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“This section goes today,” I tell Leo. “Move the western rows ahead of East Three, then bring East Three in tomorrow morning.”

Leo removes his notebook. “I made the same change at five.”

“Then why did you ask me to taste it?” I ask.

“I didn’t ask.” He writes one line and returns the pencil behind his ear. “I knew you would.”

We continue toward the production building as sunlight reveals the cedar-lined drive curving from the wrought-iron gates. Beyond the winery, the tasting lodge rises above the lower slope in timber, stone, and glass. The event pavilion sits beside it amid gardens Sofia has protected from every expansion plan. Farther uphill, guest villas face the valley, while my house occupies the highest rise beneath the evergreens.

My father would recognize the land but little else. Ten years ago, Dragorin Vineyards was a respected regional winery. Today, the estate anchors vineyards in Oregon and California, European partnerships, international distribution, private wine clubs, and hospitality properties.

I built this because my father believed the vineyard could become extraordinary, and because I promised him at eighteen that I would learn how to make it happen.

He died believing I had kept every part of that promise.

“The Syrah crew needs another trailer before seven,” Leo says, drawing me back to the morning. “I called Mateo, but logistics told him the spare is assigned to the event team.”

“Harvest takes priority. I will speak with Reid.”

“I already spoke with him. The trailer is moving now.” Leo glances toward me beneath the brim of his cap. “There are capable people here, Andrei. You don’t have to carry each crate yourself.”

“I’m aware.”

“Knowing and behaving as if you know are different skills,” Leo observes.

Before I can answer, Sofia emerges from the path leading to the pavilion. She carries a wicker basket over one arm, with gardening gloves and pruning shears tucked beside sprigs of rosemary. My aunt is five feet five inches tall, softly built, and more formidable than her floral burgundy dress and cream cardigan suggest. Her thick silver hair brushes her shoulders, and rosy color brightens her cheeks from the morning air. A gold cross rests at her throat, while the wedding band Leo gave her nearly fifty years ago circles her left ring finger.

She has managed this estate since its earliest years, overseeing the villas, gardens, staff, and hospitality with warmth that hides exacting standards. Visitors remember her flowers and food, while employees remember that she knows whose child is starting school and who needs extra hours without wanting to ask.

She has also considered me an unfinished domestic project since my mother died.

“Dobroye utro, Andryusha.” Good morning, Andrei. Sofia approaches with her basket over one arm, her warm greeting at odds with the reproach in her eyes. “I called your house twice.”

“My phone is in the kitchen,” I explain.

“A phone cannot help you from another building,” she points out.

Leo leans closer to me. “Competent management.”

Sofia gives her husband a look that informs him he’s not beyond correction. “The event florist is bringing white roses instead of cream. She says the cream shipment did not arrive.”

“White will work,” I answer.

“White will look like a wedding, and no one is getting married.” Her hazel eyes rest on me with unmistakable purpose. “Apparently.”

“Sofia.”

“I am discussing flowers.” Her expression remains innocent enough to fool anyone who has not known her their entire life. “The private tasting begins Saturday at six. We have forty-two guests, including distributors, restaurant buyers, wine club members, and six clients requiring discretion. The villas are prepared, and the chef wants approval for the final menu by noon.”

“Send it to me,” I tell her.

“I sent it last night, along with two messages reminding you to eat dinner.” Sofia reaches into her basket and produces a cloth-wrapped parcel. “Since neither message worked, I brought breakfast.”

“I had coffee,” I point out.

“Coffee is not breakfast,” she says, placing the parcel in my hand. Warm bread and cinnamon scent the air through the cloth. “Your mother taught you better.”

The mention of my mother carries no intention beyond affection, but grief keeps its own calendar. Today, every loss seems connected to another. I close my fingers around the parcel. “Thank you.”