Evelyn Harper had spent three years curating the perfect wine collection for the Metropolitan Gala. Her reputation as the youngest master sumeier on the east coast depended on tonight’s success. The crystal chandeliers cast amber light across bottles worth more than most people’s houses.
And somewhere in this glittering crowd, her fianceé Marcus was supposed to be networking with investors for their dream vineyard in Napa Valley. Instead, she found him with his tongue down her sister’s throat behind the Chateau Margo display. The bottle of Dom Perinone in Evelyn’s hand suddenly felt like a weapon.
Her sister Clare, 28 and perpetually jealous, had her manicured fingers tangled in Marcus’ hair, the same way Evelyn had touched him that morning when he’d promised this galla would change their lives. The engagement ring on Evelyn’s finger burned like accusation. You absolute bastard. Her voice came out steady, colder than the champagne she’d been about to serve to the Russian ambassador.
Marcus jumped back, lipstick smeared across his mouth like evidence. Clare didn’t even have the decency to look ashamed. She just smiled, that venomous smile she’d perfected since childhood. “Eveie, this isn’t what it looks like,” Marcus started, which was possibly the stupidest thing he could have said, given that his hand was still on Clare’s ass. The champagne cork popped.
Evelyn hadn’t meant to open it, but her hands had moved on instinct, and now foam was cascading over her knuckles like fury made liquid. The sound drew attention from nearby guests. She could feel eyes turning toward them, could hear the whispers starting to spread through the crowd like wildfire.
“How long?” Evelyn demanded, her sumelier’s training keeping her voice measured even as her world crumbled. “How long have you been [ __ ] my sister?” Clare laughed. Actually laughed since your engagement party, darling. He proposed to you at noon and was inside me by midnight. You were always too busy with your wine obsession to notice what you were losing. The words hit harder than any slap. 6 months.
They’d been planning a wedding for 6 months while he’d been sleeping with her own sister. The gala’s music seemed obscenely cheerful. a jazz quartet playing something romantic while Evelyn’s life imploded between the vintage Bordeaux and the rare burgundy. Marcus reached for her and she stepped back so fast she collided with someone solid.
Strong hands caught her shoulders, steadying her, and she caught the scent of something expensive. Cedar and leather and old money, the kind of cologne you couldn’t buy in stores. Careful. A voice rumbled above her head, dark and smooth like aged whiskey. That champagne is worth more than most people’s cars. Would be a shame to waste it on trash. Evelyn turned and found herself staring at a chest in a perfectly tailored Tom Ford suit.
She tilted her head back and met eyes so dark they were almost black, set in a face that could have been carved from marble. severe cheekbones, a jaw that could cut glass, and a scar that traced from his left eyebrow into his hairline.
He looked like he’d walked out of a Renaissance painting and into an Armani campaign. The man was looking at Marcus and Clare with the kind of disdain usually reserved for something stuck to your shoe. Around them, the crowd had gone strangely quiet. People were backing away, giving them space like this stranger was radioactive. “Who the hell are you?” Marcus demanded, trying to reclaim some authority, but his voice cracked on the last word.
Someone who appreciates fine wine more than you appreciate fine women, apparently. The stranger’s hand was still on Evelyn’s shoulder, warm through the silk of her dress. This establishment belongs to people I do business with. I don’t tolerate mediocre men making scenes at quality events. There was something in the way he said business that made Marcus go pale.
Around them, Evelyn noticed men in dark suits positioning themselves at exits. Not obviously, but deliberate. The kind of security that didn’t carry visible weapons because they didn’t need to. Ezra Castellano, someone whispered nearby, and the name rippled through the crowd like a curse. Evelyn knew that name.
Everyone in her world knew that name. He was the man who controlled the underground market for rare wines, stolen art, and artifacts that museums would kill for. The FBI had been trying to build a case against him for a decade, and she’d just backed into him like a clumsy teenager. The champagne was making everything fuzzy.
Or maybe it was shock. But suddenly, Evelyn had the worst, most brilliant idea of her entire life. She turned in Ezra’s grip, looking up at this dangerous stranger with his scarred face and his predator’s eyes. “I need a favor,” she heard herself say, her words slightly slurred.
She’d been stress drinking all evening, sampling her own inventory like a fool. “Can you kiss me? I want to make him jealous.” The entire room seemed to hold its breath. Ezra Castaniano’s eyebrows rose fractionally. The only sign of surprise on his otherwise impassive face. Up close, she could see flexcks of amber in those dark eyes.
Could see the way his jaw tightened as he studied her face. “You’re drunk,” he observed, not unkindly. “I’m devastated,” Evelyn corrected, swaying slightly. “But also drunk, yes. Three glasses of Krug and half a bottle of Petrus because the Italian ambassador canled. Please. I just caught my fiance with my sister and I refused to be the pathetic one at my own event. She could feel Marcus staring.
Could feel Clare’s shock radiating across the space between them. The whole gala had stopped pretending not to watch. They were the center of a scandal that would fuel gossip for months. Ezra’s hand moved from her shoulder to cup her jaw. his thumb brushing her cheekbone with surprising gentleness. “He had calluses,” she noticed hazily.
“This was a man who did more than sign papers and make phone calls.” “Do you have any idea who I am?” His voice was low enough that only she could hear, intimate as a secret. “A man who appreciates fine wine,” Evelyn quoted back at him, reckless with heartbreak and champagne. and apparently someone everyone’s terrified of which makes you perfect for making my cheating bastard of an ex- fiance lose his mind. Something flickered in those dark eyes.
Amusement maybe or interest. His thumb traced her lower lip and Evelyn’s breath caught despite everything. Up close he smelled like expensive cigars and something darker. Gunpowder perhaps. This is a terrible idea,” Ezra murmured. But he was already lowering his head.
“All my best ideas are terrible,” Evelyn whispered back. When his mouth touched hers, the entire world disappeared. The kiss started as performance. Evelyn was certain of that. Ezra Castiano was simply doing a drunk woman a favor, giving her a moment of dignity in front of her cheating fianceé.
But somewhere between the first touch of his lips and the second breath, it stopped being theater and became something else entirely. His mouth was warm and tasted like the chateau dem she’d served earlier, honey and complexity and something darker underneath. His hand slid into her hair, tilting her head to deepen the kiss. And Evelyn forgot that they had an audience.
Forgot that she’d only asked for a simple kiss. forgot everything except the way his other hand had moved to her waist, pulling her closer against that expensive suit. She made a sound, something embarrassingly desperate, and felt him smile against her mouth. Then he bit her lower lip, gentle but possessive, and Evelyn’s knees actually buckled.
He caught her, of course, shifting his weight to support her, as if women fainted into his arms every day. When he finally pulled back, Evelyn’s lipstick was ruined, and her carefully pinned hair had come loose. Ezra looked completely unaffected, except for a slight darkness in his eyes and the faint trace of her lipstick on his mouth.
He wiped it away with his thumb, never breaking eye contact. “Better?” he asked quietly, and his voice had gone rougher, like gravel wrapped in velvet. Evelyn couldn’t speak. She nodded, her fingers still clutched in his lapels. Behind her, she heard Clare’s outraged gasp. Heard Marcus saying something that might have been her name. The jazz quartet had stopped playing entirely. “Good.
” Ezra’s hand was still in her hair, possessive and warm. “Now smile at them like you’ve won.” She did, turning in his arms to face Marcus and Clare with what she hoped was devastating confidence, despite the fact that she was fairly certain her legs weren’t working properly.
“Marcus looked like he’d been struck by lightning.” Clare’s face had gone an ugly shade of red. “The wedding’s off,” Evelyn announced, her voice carrying across the silent gala. “Obviously, Clare, you can have him. He’s clearly more your speed.” She twisted the engagement ring off her finger and threw it at Marcus’ chest. It bounced off his lapel and skittered across the marble floor.
I’m upgrading. The crowd erupted in whispers. Evelyn felt Ezra’s chest shake with silent laughter against her back. Eevee, you don’t know what you’re doing. Marcus started, but one look from Ezra shut him up instantly. I think Ms. Harper knows exactly what she’s doing, Ezra said. And there was steel under the silk of his voice.
And I think you should leave, both of you, before I have you removed less politely. The men in dark suits materialized closer, and suddenly it wasn’t a suggestion anymore. Marcus grabbed Clare’s arm, and they retreated through the crowd, which parted for them like they were diseased. Evelyn watched them go and felt nothing but champagne fuzzy satisfaction.
“That was insane,” she breathed, still leaning against Ezra because standing on her own seemed ambitious. “I just threw away my engagement at my own event and kissed a criminal in front of 300 witnesses.” “Alleged criminal,” Ezra corrected, amusement coloring his tone. “The FBI hasn’t proven anything.” His hands were still on her waist, steadying her. And technically, you’re the one who kissed me. I was simply accommodating.
You bit my lip. You moaned. Evelyn’s face flamed around them. The gallow was slowly returning to life, conversations resuming in hushed, excited tones. She’d given them the scandal of the season. Tomorrow, her name would be in every society column from New York to Miami. I should probably, she gestured vaguely at the room, at her responsibilities as sumelier, at the life she’d just spectacularly imploded.
I have wine to serve, Russians to smoo, a reputation to salvage. Your reputation just became significantly more interesting, Ezra observed. He released her slowly, like he was making sure she wouldn’t fall over. The sumelier who kissed Ezra Castellano and lived to tell about it. You’ll be infamous by morning.
Is that supposed to comfort me? It’s supposed to prepare you. He straightened his tie, which he’d apparently rumpled without noticing. They’ll ask questions about me, about us, about what this means. What will you tell them? Evelyn hadn’t thought that far ahead. The champagne was wearing off. replaced by the cold reality of what she’d just done.
She’d kissed a man the FBI called untouchable, a dealer in stolen goods and black market luxuries. She’d done it in public in front of everyone who mattered in her industry. The truth, she decided, lifting her chin. That you helped me when I needed it. That my fianceé is a cheating bastard who doesn’t deserve the expensive wine I was going to serve at our wedding.
Ezra studied her for a long moment, something calculating in his expression. You have excellent taste in wine, he said finally. The Petru you were drinking earlier, 1995 vintage 96. Evelyn corrected automatically. The 95 was too tight. Needed more time. His smile was slow and dangerous. Have dinner with me tomorrow night.
I have a bottle of Roman Conti I’ve been saving for someone who would actually appreciate it. That’s a $50,000 bottle of wine. I’m aware. He pulled a card from his pocket. Matte black with silver embossing. A phone number. Nothing else. 8:00. I’ll send a car. Evelyn took the card, her fingers brushing his. This is insane. You said that already. Ezra leaned in, his breath warm against her ear.
But you’re going to say yes anyway because you’re curious. Because that kiss felt like the first honest thing to happen to you in 6 months. Because a man who cheats with your sister doesn’t deserve you. But a man who understands the difference between a 95 and 96 patus might. He pulled back and Evelyn saw the truth in his eyes. He knew she’d come.
Knew she was already hooked. Not on him necessarily, but on the feeling of being wanted by someone dangerous, someone who looked at her like she was rare and valuable. One dinner, she heard herself say to thank you for tonight. Of course, his smile said he knew she was lying to herself. Just dinner.
He left then, his security melting away with him, leaving Evelyn alone in the center of the gala with a black card in her hand and the taste of him still on her lips. Around her, the whispers crescendoed. She’d just agreed to have dinner with the most dangerous man on the east coast. The Russian ambassador approached, smiling widely.
“M Harper, I think I need something very strong after that entertainment. What do you recommend? Evelyn smiled back, slipping the card into her clutch. I have a Macallen 50-year-old. That seems appropriate. It’s dangerous, expensive, and absolutely worth the risk. Perfect. He laughed, not knowing she wasn’t talking about whiskey at all.
Evelyn woke up on her couch at noon with a headache like a ice pick through her skull and 17 missed calls from her mother. The champagne had been a mistake. The kiss had been a bigger mistake. Agreeing to dinner with Ezra Castayano might have been her worst decision yet, which was saying something considering she’d gotten engaged to a man who’d been sleeping with her sister. Her apartment looked like a crime scene. Her galad dress was puddled on the floor.
Her shoes kicked off in two different directions. The black card sat on her coffee table, accusatory and tempting. She’d looked Ezra up at 3:00 in the morning, sleepless and spiraling. And the search results had been terrifying. Federal investigations, suspected arms dealing, a gallery in Soho that was definitely a front for something illegal.
He’d been photographed at charity events with senators and supermodels, always in the background, always watching. One article called him the gentleman criminal. Another called him New York’s most eligible sociopath. And she’d asked him to kiss her. begged him actually in front of 300 witnesses. Her phone rang again, her mother. Evelyn answered it with the resignation of someone facing execution.
Evelyn Marie Harper, what in God’s name were you thinking? Her mother’s voice could have stripped paint. You’re on page six, the Daily Mail. There are photos of you kissing that that criminal. and your father is having heart palpitations. Marcus was cheating on me with Clare,” Evelyn said flatly, pressing her palm against her forehead. “At my own event, I found them together.
” Silence. Then Clare, your sister Clare. Unless I have another sister I don’t know about. Evelyn stumbled to her kitchen, desperate for coffee. For six months, Mom, since the engagement party, more silence, longer this time. Her mother’s anger shifted, refocused.
That little [ __ ] I knew she was jealous, but this and Marcus, I introduced you to him. His family has the vineyard in Connecticut. Had the vineyard. I’m fairly certain after last night, no one in the wine world will touch him. Evelyn found her espresso machine, started it with shaking hands. I humiliated him publicly with Ezra Castiano’s help about that. Her mother’s voice went careful.
Evelyn, that man is dangerous. Whatever you think last night was, it wasn’t worth getting involved with someone like him. He offered me a bottle of Roman Conti. The words came out before Evelyn could stop them. The 9090 vintage. Mom, that wine is basically a myth. 12 bottles in existence, all in private collections.
If he actually has one. If he has one, he stole it, her mother said sharply. Evelyn, listen to me. That kiss was lovely revenge. Truly, but that’s where this needs to end. Cancel dinner. Block his number. Forget this ever happened. But Evelyn was already thinking about that wine, about the way Ezra had known the difference between the 95 and 96 patronus, about his hands in her hair, and the way he’d looked at her like she was something precious. I have to go, she told her mother.
I need to fix the disaster from last night. She hung up before her mother could argue and stared at her reflection in the dark screen of her phone. Her hair was a mess. Her makeup was smudged. She looked like she’d been through a war. But she also looked alive in a way she hadn’t felt in years.
The rest of the day was a nightmare of damage control. Her boss at the wine distribution company called surprisingly supportive. The scandal had apparently tripled interest in their next gala. Her vendors called, half concerned, half fascinated. Everyone wanted to know about Ezra, about the kiss, about what happened next. Clare sent one text.
You’ll regret this. Marcus sent 12, ranging from apologetic to angry to threatening. Evelyn blocked him after the sixth one mentioned lawyers. At 7:30 that evening, she stood in front of her closet trying to decide what one wore to dinner with a criminal. something that said, “I’m not intimidated by your alleged arms dealing, but also, I appreciate a $50,000 bottle of wine.
” She settled on a black dress, simple and elegant with her grandmother’s pearls. If she was going to hell, she might as well look classic doing it. The car arrived at exactly 8. Not a limo, thankfully, but a Mercedes that screamed money without being ostentatious. The driver was polite and silent, and they drove to a building in Tribeca that looked like every other converted warehouse on the block, except this one had a private elevator that required a key card.
Evelyn’s heart hammered as they ascended. This was insane. She was having dinner with a man who probably had people killed for sport. A man who’d kissed her like he wanted to devour her in front of everyone she knew. A man who understood wine the way she did, with reverence and obsession.
The elevator opened directly into a penthouse that took her breath away. Florida ceiling windows overlooked the city. The lights of Manhattan spread out like diamonds. The furniture was minimal but exquisite. Modern pieces mixed with what looked like actual Roman antiquities. And the art on the walls. That’s a Caravajio.
Evelyn breathed, staring at a painting she’d only ever seen in textbooks. that’s been missing since World War II. Allegedly, Ezra’s voice came from behind her. I prefer to think of it as relocated to someone who appreciates it. She turned and found him in dark slacks and a white shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, less formal than last night, but somehow more dangerous. He had a wine glass in each hand, both empty.
You came, he said, and there was satisfaction in his voice. You have a stolen caravajio on your wall, Evelyn replied. Of course I came. I’m clearly making terrible decisions this week. He smiled. That slow, dangerous smile. The wine is breathing in the dining room. But first, I need to know, are you here because you want to be or because you’re still angry at your ex? both. Evelyn moved closer, drawn despite her better judgment.
Maybe neither. Maybe I just wanted to see if that kiss was as good as I remembered, or if it was the champagne. Only one way to find out. Ezra set down the glasses and reached for her, giving her time to pull away. She didn’t. This kiss was different, slower, and more deliberate.
Without an audience, without the performance aspect, it felt intimate and dangerous. His hands found her waist, pulled her closer, and Evelyn let herself sink into it. Let herself forget that this was probably the worst idea she’d ever had. When they broke apart, she was breathing hard and his eyes had gone dark. Better than I remembered, she admitted. Good.
He picked up the wine glasses again. Now come taste something that will ruin you for all other wines. Dinner was served in a room dominated by a window and a table that sat 12, but was set for two. The Roman Conti sat in a decanter, garnet red and glowing in the candle light.
Ezra poured with the care it deserved, and when Evelyn tasted it, she actually made a sound. Oh my god. The wine was silk and velvet and everything perfect in the world. This is This is I don’t have words. Most people don’t. Ezra watched her over his glass. That’s why I wanted to share it with you. Someone who understands what this is worth beyond the price tag. They talked about wine, about the illegal market, about how he’d acquired this bottle, this particular treasure.
Ezra was careful with details, never admitting to anything explicitly illegal, but the implications were clear. He dealt in things that shouldn’t be sold, things that belonged in museums or vaults. “Why wine?” Evelyn asked, emboldened by the burgundy. “With everything you could trade in, why focus on wine and art?” “Because they’re beautiful,” Ezra said simply.
Because most people see them as commodities, investments, status symbols. But some people, people like you, see them as art, as history, as something worth preserving. Even if you stole them, I prefer to think I’m keeping them from people who don’t deserve them. He refilled her glass. Like your ex- fiance, I did some research on Marcus. His family’s vineyard makes mediocre pon noir that they overpric for tourists.
He doesn’t understand wine. He just wants to profit from it. And you’re different. But Evelyn was smiling. I’m exactly the same, Ezra admitted. Except I have better taste and fewer scruples about where I source my inventory. They finished the bottle, and then he opened a Chateau Fat from 1869 that had no business being that well preserved.
Evelyn was tipsy again, but in a warm golden way that made everything feel possible. Ezra told her about growing up in Sicily, about learning wine from his grandfather, who’d run shipments during Prohibition. She told him about studying in France, about the first time she’d tasted a wine that made her cry.
Somewhere around midnight, they ended up on his couch, her shoes kicked off, his jacket discarded. They were debating the merits of French versus Italian wine regions, their faces close, their words tangling together. “You’re going to be trouble,” Ezra murmured, his fingers tracing the line of her jaw. “I can tell already.” “You kissed me in front of everyone I know,” Evelyn pointed out.
“I think the trouble started there.” “No,” he said, his thumb brushing her lower lip. The trouble started when you looked at me like I was your salvation instead of your damnation. When you understood the wine the way I do. That’s when I knew I was in trouble. One dinner. Evelyn whispered even as she leaned into his touch. That’s what I said. One dinner. Ezra agreed.
But we both know you’re lying. When he kissed her this time, it wasn’t for show or revenge or curiosity. It was because they both wanted it, needed it, this dangerous thing growing between them. And when he pulled her into his lap, when his hands slid into her hair and she made that desperate sound again, Evelyn knew she was already lost.
She’d come here for wine and found something infinitely more intoxicating. Evelyn woke up in Egyptian cotton sheets that cost more than her monthly rent in a bedroom with another stolen masterpiece on the wall. This one looked like a Monae.
Morning light filtered through blackout curtains, and for a moment she couldn’t remember where she was. Then she felt the warm weight of Ezra’s arm across her waist and memory came flooding back. The wine, the conversation, the way he’d carried her to his bedroom sometime around 3:00 a.m. Both of them too far gone on Burgundy and Chemistry to pretend they weren’t going to end up exactly here.
You’re thinking too loud, Ezra murmured against her shoulder, his voice rough with sleep. I can hear your panic from here. I slept with a criminal, Evelyn said to the ceiling. 24 hours after catching my fiance with my sister, I had sex with a man who probably has people killed for a living. Allegedly, his arm tightened around her. And technically, you didn’t sleep with me.
We’re still in bed. No sleeping has occurred. Despite everything, Evelyn laughed. She turned in his arms and found him watching her with those dark eyes. His hair must the scar on his eyebrow visible in the morning light. He looked younger like this, less dangerous, though she knew that was an illusion. “I should go,” she said, not moving.
“I have work, a life, a reputation that’s already in tatters. Your reputation is fine, Ezra replied, his hand tracing lazy patterns on her back. Better than fine. You’re now the woman who made Ezra Castayano interested enough to publicly claim. Do you have any idea how rare that is? Should I be flattered or terrified? Both.
He kissed her forehead, gentle in a way that shouldn’t have worked on a man like him. Stay for breakfast. I have a chef who makes pancakes that will change your life, and I want to discuss a business proposition. Evelyn pulled back to look at him. What kind of business proposition? The kind that involves wine, revenge, and possibly ruining your ex fiance’s life completely.
Ezra’s smile was wicked. Unless you’re satisfied with just humiliating him publicly, she should have said yes. Should have taken her revenge and moved on like a mature adult. Instead, she heard herself ask, “How ruined are we talking?” An hour later, Evelyn sat in Ezra’s dining room in one of his shirts, eating pancakes that were indeed life-changing while he laid out his plan.
“Marcus’ family vineyard is failing,” Ezra explained, pulling up financial documents on his tablet. “They’re overextended, underleveraged, and hemorrhaging money. The only thing keeping them afloat is the reputation, which after last night’s scandal is significantly damaged. “How do you have their financial records?” Evelyn asked, though she knew the answer. “I have people who acquire information.
” He slid the tablet across to her. “The vineyard is worth about 8 million on paper. In reality, it’s worth half that. The land is good, but they’ve mismanaged it for decades. Poor grape selection, outdated equipment, mediocre wine master. Evelyn studied the numbers, her sumelier brain automatically cataloging the problems.
They could turn it around with the right investment. Better vines, modern equipment, a competent wine maker. Exactly. Ezra’s smile was pure predator, which is why I’m going to buy it through a shell company untraceable to me. I’ll offer them just enough to get out from under their debt, but not enough to start over anywhere respectable.
And then what? But Evelyn was starting to understand, starting to see the beautiful cruelty of it. Then I hire you as the wine master. You rebuild it into something extraordinary. We produce wines that win international awards, that smellier fight over, that make Marcus’ mediocre pino noir look like grocery store trash. Ezra leaned forward, intent. We take everything he was supposed to have, his family legacy, and we make it better. We make it legendary.
It was vindictive and petty and absolutely brilliant. Evelyn should have said no. should have walked away from this dangerous man and his dangerous plans. “What’s in it for you?” she asked instead. “Besides watching you destroy your ex.” Ezra shrugged. “A legitimate business to launder money through. A vineyard that actually produces something worth drinking.
And you working for me, tied to me in a way that makes it very clear you’ve chosen me over him.” “That’s insane. You keep saying that word.” He reached across the table, caught her hand. But you’re not saying no. Evelyn stared at their joined hands, at the contrast between her bare fingers where her engagement ring used to be and his. Strong and scarred. This was everything she’d been taught to avoid.
Getting involved with a criminal, mixing business with revenge, letting attraction override common sense. But Marcus had been sleeping with her sister for 6 months, had planned to marry her while [ __ ] Clare behind her back. And Clare had smiled about it, had laughed while twisting the knife. I want control of all wine related decisions, Evelyn said.
Complete autonomy on grape selection, production methods, and distribution. Done. And my name on the label, not yours, not some shell company. mine. Ezra’s smile went sharp with approval. I wouldn’t have it any other way. I want everyone to know that Evelyn Harper chose to work with me, that she’s mine. I’m not yours, Evelyn protested.
But her hand was still in his, and they both knew she was lying. Not yet, he agreed. But you will be. The next three weeks were a whirlwind. Ezra moved on the vineyard with the efficiency of a hostile takeover, making an offer Marcus’ family couldn’t refuse and couldn’t trace. The sale went through before they could mount a defense. And suddenly, Evelyn owned on paper, at least the Harper family legacy.
The irony wasn’t lost on anyone. Marcus called 17 times before Evelyn blocked him. Clare sent increasingly unhinged texts about betrayal and family, which was rich coming from the woman who’d slept with her sister’s fianceé.
Their mother was torn between pride that Evelyn had secured a vineyard and horror at how she’d done it. Evelyn barely noticed. She was too busy working with Ezra’s team to modernize the operation, hiring a new crew, selecting new grape varietals. Ezra had resources she couldn’t have dreamed of. contacts in France and Italy and California who owed him favors.
Within two weeks, they had rootstock from Burgundy that simply wasn’t available on the legitimate market. “I don’t want to know where you got this,” Evelyn said, examining the vine cutings with reverence. “Probably not,” Ezra agreed. He was watching her work with the same intensity he’d watched her taste wine that first night. “You’re incredible when you’re focused like this. I can see why you won all those awards.
They spent every night together, either at his penthouse or at the vineyard, blending business with pleasure in ways that would have horrified her 6 months ago. Ezra was demanding and dangerous and exactly what she hadn’t known she needed. He challenged her, supported her, and never once made her feel like she was second to anything.
“This is unhealthy,” her best friend Sarah warned over coffee. You’re rebounding with a criminal, Eevee. This can’t end well. Probably not, Evelyn agreed, stirring her latte. But I’ve never felt more alive. Marcus made me feel small, like my passion for wine was an obsession that took away from us. Ezra makes me feel powerful. Ezra makes you feel desired.
Sarah corrected gently. There’s a difference. But was there? Evelyn thought about the way Ezra looked at her when she identified a wine by taste alone. The pride in his eyes when she negotiated with distributors. He desired her, yes, but he also respected her in a way Marcus never had.
The grand reopening of the vineyard was scheduled for October, a harvest festival that would introduce Evelyn’s first vintage to the world. Invitations went to every major player in the wine industry, every critic who’d ever written about the Harper family’s mediocre pon noir. Marcus and Clare were conspicuously not invited. The day before the festival, Evelyn stood in the renovated tasting room, watching workers hang lights and arrange tables.
The space looked nothing like it had under Marcus’s family. It looked elegant and modern, ready to produce wines that would make history. Nervous, Ezra appeared beside her, two glasses of wine in hand. Their first vintage, a pon noir that had been aging in French oak for exactly 90 days. Terrified, Evelyn admitted, taking a glass.
What if it’s not good enough? What if I’ve destroyed the Harper legacy instead of saving it? Taste it, Ezra commanded gently. She did, and relief flooded through her. It was young, yes, needed more time, but the bones were there. Complexity, depth, a hint of what it would become. It was going to be extraordinary.
It’s going to be perfect, Ezra said, reading her expression. Just like you. I’m not perfect, Evelyn protested. I’m vindictive and petty and I’m sleeping with a criminal to get revenge on my ex. Alleged criminal, he corrected with a smile. And you’re sleeping with me because you want to. The revenge is just a bonus.
He set down his glass and pulled her close. I need to tell you something. The seriousness in his tone made her heart skip. What? I’m being investigated. The FBI has been building a case for months, and they’re getting close. How close? Evelyn’s stomach dropped.
She’d known this was coming, had known from the moment she’d looked him up that Ezra Castellano lived on borrowed time, but knowing abstractly and hearing it out loud were different things. Close enough that my lawyers are nervous. Close enough that I need to start distancing my legitimate businesses from my less legitimate ones. Ezra’s hands were steady on her waist, his voice calm. Which means the vineyard needs to be entirely yours.
No shell companies, no hidden ownership. Just you. They’ll know, Evelyn said immediately. They’ll know you’re behind it, that I’m connected to you. It won’t protect either of us. It will protect you, he corrected. If I go down, and I might, you’ll have plausible deniability.
A vineyard you legitimately own, bought with money that was cleanly laundered before it reached you. The FBI can suspect all they want, but they won’t be able to prove you knew where the funding came from. Evelyn pulled back to look at him. You planned this from the beginning. The vineyard wasn’t just about revenge or wine. It was about setting me up with something legitimate before everything falls apart. Yes, no apology, no shame.
I told you that first night, you have excellent taste in wine. You deserve a vineyard that matches your talent, whether I’m around to enjoy it with you or not. You’re talking like you’re going to prison. I’m talking like a man who understands probability. Ezra cuped her face, his thumb tracing her cheekbone.
I’ve been doing this for 15 years, Evelyn. I’ve gotten away with things that should have put me away for life. The odds were always going to catch up eventually. She should have been angry. Should have felt used, manipulated, set up. Instead, all she felt was a fierce, unexpected protectiveness.
This dangerous man had given her a vineyard, had helped her rebuild her career, had looked at her like she was the rarest vintage in existence. What if I don’t want plausible deniability? Evelyn asked. What if I want to fight for you? Then you’d be an idiot, Ezra said. But his voice was rough with emotion. And you’re the smartest woman I know.
Promise me if this goes bad, you’ll let me go. You’ll take the vineyard and you’ll make something beautiful. And you’ll forget about the criminal who helped you get revenge. I can’t promise that. Evelyn. No. She kissed him hard and desperate. You don’t get to give me everything I didn’t know I wanted and then ask me to forget you. That’s not how this works.
That’s exactly how this has to work, Ezra said against her mouth. But he was kissing her back, his hands tangling in her hair. I’m not a good man. I’ve done things that would horrify you. I don’t get the happy ending with the brilliant sumelier. Maybe I don’t want a good man. Evelyn shot back.
Maybe I want the man who understands why a 96 Petruse is better than a 95, who helped me destroy my ex- fiance, who looks at me like I’m worth more than all the stolen art in his collection. They made love in the tasting room, desperate and intense, surrounded by barrels of wine that would outlast whatever happened next. Afterward, lying on the floor with Ezra’s jacket as a pillow, Evelyn made a decision.
I’m not letting you go, she said quietly. If the FBI comes, I’ll get you the best lawyers. If you need an alibi, I’ll provide one. If you go to prison, I’ll visit every week with bottles of wine I’m not supposed to smuggle in. Ezra laughed, pained, and genuine. You’re insane. You keep saying that,” Evelyn echoed his words from weeks ago.
“But I’m not changing my mind.” The harvest festival was a triumph. Critics raved about the transformation of the vineyard, about Evelyn’s vision and expertise. Orders came flooding in before the first vintage was even bottled. By sunset, Evelyn had secured contracts with three Michelin starred restaurants and a distributor in Hong Kong.
Marcus showed up anyway, drunk and belligerent, dragging Clare behind him. Security stopped them at the gate, but not before Marcus started shouting about theft and betrayal and illegal dealings. Everything was done legally, Evelyn said coldly, walking out to confront them with Ezra at her back. “Your family sold the vineyard to a legitimate buyer. The fact that I’m running it now is simply good business.
You’re sleeping with him.” Clare spat, glaring at Ezra. Everyone knows you threw away your career, your reputation, your family for a criminal. I threw away a cheating fiance and a backstabbing sister. Evelyn corrected. I gained a vineyard, a career I actually control, and a man who respects me. I’d say I came out ahead.
He’s using you, Marcus slurred. He’s using you to launder money, to legitimize his business. You’re just another asset to him. Evelyn felt Ezra tense behind her. Felt his anger like a physical thing. But she didn’t need him to defend her. Not this time. Even if that were true, she said, I’d rather be a valued asset to Ezra than a trophy wife to you. At least he’s honest about what he wants from me.
She turned her back on them, on the life she’d almost had, and walked back to the festival with Ezra’s hand in hers. behind them. Security escorted Marcus and Clare off the property. She didn’t look back. “You handled that well,” Ezra murmured as they rejoined the party. “I learned from the best,” Evelyn replied, squeezing his hand. “Now come on.
The wine critic from the Times wants to talk about our barrel aging process, and I need you to charm her while I discuss oak varietals. Using me for my charm, I’m wounded. You’ll survive. They worked the crowd together. Evelyn discussing wine with the passion that had made her a master sleier. Ezra providing the dark, dangerous edge that made everything more exciting.
They were a team, she realized, an unlikely, probably doomed team, but a team nonetheless. As the sun set over the vineyard painting the sky in shades of rose and gold, Evelyn stood with Ezra on the veranda watching their guests toast with wine that bore her name on the label. “Thank you,” she said quietly.
“For all of this, for believing I could do it.” “I never doubted you for a second,” Ezra replied. “You’re extraordinary, Evelyn Harper. With or without me, you were always going to be extraordinary. Two weeks later, the FBI raided Ezra’s gallery. They seized art, documents, computers, everything. The news broke on a Tuesday morning while Evelyn was meeting with distributors in Manhattan.
Her phone exploded with messages, news alerts, calls from her mother. She ignored all of it and went straight to Ezra’s penthouse. He was there surprisingly calm, watching the news coverage with a glass of whiskey. I told you to stay away, he said when she walked in. This is exactly what we talked about. And I told you I wasn’t going anywhere.
Evelyn took the whiskey from his hand, drank half of it. What do you need? A time machine? Ezra’s smile was bitter. They have enough to charge me. My lawyers say they’ll offer a deal. 10 years if I cooperate. Testimony against my associates. Will you take it? No. He pulled her into his lap, buried his face in her hair. I won’t put targets on other people’s backs.
Even criminals have a code. Evelyn’s hands shook as she held him. 10 years, possibly more if he went to trial. A decade of her life without this dangerous, complicated man who’d somehow become essential. Then we fight, she said fiercely. We get the best defense team money can buy. We find every loophole, every technicality.
We make them work for every single charge. Evelyn, no. She pulled back to look at him. You gave me a vineyard. You helped me rebuild my entire life. You think I’m just going to let you go quietly? You don’t know me at all if you think that. Ezra kissed her deep and desperate. “I love you,” he said against her mouth. “I wasn’t supposed to, but I do.
You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I’m about to ruin your life. You love me.” Evelyn’s heart was racing. They’d never said it before, had danced around it for weeks, but hearing it now with everything falling apart felt both perfect and tragic. Desperately, Ezra confirmed. Which is why you need to walk away before you’re photographed here, before anyone can connect you to this more than they already have.
I love you, too, Evelyn said, because if he could be brave enough to say it, so could she. and I’m not walking away. So, you can either accept that I’m staying and let me help, or you can waste time arguing while the FBI builds their case.” He stared at her for a long moment. This brilliant, infuriating woman who’d crashed into his life with a drunken request for a kiss and somehow become everything.
Then he laughed, helpless and genuine. “You’re going to be the death of me.” Probably, Evelyn agreed. But not today. Today we call your lawyers and we start fighting back. The trial lasted four months and made headlines across the country. The prosecution presented a damning case, 15 years of art theft, illegal antiquities trading, and money laundering through galleries and auction houses.
They had paper trails, witness testimony, photographs of Ezra with known criminals. What they didn’t have was direct evidence of murder, weapons dealing, or the truly dark crimes the tabloids love to speculate about. Ezra had been careful, insulated by layers of associates and shell companies.
His lawyer, a shark named Victoria Chen, who charged $1,000 an hour, tore apart the prosecution’s timeline with surgical precision. Evelyn attended every day of the trial, sitting in the front row in elegant suits that said she refused to be intimidated. The press called her the mafia sumeier, which was both inaccurate and impossible to shake.
Her face was in every tabloid, her past with Marcus dragged up and dissected. Evelyn Harper trades one scandal for another, page six declared. From cheating fiance to criminal lover, the master sumeier certainly has a type. Her mother begged her to skip the trial, to distance herself before it was too late.
Sarah stopped calling after Evelyn refused to see reason. Even her professional colleagues started avoiding her, afraid that association would taint their own reputations. Evelyn didn’t care. She showed up every day, and every evening she returned to the vineyard, working until her hands achd, and her mind was too tired for fear. The first vintage was bottled and ready for release.
Orders were still coming in despite the scandal, or maybe because of it. Notoriety sold almost as well as quality. On day 73 of the trial, the prosecution called Marcus as a witness. Evelyn felt Ezra tense in his seat at the defense table. He’d been composed throughout the entire trial, never showing emotion. But now his jaw tightened.
He’d promised her he wouldn’t react, wouldn’t give them the satisfaction, but she could see the effort it took. Marcus took the stand, looking smug, dressed in an expensive suit that probably came from his new girlfriend’s money. Clare had dumped him 3 weeks after the vineyard sale. Apparently, loyalty wasn’t her strong suit with anyone. Mr. Harper, the prosecutor began.
Can you describe your relationship with the defendant? I don’t have one, Marcus said clearly. But he manipulated my ex- fiance into a relationship in order to steal my family’s vineyard. It was a deliberate, calculated attack. Ezra’s lawyer objected immediately. Speculation. The witness has no direct knowledge of Mr. Castiano’s relationship with Ms. Harper.
sustained,” the judge agreed, but the damage was done. The jury had heard it. The prosecutor continued, walking Marcus through the timeline of the vineyard sale, implying that Ezra had targeted Evelyn specifically to hurt Marcus’s family. It was absurd. Ezra hadn’t even known who Marcus was before that night at the gala, but the narrative was compelling.
When Victoria Chen cross-examined, she was merciless. Mr. Harper, isn’t it true that you were having an affair with Miss Harper’s sister during your engagement? Marcus flushed. That’s not relevant. It’s extremely relevant, Victoria countered. You’re claiming, Mister Castellano manipulated your ex- fiance, but you were the one who betrayed her first. Correct.
That doesn’t have anything to do with answer the question, the judge instructed. Yes, Marcus admitted through gritted teeth. I had a relationship with her sister. A six-month affair, Victoria clarified that you conducted behind Ms. Harper’s back while planning a wedding with her.
And when she discovered this affair at a public event, she ended the relationship. Correct? Yes. But and 3 weeks after that, the vineyard was sold. a vineyard that, according to financial records, was hemorrhaging money and facing bankruptcy within 6 months. Your family needed to sell, didn’t they, Mr. Harper? Marcus’ lawyer had clearly not prepared him for this line of questioning.
He stuttered through an explanation about temporary setbacks and bad harvests, but Victoria had the financial documents. The jury could see the truth. The vineyard had been failing long before Ezra bought it. So to be clear, Victoria said, “Mr. Castellano didn’t steal anything.
He made a legitimate offer for a failing business, and Ms. Harper, a master sleier with impeccable credentials, chose to run it. The fact that this hurts your pride doesn’t make it illegal, does it?” “Objection,” the prosecutor called weakly. “Withdrawn,” Victoria said with a smile that could cut glass. No further questions.
Marcus was dismissed looking significantly less smug than when he’d arrived. Evelyn caught his eye as he left the courtroom, and the hatred there should have bothered her. Instead, she felt only satisfaction. He tried to hurt Ezra and had only made himself look petty and jealous. That evening, Evelyn visited Ezra at his penthouse. He was out on bail, wearing an ankle monitor that tracked his every movement, confined to a 5m radius.
The restrictions were killing him. She could see it in the tension in his shoulders. The way he stared out at the city he could no longer freely move through. “Marcus is an idiot,” she said, coming up behind him and wrapping her arms around his waist. “Victoria destroyed him. She’s very good at her job.
” Ezra agreed. His hands covered hers, holding them against his chest. But it doesn’t change the facts. They have me on money laundering at minimum. Even if Victoria gets the art theft charges dismissed, I’m looking at 5 to 7 years. 5 to 7 years isn’t forever, Evelyn said, though her throat was tight. The vineyard will still be there. I’ll still be there.
Ezra turned in her arms, his face serious. You can’t wait for me. 5 years, Evelyn. You’ll be 36 when I get out. You should be married. Have children if you want them. Have a life that doesn’t involve conjugal visits and collect calls. Don’t, Evelyn said sharply. Don’t try to noble sacrifice me. I’m a grown woman making my own choices. If I want to wait for you, that’s my decision.
It’s a stupid decision. Then I’m stupid. She pulled him down for a kiss that tasted like defiance and desperation. I love you. I’m not apologizing for that and I’m not walking away because things got difficult. They made love with the franticness of people running out of time.
And afterward, lying in his bed surrounded by stolen art and expensive sheets, Ezra asked, “Marry me?” Evelyn froze. “What? Marry me?” he repeated, propping himself up on one elbow to look at her. Before the verdict comes down, before they potentially take me away, marry me and let me have something good, something pure, before I pay for all the things I’ve done.
That’s the worst proposal I’ve ever heard, Evelyn said. But she was crying, tears streaming down her face. You’re not supposed to propose because you’re going to prison. I’m proposing because I love you,” Ezra corrected, wiping away her tears with his thumb. “Because you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
Because even if I spend the next seven years in a cell, I want to know that for one perfect moment, you were mine in every way that matters.” “I’m already yours,” Evelyn whispered. “Then make it legal.” He kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her mouth. Marry me, Evelyn Harper. Let me be your husband. Even if I’m a terrible one, let me have that. She should have said no.
Should have pointed out that marrying him would destroy what was left of her reputation, would tie her legally to a convicted criminal, would make her life exponentially harder. Instead, she said yes. They were married 3 days later in a private ceremony at the vineyard with only Victoria Chen and Ezra’s head of security as witnesses.
Evelyn wore a simple white dress and carried a bouquet of grapes from their vines. Ezra wore a suit without the ankle monitor visible, though they both knew it was there. The officient was a judge who owed Ezra a favor and didn’t ask questions. The ceremony lasted 10 minutes. When Ezra kissed her as his wife, Evelyn tasted salt and realized they were both crying. “I love you,” he said against her mouth.
“Whatever happens next, remember that.” “I love you, too,” Evelyn replied. “And I’m going to fight for you until they close the cell door. Even then, I’ll keep fighting.” They spent their wedding night in the master bedroom of the vineyard house, drinking a bottle of Roman Conti that Ezra had been saving for a special occasion.
It was the same vintage as the first bottle he’d ever shared with her the night everything changed. “Regreats?” Ezra asked as they watched the sunrise over the vines. “Only that we didn’t have more time,” Evelyn admitted. “But no, I don’t regret you. I don’t regret any of it. The verdict came down on a Tuesday in December. Guilty on money laundering. Guilty on illegal antiquities trading.
Not guilty on the art theft charges that Victoria had systematically dismantled. The judge sentenced Ezra to 6 years in federal prison. Eligible for parole after four. Evelyn sat in the courtroom and didn’t cry. Not when they read the verdict. Not when they led Ezra away in handcuffs. She waited until she was in her car alone in the parking garage before she let herself fall apart. 4 years minimum.
Four years of visiting rooms and monitored phone calls and sleeping alone in a bed that smelled like him. Four years of running a vineyard by herself, of being known as the woman who married a criminal, of waiting. But she’d promised to wait. And Evelyn Harper kept her promises. The first year was the hardest.
Ezra was sent to a minimum security facility in Pennsylvania, close enough that Evelyn could visit every other weekend. They had 30 minutes each time, sitting across from each other at a plastic table, not allowed to touch except for a brief kiss hello and goodbye. Evelyn told him about the vineyard, about the awards their first vintage was winning, about the expansion plans she was developing.
Ezra told her about the books he was reading, the other inmates, the monotony of prison routine. They didn’t talk about how much they missed each other. That was too painful, and there was never enough time. At night, alone in the vineyard house, Evelyn worked until exhaustion made sleep possible. She threw herself into the wine, developing new blends, experimenting with techniques she’d only read about.
The vineyard became her therapy, her obsession, the thing that kept her sane. The second year was slightly easier. Evelyn had a rhythm now. Visits every other weekend, phone calls on Tuesday and Thursday evenings, letters in between. She’d hired a full staff for the vineyard and was producing three different labels, all critically acclaimed. Money was no longer a concern.
Between the wine sales and the legitimate investments Ezra had set up before his arrest, she was wealthy in her own right. Marcus tried to sue for ownership of the vineyard, claiming the sale had been made under duress. His case was thrown out within a month. He had no standing and no evidence. Clare sent a letter asking for money claiming family obligation. Evelyn burned it and didn’t respond.
Her mother visited once, surprising Evelyn by arriving unannounced on a Saturday morning. “I don’t approve,” her mother said, walking through the vineyard that now bore Evelyn’s name on every label. “I think you threw your life away for a criminal. But I’m proud of what you’ve built here.
Your father would have been proud, too. It wasn’t forgiveness, but it was something.” Evelyn took it. The third year, Ezra was transferred to a facility in New York, even closer. The visits increased to once a week. He looked older, lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there before, but his smile when he saw her was the same.
Two more years, he said during one visit. Maybe less if I get parole. Can you wait two more years? I’d wait 20, Evelyn replied and meant it. On their third anniversary, Evelyn brought a bottle of their wine to the visiting room. The guards confiscated it immediately. Alcohol wasn’t allowed, but they’d seen it.
Ezra had seen her bring a bottle of Harper Vineyard Reserve, the wine that critics were calling transcendent and the best American pino noir in a generation. “You did it,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “You made something extraordinary.” We did it, Evelyn corrected. This is ours. The fourth year, Ezra came up for parole.
Evelyn attended the hearing with Victoria Chen, who was still technically on retainer, though Ezra had paid her enough to retire twice over. They presented evidence of Ezra’s good behavior, his participation in prison education programs, letters from the warden praising his conduct. The parole board deliberated for 3 hours. When they granted parole, Evelyn’s knees actually gave out. Victoria caught her laughing and crying at the same time.
They’d done it. After 4 years of waiting, of visiting rooms and monitored calls and sleeping alone, Ezra was coming home. He was released on a Wednesday in April, early morning, when the spring sun was just starting to warm the vineyard. Evelyn picked him up herself, standing outside the prison gates in jeans and one of his old shirts.
her hair in a messy bun. When Ezra walked out, he looked thinner, older, but his eyes found her immediately. She ran to him, not caring about dignity or composure, and he caught her, lifting her off her feet like she weighed nothing. “Hi,” he said, his face buried in her hair. “Hi,” Evelyn replied, crying and laughing. “Welcome home.
” They drove to the vineyard in silence, hands clasped, unable to speak past the emotion. When they pulled up to the house, Ezra stopped and stared. She’d expanded it, added a second floor and a proper wine celler. The grounds were immaculate, the vines heavy with new growth.
In the distance, she could see workers tending the fields, the business of the vineyard continuing like a welloiled machine. You’ve been busy, Ezra said quietly. I had a lot of time to fill, Evelyn replied. Come on, I want to show you something. She led him to the wine celler, newly built and climate controlled to perfection.
Rows of bottles lined the walls, different vintages and labels, all bearing the Harper name. But in the center of the room, in a place of honor, sat a single bottle in a custom display case. Roman Conti, 1945. You didn’t, Ezra breathed. I did, Evelyn confirmed. I tracked it down through one of your old contacts. Don’t ask which one or how much I paid. You don’t want to know.
But I’ve been saving it for today. She opened the case and pulled out the bottle with reverent hands. This vintage produced right after World War II when wine- making materials were scarce and every bottle was precious, was legendary, worth at least $200,000, possibly more. This is insane, Ezra said, but he was smiling.
“You keep saying that,” Evelyn teased, echoing their first conversation. She pulled out two crystal glasses, the good ones she’d bought for this specific moment. But you’re not stopping me. They opened the bottle together, letting it breathe for exactly 10 minutes before pouring. The wine was the color of garnets and autumn leaves.
And when Evelyn tasted it, she actually gasped. “Oh my god, extraordinary?” Ezra asked, watching her face. “By extraordinary.” She handed him his glass. This is This is everything wine should be. history and art and passion in liquid form. They drank slowly, savoring every sip, sitting on the floor of the wine celler like teenagers sneaking their parents’ alcohol. Outside, the vineyard hummed with life.
Inside, they had this perfect moment, this perfect wine, this perfect reunion. “I need to tell you something,” Ezra said, setting down his empty glass. “The FBI still watches me. They always will. Being with me means being scrutinized, investigated, suspected. Your life would be easier if Evelyn kissed him, cutting off the words.
Don’t Don’t try to martyr yourself again. We’ve been married for 4 years. I’ve waited for you. Built a life for us. Tracked down a bottle of wine that technically shouldn’t exist on the open market. I’m in this, Ezra. Completely. You could still No, she said firmly.
The only thing I could do is love you for the rest of my life and make wine that people will talk about for generations. That’s it. That’s the only option. Ezra pulled her into his lap, holding her like he dreamed about for 4 years. I don’t deserve you. Probably not, Evelyn agreed. But you’re stuck with me anyway. They made love in the wine celler, surrounded by bottles that would outlast them both, christening this new chapter of their lives.
And later, much later, they walked through the vineyard hand in hand as the sun set, talking about plans for the future. I want to expand, Evelyn said. Add a tasting room, maybe a restaurant, host events, educational seminars, make this place a destination. I want to go legitimate, Ezra replied. No more gray areas, no more questionable deals, just wine and art that I acquire legally.
Can you do that? Go completely straight after everything for you. He stopped walking, turned to face her. I can do anything. I spent 4 years in prison thinking about the life I wanted with you. It doesn’t include the FBI or criminal investigations or any of that. Just this, just us, just making something beautiful together. They sealed the promise with a kiss as the sun disappeared behind the hills, painting the sky in shades of wine and blood and gold.
5 years after Ezra’s release, Harper Vineyard had become one of the most acclaimed wineries on the east coast. Their pon Noir won international awards. Their Chardonnay was served at the White House. Wine critics made pilgrimages to taste their limited release vintages and bottles sold out within hours of each launch.
Evelyn and Ezra ran it together, a team in every sense. He handled the business side, the distribution and marketing, the careful navigation of an industry that still whispered about his past. She managed the wine-making, the artistry, the creation of vintages that would define a generation. They’d converted the old barn into a tasting room that hosted educational seminars and private events.
The wine celler had become legendary, filled with bottles that collectors dreamed about. And in a private room that only they had access to, Ezra had assembled a legal collection of art that rivaled any museum. Pieces he’d acquired through legitimate auction houses, documented and clean. On a Tuesday in October, exactly 7 years after the night Evelyn had drunkenly begged a stranger to kiss her, they hosted an exclusive dinner at the vineyard.
50 guests, all major players in the wine world, all there to celebrate the release of their seventh vintage. The menu was designed by a James Beard award-winning chef. Each course paired with a different wine, building to a finale that had taken Evelyn 3 years to perfect.
As she stood to give the opening toast, she caught Ezra’s eye across the room and smiled. Seven years ago, she began, her voice carrying across the intimate space. I caught my fianceé cheating with my sister at a wine gala. I was devastated, drunk on champagne, and made possibly the most impulsive decision of my life. I asked a complete stranger to kiss me just to make my ex jealous.
Polite laughter rippled through the crowd. They all knew this story, had read about it in magazines and gossip columns, but Evelyn wasn’t finished. That stranger turned out to be Ezra Castillano, a man with a reputation that should have sent me running.
Instead, he offered me a bottle of Roman Conti and a chance to build something extraordinary. Everything you taste tonight, everything this vineyard has become, started with that one reckless kiss. She raised her glass filled with their newest vintage, a pino noir that had aged for 7 years in French oak. So here’s to bad decisions, dangerous men, and the courage to build a life out of revenge and champagne.
Here’s to Harper Vineyard. To Harper Vineyard, the crowd echoed, and the dinner began. Hours later, after the last guest had left, and the staff had cleaned up, Evelyn and Ezra sat on the veranda with a bottle of the Roman Conti from their wedding night. The vineyard spread out before them, peaceful in the moonlight, vines heavy with next year’s harvest.
“Do you regret it?” Ezra asked quietly. “Any of it, the scandal, the trial, the years I was gone?” Evelyn considered the question seriously, sipping wine that cost more than most people’s cars. I regret that Marcus cheated. I regret losing years with you to prison, but everything else. She turned to look at him.
This dangerous, complicated man who’d helped her build an empire out of heartbreak. No, I don’t regret loving you. I don’t regret this vineyard. I don’t regret becoming the woman I needed to be. Even though everyone still calls you the mafia sumeier, especially because of that, Evelyn laughed. Do you know how much free publicity that nickname gets us? We’re infamous.
People come here hoping to catch a glimpse of the criminal and his wine- makingaking wife. They stay for the wine and leave with stories. Your mother would be horrified. My mother came to Christmas last year and got drunk on our Chardonnay. She’s coping. Evelyn set down her glass and moved to sit in Ezra’s lap the way she had a thousand times before. Besides, we’re respectable now.
Mostly, you haven’t stolen anything in 5 years. 6 years, Ezra corrected, his arms coming around her waist. I stopped the moment I decided I wanted you more than I wanted the thrill. Best decision I ever made. They sat in comfortable silence, watching the stars come out over the vineyard. In the distance, Evelyn could see the lights of the main house, the tasting room, the cellar where bottles worth millions aged quietly in the dark.
Marcus tried to visit last month, she said. Eventually, security turned him away, but he left a letter. Want to know what it said? Do I want to know? He wanted to apologize, said he’d made terrible mistakes, that leaving me was the worst decision of his life. Evelyn snorted. Apparently, he’s tried to start three different wine ventures and they’ve all failed.
Clare left him for a stock broker. He’s alone and broke and working for someone else’s vineyard. And you feel nothing, Evelyn said honestly. I looked at that letter and felt absolutely nothing. No anger, no satisfaction, just nothing. He’s irrelevant. A footnote in a story that became so much bigger than revenge. We should send him a bottle, Ezra suggested, amusement coloring his tone.
Our newest vintage. Let him taste what he could have had. That’s petty. I’m a petty man. He kissed her neck, making her shiver. Besides, the best revenge is living well, and I’d say we’re living extraordinarily well. They made love on the veranda under the stars, not caring about the potential for scandal or impropriy. They were married.
They owned the vineyard, and 7 years of fighting for each other had burned away any remaining shame. Later, wrapped in a blanket and sharing the last of the Roman AI, Evelyn asked, “Do you think we would have found each other if Marcus hadn’t cheated? If I’d never gone to that gala?” “No,” Ezra said honestly.
“I think you would have married him, had a mediocre life making mediocre wine, and been quietly miserable. I think I would have eventually gotten caught anyway, and gone to prison with nothing to come home to.” So Clare did us a favor really by being a terrible person. The worst people sometimes create the best opportunities. He tilted her face up to kiss her slow and deep.
I should send her a thank you card. Don’t you dare. They finished the wine as dawn broke over the vineyard, painting the vines in shades of rose and gold. 7 years since that first kiss. Four years since Ezra’s release. a lifetime ahead of them, building something beautiful out of scandal and champagne and love that had survived federal prison.
“I love you,” Evelyn said, watching the sunrise. “My alleged criminal, my dangerous man, my husband.” “I love you, too,” Ezra replied, his arms tightening around her. “My brilliant sumeier, my partner, my salvation.” They sat together as the vineyard woke up around them, workers arriving for the morning shift, the business of wine- making beginning another day.
In the cellar below, bottles aged quietly, gaining complexity and value with each passing year. In the tasting room, reservations were already booked months in advance. In the private collection, art worth millions hung on walls, all of it legal, all of it clean. Harper Vineyard had become exactly what Evelyn had dreamed of when she was drowning in champagne and heartbreak 7 years ago. Not just a successful business, but a legacy.
A testament to the fact that sometimes the worst nights of your life led to the best decisions. “Come on,” Evelyn said, standing and pulling Ezra to his feet. “We have a harvest to oversee, a tasting room to prepare, and a wine critic from France arriving at noon. Our dangerous, scandalous, absolutely perfect life awaits.
Wouldn’t have it any other way, Ezra agreed, following her into the house that had become their sanctuary. Behind them, the empty bottle of Roman Conti sat on the table, a relic of the journey that had brought them here. From a drunken kiss at a gala to a criminal trial. From prison visits to international acclaim, they had built something that transcended revenge.
They had built love, partnership, and the finest vineyard on the east coast. And every bottle they produced, every vintage that bore the Harper name was a tribute to that first reckless moment when Evelyn Harper had looked at the most dangerous man in the room and asked, “Can you kiss me? I want to make him jealous.” She had touched the mafia boss and lived to tell the tale.
Better than that, she had married him, reformed him, and built an empire with him. The best revenge, as it turned out, wasn’t just living well. It was living dangerously, passionately, and abundantly happy.