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She moved closer and rested her hand on my elbow, her skin warm against mine. “Cali, pay attention to your instincts. Observe how your body responds to others. It’s a way to perceive things your mind may not comprehend. You can think until you’re exhausted, but if something feels off, it is. I refer to it as our Vitalis superpower.”

“Do you really believe that?” I asked.

She lifted her chin. “Mama talked about it when we were kids. She said never to doubt that instinct. I’ve never been wrong. You have it too—that’s why you’re torn. It doesn’thave to be complicated. Meet Dominic again. You’ll know if your heart flutters when you see him.”

I smiled and closed the gap between us to hug her. She folded her arms around me and squeezed.

“What would I do without you, Laya?”

“Most likely die,” she said.

I pulled back and hooked my arm through hers, leading her toward the front door. The air outside carried a promise of spring.

“You might be right,” I replied. “Now, let’s splurge on baby items. Do you think our little one will have that superpower?”

Laya’s grin spread wide. “I certainly hope so!”

Six

LEON

Iron gates groaned open as I rolled my car forward, headlights catching their wrought-iron filigree. I guided the tires onto a ribbon of gravel and settled in.

The Galanis estate was massive.

Ahead, the manor rose like a fortress of sandstone, its turrets and arching windows dwarfing the hillside. My own vineyard, just a few tidy rows behind a low stucco wall, felt like a garden patch by comparison.

Beyond the house, vineyards tumbled over gentle slopes, each vine tied in neat lines that threaded through the grass. Clusters of grapes sat along them, ready to grow and ripen throughout the approaching Summer’s sun.

To the right, olive groves spread into a soft green sea, trunks bent at odd angles under their silver leaves, promising hidden paths and cool shade.

I steered past a semicircle drive and cut around the far wing of the mansion. There, a low complex of buildings hugged the hillside. Cavern-wide doorways yielded glimpses of polished steel tanks, cylinders rising like sentinels, and gleaming pipes that snaked toward walls stacked high with centuries-old oak barrels. Their staves bulged with age, metal hoops mottled by time.

Workers moved in choreographed clusters: a man hefting nets into a press, another adjusting a hose, voices rising and falling against the clatter of footwear on stone and wood. Every corner of this place buzzed with purpose.

The operation proceeded smoothly and efficiently. Production schedules were posted on bulletin boards, forklifts maneuvered gracefully below the crate racks, and cellar doors opened at exact moments. I’d faced setups half this size and felt those familiar twinges of insecurity. Not today. I’d built niche experiences, boutique wineries, themed restaurants, and late-night lounges tailored to a select crowd.

My business thrived on intimacy. Galanis thrived on scale.

Still, scale didn’t breed exclusivity. Plates in my restaurants could showcase his estate’s single-vineyard reserve. His casks might rest beneath my bar’s polished oak floors. I pictured summer tastings where my dim lanterns illuminated his wine’s crimson depths.

There was ambition behind every thought. The Vitalisfamily had stormed back into prominence: power brokers and social architects.

I wanted in on their momentum. And Calista Vitalis, soon to be my wife, sat at the center of that orbit. That fact pulsed beneath my skin more insistently than any spreadsheet or marketing forecast.

Her last call had sent warmth through my chest.

Colleagues had joked about the sudden lightness to my stride, but I knew it wasn’t the market or a new contract.

It was her. My pulse skipped at the thought of her smile, the soft edge in her voice—anticipation, attraction, curiosity, each pulse a drumbeat of something uncharted.

I wasn’t a soft or kind man, but something about Calista called to me.

I shut off the engine, and suddenly, the quiet felt electric. Gravel crunched under my shoes as I climbed the flagstone steps. Birdsong echoed from the olive grove, notes carried on a cool breeze.

At the top, the heavy oak door swung inward before I could lift my hand. A butler, tall, silver-haired, perfectly still, stood framed by the doorway, a silent welcome awaiting me.

“Welcome to the Galanis estate, Mr. Boscos,” he announced, his voice resonating through the opulent entrance as he executed a formal bow. “Please, come in.”

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