stained floor. Forklifts move bins from the crush pad, and harvested Cabernet travels beneath experienced hands before reaching the destemmer.

This is the part of harvest guests seldom see. Luxury begins amid rubber boots, stained gloves, long hours, and decisions that can’t be corrected once the fruit has passed its best day. Every bottle begins with soil under someone’s nails.

Leo stops beside the sorting line and studies the fruit. His attention belongs here, as natural as breathing. I leave him with the cellar team and cross the courtyard toward the administration building. My private minutes are over. By the time I enter the office, twenty-three messages are waiting, and Reid is already seated at the conference table with two cups of coffee and a financial report open before him.

Reid Walker has been my closest friend since high school and my business partner for ten years. He’s one of the few people who enters my office without knocking. At forty, he remains athletic from years outdoors, although tailored trousers and a navy shirt have replaced his old work clothes. His dark hair is neatly trimmed, and his hazel eyes possess the patience required to challenge me without becoming irritating.

He pushes one coffee across the table as I sit opposite him. “Sofia found you.”

“She usually does,” I answer.

“Did she feed you?” Reid asks.

“Leo stole half.”

Reid nods with approval. “Then the morning is proceeding according to tradition.”

He grew up on an apple orchard outside Redstone and met Misha and me during high school. Misha and I were closer than brothers, bound by language, history, and the trouble two boys could find when neither had sense enough to go home. Reid joined our circle through weekends spent fishing, camping, and working in these vines. He believed my story about a position with an international wine importer because I gave him no reason to question it.

When I returned ten years ago, I asked him to help me build the company. He asked when we would begin, with no discussion of salary or title. Since then, he’s turned my vision into schedules, budgets, contracts, and results. His title doesn’t explain why I trust him.

Reid rotates the report toward me. “California finished above projection for the quarter. Oregon is within one percent, and the estate is three points under on hospitality because the villa renovations closed two units in July.”

“That was expected.” I examine the columns, comparing them with the forecast I reviewed last week. “Distribution costs are higher.”

“Fuel, refrigerated freight, and the new European compliance fees account for most of it. We can absorb the increase this quarter, although I recommend adjusting two contracts before January.” He slides a second page across the table. “The private tasting should produce commitments from three restaurant groups if Saturday goes well. Harrington Hospitality is considering an exclusive reserve for its West Coast properties.”

“Considering is not signing,” I remind him.

“Which is why we’re giving Mr. Harrington a villa, a private barrel tasting, and the illusion that forty-one other guests are not receiving equal attention.”