Page 185 of Legacy
“There’s plenty more where that came from,” he says, sipping his own. Eyes on me. Always.
I run a fingertip along the rim of my glass. “Is this Casa del Sangue?” I ask quietly. “Your vineyard?”
His brow lifts a fraction, but I see the flicker, the shadow behind his eyes before he answers.
“It is,” he says, voice softer now. “Ours, actually. The distillery’s on the other side.”
“Ours?”
“You’re my wife,” he says, tone shifting. Pride rising. “Everything I own is yours too.”
My breath stutters.
We sample more wines as the afternoon stretches golden around us, the vineyard buzzing with life. Grapes hang heavy on the vines like rubies strung from earth. He takes my hand, guiding me down a cobblestone path that leads to a small, aged building nestled in the vineyard’s heart.
“This was my great-grandfather’s cellar,” he says, pushing open the weather-worn door. The space inside is cool, quiet, sacred. Dust and time have wrapped themselves around the old wooden racks, bottles resting in careful rows like relics.
He selects one—deep red, vintage decades before we were born and holds it to the light. “I’ve been saving this,” he murmurs, “for something that mattered.”
The air inside is cool and thick with the scent of age, dust, oak, and the ghost of fermenting grapes long turned to legend. Stone walls rise around us like a crypt, lined with shelves of bottles that seem to hum with time. The wooden racks creak softly beneath their weight, each bottle labeled by hand in ink faded to a whisper.
There’s a hush here.
Not silence, something deeper. Peaceful. As if the space remembers the hands that built it. The prayers whispered in dark corners. The dreams bottled and buried beneath cork and dust.
When he uncorks the bottle, the soft pop echoes like a promise.
He doesn’t speak.
Just pours.
The wine slides into the glasses like velvet, deep and dark as blood.
“This is…” I trail off, searching. “Unreal.”
For a moment, the noise in my head goes quiet as we drink and all I can feel is the warmth of the wine and the steadiness of him.
I can feel his eyes on me, he stays quiet just watching me with something close to peace.
Like he’s waiting, but not pushing. Like he’d sit here forever if I needed him to.
Leaving our empty glasses behind, we walk between rows of vines that stretch endlessly across the hillside, golden light dancing across the leaves. His hand brushes mine again, just once, but I let it linger.
“This vineyard…” he begins, his voice quieter now, “was supposed to be our legacy.”
I glance at him, unsure what he means.
“My great-grandfather bought this land after immigrating from Italy. It was his dream to create something real. Tangible. Something untouched by blood.”
His eyes stay forward, tracing the path as we walk.
“He was the third son. Never meant to inherit anything but dirt and grapes. His older brothers were the ones expected to carry the family name. One of them was supposed to lead Cosa Nostra. But they died. One after the other. No heirs.”
He silent for a moment, eyes lost in thought before he continues.
“So it fell to him. The vineyard owner. The dreamer. The man who just wanted to make wine.”
The quiet between us feels heavier than before. The breeze whispers through the vines, hushed and reverent
