I wrote a joke that goes like this: “I just wrote a story about the cutthroat world of counterfeit wine called The Sommelier Pirates”. Funny, right? So I told that joke to someone at work and they were equally disappointed with the joke AND that the story doesn’t exist.
So I did what any reasonable person would do: I just wrote a story about the cutthroat world of counterfeit wine called The Sommelier Pirates.
The Last Vintage
The night air in Paris was crisp, carrying with it the promise of autumn. Inside his elegant home, Lucien Moreau, renowned sommelier and a connoisseur of life’s finer aspects, entertained his evening’s final guest.
The dining room was a portrait of understated taste. Silver cutlery glinted against the white tablecloth, and crystal glasses sparkled with a focused polish. The conversation between Moreau and his guest flowed as smoothly as the wine in their glasses — a rare vintage from Moreau’s personal collection.
“As always, Lucien, your hospitality is impeccable,” his guest remarked, and raised their glass in a gesture of appreciation.
Moreau smiled, the lines on his face speaking of years spent in pursuit of perfection. “Wine, like life, is to be savored,” he replied with a passion that only a true devotee of the vine could possess. The meal progressed but as the evening wore on, a subtle change came over him. A flush spread across his cheeks, and his hands began to tremble ever so slightly.
The guest watched intently, their eyes betraying nothing. “Lucien, are you feeling quite well?”
Moreau paused, a look of confusion crossing his features. “I… I’m not sure. I feel a bit… off.”
His guest leaned forward, their voice laced with concern. “Perhaps it’s the excitement of the evening. You should rest.”
Moreau nodded, struggling to rise from his chair. His vision blurred, and the room spun around him. The bottle of wine, now half-empty, stood on the table, a silent witness to Moreau’s final toast. The night grew deeper, and Lucien Moreau, once a vibrant force in the world of wine, lay still. His passing marked the end of an era that sent ripples through the heart of Paris.
Chapter 1. Shadows on the Seine
In a dimly lit corner of a dimly lit Parisian bistro, an impossibly rare and expensive bottle of wine was being carefully uncorked. The hands uncorking the bottle were smooth and steady beneath white woolen gloves. The corkscrew was fashioned the same year the wine was bottled. The wine was poured, barely a splash, into a stemmed glass nearly as old as the restaurant itself. Blackwood carefully placed the glass in front of the proprietor before pouring another, substantially more generous portion for himself.
“What is this?”
“This is to celebrate.”
“Celebrate! We haven’t even started talking yet. Perhaps this should wait.”
Blackwood hefted a forgettable black leather tote onto the table and unbuckled the straps on top. The proprietor peered inside to see six identical bottles nestled securely in their sleeves and strapped to the inside of the carrier.
“These are the last of the prewar Rothschilds and they go to auction on Monday, if you don’t celebrate with me tonight. But we both know who sits at this very table tomorrow evening, and how indebted they’ll be, to you, when they learn where these have landed. Now, do we have an understanding?”
The proprietor reluctantly pulled his glance out of the case and back to Blackwood’s face, his eyes narrowing momentarily.
“But how is it that you have them, I thought they were part of the…”
“So I guess that’s a no then.” Blackwood began to refasten the buckle and the proprietor instinctively reached out for the case before forcing his hands back to the table, palms down.
“Just, just hang on a second,” he said before reaching instead for his glass of wine.
…
The heavens above Paris opened as Elias Blackwood stepped into the cool embrace of the night, a gentle weeping that turned the city into a canvas of softened streets and blurred lights. Each lamp post became a beacon to the wandering and the wayward. For Blackwood, the rain was a companion, a cloak of obscurity under which he could traverse his own thoughts as easily as the streets and alleys that led back to his apartment.
Blackwood’s home lay in a quarter that was neither counted among the poorest nor with those whose opulence paraded itself unabashedly out to every corner. It was a place where one could easily dissolve into the solemnity and anonymity that only these streets could bestow.
He trudged the three flights of warn steps up to his flat and closed the heavy door behind him with a thud and a click, the final notes to the evening’s performance. Within these walls Blackwood could shed the skin of the sophisticate he presented to the world. Here in his quietude might he finally reflect on the nature of his trade, the intricacies of his craft that few could understand yet most pretended to have mastered long ago.
Even as he poured himself a glass from a bottle genuinely worthy of the name it bore, Blackwood knew it would remain undrunk. Outside the showers grew heavier, now dancing now unrelenting; silvered sheets of rain crossed the river, marched through the streets below his apartment, climbed the sides of his building and pushed his eyes firmly shut as he sat upright on his sofa.
…
The warehouse, nestled among many others along an unassuming backstreet of Paris, was a temple to the clandestine. Within its walls, a ballet of illegality was choreographed with a precision that would have impressed the most pedigreed vintners. This was where Blackwood met with his partner — a man known only as ‘The Artisan.’
The Artisan stood as a figure enshrouded within the paradox of his trade. He was of medium height, with an unassuming build that belied the sharpness of his mind. His face, often partially obscured by the dim lighting of the warehouse, carried a certain agelessness, marked by a pair of piercing gray eyes that seemed to appraise the world with a calculated detachment.
He greeted Blackwood with a familiar nod and friendly handshake. “Monsieur Blackwood,” he murmured, his voice as smooth as the aged Bordeaux they faithfully recreated, “our next batch awaits your discernment.”
They moved through the warehouse, a vast cavern where the air hung heavy with the scent of ink, glass, and aging wine. To one side, a group of men worked diligently at a printing press that hummed with quiet industry, producing labels so expertly forged they could deceive an expert’s eye. Each label was a masterpiece of aged paper and precise typography, promising authenticity and luxury.
In the adjoining space were glassblowers and artisans in their own right, each bottle blown a testament to their forbidden art; each movement birthing sculptures that mirrored the genuine articles to every curve and contour. The bottles stood in rows, their bodies soon to be filled with wine that was anything but what their labels would claim.
At the heart of the warehouse, large oak casks rested, their contents a blend of wines that The Artisan assured would mimic the taste profiles of the Châteaux they impersonated. Here, workers siphoned the liquid into bottles, corking and sealing them with a care that belied their fraudulent nature.
Blackwood watched the operation with an appraiser’s eye as he sampled a red whose label read “Hermitage La Chapelle”. It was rich, and convincing in its imitation.
“This is good. This is very good. A touch more oak, I think,” Blackwood suggested, his senses dissecting the liquid narrative. “And perhaps a hint of tobacco to anchor it. This is more a ’59 than ’61.”
“Oui, monsieur,” said one of the technicians as he made notes in his notebook.
Blackwood’s gaze lingered on the operation before him, a well-oiled machine of forgery. It was a delicate balance, this game of authenticity and illusion — one he played with the deftness of an old master. A final glance at the warehouse’s busy floor reminded him that in the world of wine, truth was often just a matter of perception. And perception, in the hands of craftsmen like Blackwood, was as malleable as the clay in the glassblower’s fiery kiln.
The Artisan stepped up to Blackwood and handed him another nondescript leather wine tote. “You know, Moreau, he,”
“I heard,” replied Blackwood.
“This could be your chance to, uh, marcher droit et étroit, no? Of course, you’d need to…”
“Artie, I’m going to stop you right there. Those guys are every bit the crooks that we are, but they’re paying taxes. And they represent everything about that world that I despise most.”
“Monsieur, be reasonable. This is not where you belong,” the Artisan waved casually at his operation, “You should be the most renowned vigneron in the country. In all of Europe!”
“Artie,”
“D’accord, I know. It was just a thought.”
…
Elias Blackwood stood among the rows of meticulously arranged wine bottles in the hotel’s respected restaurant, his eyes scanning the labels with professional discernment. His appointment with the general manager was a routine consultation to suggest rare vintages that might enrich their already impressive collection.
The restaurant murmured with the quiet energy of its morning patrons. A couple sat by the window and held hands across the table, their shared smiles infectious to all those who interacted with them. A businessman sat alone, his suit crisp, his expression a mask of concentration, if occasionally he stole a glance at Blackwood and the other guests. A booth was filled with the lively chatter of tourists, their animated gestures painting pictures of their travels.
Blackwood’s attention, however, was diverted by a woman examining a bottle of Château Lafite Rothschild with keen interest. There was something about her – the way she held the bottle, her focused gaze – that spoke of a genuine appreciation for wine. Intrigued, Blackwood found himself drawn to her.
Approaching casually, he commented, “That’s an exceptional choice. The ’82 is particularly remarkable.”
She looked up, her expression one of pleasant surprise. “I agree, though I’ve always had a soft spot for the ’78. There’s a certain depth to it.”
Blackwood was delighted by her response. The ’78, though less popular on the open market, was indeed more complicated and rewarding than its popular younger sister. And in his own clandestine efforts, Blackwood had found it impossible to replicate this vintage convincingly.
“I’ve always been fascinated by the stories behind each bottle,” she continued, “It’s not just the vineyards that intrigue me, but the entire voyage – from the grape to the glass, and most of all the unexpected detours in between.”
Blackwood nodded. “That’s a rare perspective. Most are content with just the label and the legacy.”
“Sometimes, what the label doesn’t say is just as important as what it does. You’d be surprised at how many secrets a bottle of wine can hold.”
Their conversation flowed naturally, a mutual appreciation for fine wine bridging the gap between strangers. Blackwood was impressed by her insight; it was rare to encounter someone who could converse so knowledgeably about vintages and vineyards.
As they chatted, lost in a conversation that ranged from the subtleties of Bordeaux to the complexities of Burgundy, Blackwood appreciated the rare moment of an exchange free from the pretenses of his usual agenda.
Their interaction was interrupted by the arrival of the restaurant’s general manager, who greeted Blackwood with a formal nod. “Mr. Blackwood, we’re ready for you. And I see you’ve met Miss Sterling, our owner.”
Both Blackwood and Miss Sterling looked momentarily taken aback, realizing the true stature of their conversational partner. Miss Sterling extended her hand with a smile that carried a new layer of understanding. “Mr. Blackwood, the wine consultant? I must say, your reputation precedes you.”
“Please, Miss Sterling, call me Elias.” Blackwood replied, returning her handshake. “Your hotel’s collection is impressive. It’s a pleasure to meet the person behind it.”
“I’ll call you Elias and you call me Rory. How about that?”
The general manager, sensing the shift in dynamics, quickly ushered Blackwood to discuss business, leaving Rory to attend to her own responsibilities. As they parted ways, there was a mutual glance of recognition – an acknowledgement of the connection they had unexpectedly formed.
In that brief exchange, something had sparked between them, a shared passion for wine that hinted at deeper layers yet to be explored. As Blackwood delved into his consultation, his mind remained with the conversation, with Rory, and the surprising turn the morning had taken.
…
Nestled amidst endless vineyards, Château Bellevigne stood as a testament to time-honored elegance and the storied history of French winemaking. Its stone façade, aged to a warm, earthy hue, was adorned with ivy that climbed like ancient veins across its surface. The grounds surrounding it were meticulously manicured, with rows of lavender and rose bushes adding bursts of color and fragrance.
Upon entering, guests were greeted by an opulent yet tasteful interior. High ceilings with exposed wooden beams loomed above, while ornate chandeliers cast a soft, ambient glow. The walls were lined with intricate tapestries and paintings that depicted pastoral scenes and the rich heritage of the region. Each room flowed into the next with a sense of understated grandeur, the furniture and decor blending classic antiques with comfortable modernity.
Large French doors opened to a terrace that overlooked the sprawling estate, offering a breathtaking view of the sun setting over the vineyards. The air was filled with a gentle breeze that carried the subtle notes of the earth and the distant scent of ripening grapes. It was a setting that spoke of legacy and tranquility, a fitting place to honor the memory of Lucien Moreau, whose influence had once permeated these very halls.
But beneath the veneer of mourning, darker currents swirled. Blackwood, a glass of wine in hand, scanned the crowd. He noted the overtones of melancholy mingling with the undercurrents of opportunism that such events inevitably drew. Guests, many prominent figures in the wine industry, mingled in quiet conversations, subdued under the shadow of Moreau’s unexpected passing.
Among the faces, one seemed familiar — a man whose presence was as discreet as it was calculated. This man approached Elias, his approach casual yet purposeful. “Moreau had an understanding of wine that few could match. He could sense the story behind each bottle, the journey of every grape. It was remarkable.”
Blackwood turned, meeting the solemn gaze of the businessman whose face he recalled from the hotel restaurant.
“Quite a selection they have here, isn’t it?” the man remarked suddenly much more casually, his eyes on a bottle of Romanée-Conti. “Though I find that sometimes even the rarest wines can disappoint.”
Blackwood understood the challenge. “True, but the value of a wine isn’t always in its rarity,” he replied, matching the man’s casual tone. “As you say, Moreau might consider the story behind it as that which captivates the palate”.
The man continued. “And sometimes, the most interesting part of a wine’s story is what happens off the vineyard. The hands it passes through can add interest and intrigue. And yet, those same hands can taint what was once a flawless vintage. It’s a delicate balance, maintaining the integrity of a wine’s story.”
“I suppose it is,” Blackwood replied cautiously, “though I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“Adrian,” the man replied as he reached out to shake Blackwood’s hand.
“Elias, a pleasure.”
The exchange continued, each man careful not to divulge too much, yet enough to maintain the intrigue. As the evening drew to a close, the Château seemed to whisper secrets of its own. Blackwood left with the knowledge that Adrian was more than just an observer in the world of wine. He was a player, one whose next move was as unpredictable as it was inevitable.
…
As the evening at Château Bellevigne waned, the guests, a mix of vintners, sommeliers, and connoisseurs, began to disperse under the fading glow of the sun. The Château’s owner, a noble with a keen eye for prestige, had often boasted of Moreau’s visits, elevating the estate’s status in the exclusive circles of wine aficionados. Now his final opportunity to play host to Moreau had come to an end.
Adrian lingered on the terrace, his gaze lost in the vine-covered hills that rolled away from the grand estate. The quiet of the moment was broken by the arrival of a nondescript figure, whose approach was as discreet as his attire. He stepped beside Adrian, his presence commanding despite his unremarkable appearance.
“Mr. Brown,” he began, his voice devoid of warmth, “Our employer sends his regards and reminds you that time is not a luxury we indulge in idly.”
Adrian’s expression hardened subtly. “The Château’s gathering was more than social courtesy. It’s all part of the play.”
“He expects progress, Mr. Brown, not plays,” the intermediary retorted. “Your maneuvers in the wine world, though intriguing, must yield results.”
Acknowledging with a curt nod, Adrian replied, “They will. The prize is more than just wines and estates. You can assure him of that.”
“Mr. Brown, I’m sure you are the last person to need reminding what the stakes really are. Good evening.”
And with that, the man melted back into the shadows, leaving Adrian alone on the terrace. Adrian’s gaze lingered on the vineyards as darkness enveloped the estate, which at last stood silent, a witness to the unseen machinations that surrounded the legacy of Lucien Moreau.
…
In the dimly lit confines of the warehouse, Blackwood and The Artisan stood among rows of meticulously crafted wine bottles. The cool air was filled with the scent of oak and aging grapes, a testament to the forbidden art they perfected.
The Artisan, holding a bottle from Elias’s recent batch of forgeries, turned to him, his expression a mix of admiration and concern. “Monsieur, your work has always been legendary in our circles,” he began, his voice tinged with a sense of gravity. “But these forgeries… they’re not just fooling collectors; they’re disrupting the market. The prices of the real vintages are fluctuating wildly.”
Elias, examining another bottle, replied nonchalantly, “Isn’t that the point? To blur the line between what’s real and what’s not?”
“Yes, but it’s more than that now,” The Artisan cautioned, placing the bottle back on the shelf. “You’ve created a ripple effect. High-end auctions, collectors, even the vineyards themselves are noticing. Maybe they can’t tell which bottle is which, but they all can count, and they all know the count is off. Some are impressed, others are… let’s say, less than thrilled.”
Blackwood paused, the weight of The Artisan’s words sinking in. “Are you saying we’re attracting too much attention?”
“J’sais pas,” The Artisan responded. “Your forgeries are a masterpiece, but they’re fed into a world where reputations and fortunes are built on authenticity. You’re challenging the very foundation of that world.”
Blackwood considered this, and felt it should be counted as a point of pride. “So, we continue?”
The Artisan looked around the warehouse, “We continue, but with caution. You’ve become a key player in this game, monsieur. And in this game, the stakes are always high, and the players… imprévisible.”
As Blackwood left the warehouse, the weight of his actions and their consequences lingered in his mind. He had started this journey as a challenge, a way to outwit the elitist world he despised. But now, he found himself at the center of a complex web, one that extended far beyond the confines of this hidden sanctuary of forgery.
Chapter 2: The Price of Preservation
The room was shrouded in darkness, broken only by the faint glow of a single desk lamp. Adrian sat hunched over his desk, his hands trembling as he clutched a crumpled photograph of his wife and daughter. Their smiles, once a source of unbridled joy, now mocked him in a cruel reminder of their absence.
Adrian remembered the chilling voice on the phone, cold and detached, informing him that what separated his wife and daughter from a tortured death was the series of choices that Adrian was about to make. The demands were clear and non-negotiable: complete his assigned tasks or lose his family forever. The room spun around Adrian as the foundations of his world were kicked out from beneath him.
The first task was to intercept a shipment of priceless vintage wines meant for a charity auction and replace them with expertly crafted counterfeits. The ease with which he accomplished it was as thrilling as it was horrifying to him, as was his willingness to discard the very moral and ethical safeguards that elevated him into the echelon of The Monarch’s awareness in the first place.
As weeks turned into months, the man in Adrian’s mirror became a stranger. Each subsequent task completed with a chilling efficiency that eroded his soul, marking his descent into a world he wish he never knew existed. His hands, once steady and sure as they evaluated the finest wines, now shook with the weight of his actions. In his eyes he only saw those of his victims; his smile reflected one who no longer masterfully executed his horrific role merely so his family might return to his side.
Adrian looked down at the photograph again. In saving them, he had already exchanged his life for theirs.
…
In the heart of Paris, nestled within a hidden vine-covered alley, lay a quaint, private wine cellar known only to a select few. Here, beneath the soft glow of wrought-iron lanterns, Elias Blackwood and Rory Sterling sat on a quiet evening, surrounded by ancient bottles and the promise of old stories told to new ears. The air was rich with the scent of oak and earth, a testament to the countless vintages resting within the walls. Elias, with a bottle of Château Margaux in hand, deftly uncorked it. He poured the deep red liquid into two glasses, the ruby hues catching the light as he handed one to Rory.
“To new discoveries,” he toasted, his eyes meeting hers.
Rory smiled, her gaze lingering on Elias a moment longer than necessary. “And to the stories they tell,” she replied, her voice a melody that seemed to harmonize perfectly with the cellar’s tranquil atmosphere. As they sipped, the conversation flowed effortlessly. Elias listened intently as Rory shared her experiences, her travels through the wine regions of France, Italy, and the New World, along with her aspirations for her hotel’s collection.
Their words wove a tapestry of understanding, a shared passion becoming the thread that drew them closer. As the evening progressed, the conversation turned personal. Elias found himself yearning to open up about his journey, the path that led him to the hidden underworld of wine. But what he could share though, Rory listened to intently, her eyes reflecting the soft lantern light.
In turn, Rory spoke of her own journey, of the challenges she faced taking over her family’s business, of her dreams to elevate it beyond its already esteemed reputation, and of her quest to intimately understand the industry who still regarded her somewhere between an observer and a novice player. There was a strength in her words, a determination that Elias finds both admirable and inspiring.
The night deepened, and the wine cellar, a haven from the world above, became a place of shared confidences and laughter. In this secluded space, away from the prying eyes of the city, Elias and Rory discovered a kinship that went beyond their professional lives.
As they began to prepare to leave, Elias peeked at his phone to see half a dozen missed calls. “Oh, uh, I’m so sorry – I need to make a phone call quickly,” he said.
“Of course! Don’t let me stop you.”
The quaint ambiance of the wine cellar began to feel constricting as Blackwood tried unsuccessfully to return The Artisan’s missed calls. It was unprecedented for The Artisan to reach out so persistently. Rory, sensing the change in Elias’s demeanor, perked up with a blend of concern and curiosity. “Is everything alright, Elias?”
Blackwood hesitated, not wanting to cast a shadow over the evening they’ve shared. “It’s probably nothing, just an old friend who’s been trying to reach me. He’s not one to call repeatedly without good reason.”
Rory nodded understandingly, her expression a mixture of empathy and intrigue. “Well, if you need to go, I understand. Sometimes, our personal and professional lives have a way of intertwining unexpectedly.”
Elias looked at Rory, torn between the desire to stay and the gnawing concern for The Artisan. “I should probably check on him. I apologize, Rory, this evening has been…”
She interrupted him with a gentle smile. “Don’t apologize. We all have our commitments and concerns. Let’s plan to meet again soon, under less pressing circumstances.”
With a reluctant farewell, Blackwood stepped out of the cellar into the cool Parisian night. The charm of the evening quickly began to drain with his thoughts now consumed with concern. He navigated the dimly lit streets heading towards The Artisan’s warehouse, his pace quickening with each unanswered call.
As Elias neared, a sense of foreboding washed over him. The usually bustling area was eerily quiet, and the faint smell of smoke tainted the air. His heart raced as he pushed open the door, only to be met with a scene of chaos and destruction.
The warehouse, once a hub of clandestine activity and craftsmanship, was in ruin. Shattered bottles, charred wood, and the remnants of what used to be bodies and a secretive empire lay scattered across the floor. Amidst the wreckage, Blackwood found The Artisan, barely alive, a shattered image of the man he once knew.
“Artie, what happened?” Elias asked, rushing to his side.
With labored breaths, The Artisan managed to utter a few words, “It was… Elias you must be careful… he’s after…”
But before he could finish The Artisan’s strength failed him and his eyes closed for the last time. Elias sat stunned and grief-stricken, the weight of his friend’s final words echoing through the now desolate warehouse.
In the haunting silence that followed The Artisan’s final breath, Blackwood stood amidst the wreckage, a mix of grief and determination on his face. The warehouse, once a sanctuary of clandestine craftsmanship, lay in ruins. He needed to find something, anything, that could point him toward who was responsible and what might come next.
He began to sift through the debris, his hands moving urgently. Amidst the shattered glass and charred remains, a small, partially burned piece of paper caught his eye — it seemed out of place among the ruins. He picked it up carefully, noting it was part of a shipping label, a type The Artisan often used for discreet deliveries.
Most of the text was illegible, but a few words and numbers were visible, including a partial address and today’s date. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. Elias pocketed the fragment, his mind racing. This could be a lead to their next move, a clue to the next target.
As he turned to leave, something else snagged his attention. Near the back of the warehouse, almost hidden in shadows, was a small, distinctive wine bottle, miraculously unscathed amidst the chaos. He recognized it instantly — a rare vintage The Artisan once mentioned was favored by a high-profile client with connections to the upper echelons of the wine world.
A chill ran down Blackwood’s spine as he pieced it together. This wasn’t random destruction; it was a message from someone who knew exactly what they were doing. And if his intuition was correct, this same person was targeting something — or someone — connected to that rare vintage. The realization that this vintage had now come to his attention a second time that evening sent a wave of urgency through him.
Blackwood, driven by a sense of dread and urgency, rushed to the address on the partially burnt piece of paper. Rory’s unanswered calls echoed in his mind as he navigated the quiet, moonlit streets of Paris. The building loomed ahead, its old Parisian architecture casting long shadows.
He found the entrance door slightly ajar, an ominous sign in this neighborhood and especially at night. Heart pounding, Elias slipped inside and ascended the staircase. The silence was oppressive, broken only by his hurried footsteps. Reaching the apartment, he paused, an unsettling feeling washing over him. He reached out to knock, but the door creaked open under his touch, revealing a scene of chaos inside.
Before he could process the scene fully, the sound of a scuffle and a muffled scream drew his attention. He stepped into the apartment to find Rory struggling against two figures who were trying to subdue or strangle her with nylon ropes.
And then he saw him — Adrian, orchestrating the chaos. Their eyes met, a flash of recognition passing between them. But there was no time to act. A third accomplice appeared from a hallway, spotting Blackwood at the door.
A shout, a flash of movement, and then a sharp crack — the sound of a gunshot echoed through the apartment. Blackwood felt a searing pain and stumbled backward, his vision blurring as he hit the ground. The last thing he saw was Rory’s terrified face and Adrian’s cold, calculating eyes before darkness enveloped him.
Elias awoke to a pounding headache and deep disorientation. For a moment, he lay there, trying to piece together where he was and what had happened. Then, the events in the apartment came rushing back — the confrontation, Rory’s struggle, the gunshot. He touched his temple, wincing at the pain, and realized he’d been grazed by the bullet.
“Motherfucker shot me in the head,” he thought to himself as he scrambled to his feet, the realization fueling a mix of anger and adrenaline.
The apartment was empty now, Rory and her kidnappers gone, the approaching sirens of the Police Nationale filled the air. As Blackwood made his way out, his eyes caught something crucial — a piece of paper dropped in the haste of their departure, bearing an address and a name that Elias knew only too well.
It was where he would find Adrian.
Chapter 3: Revelations in Red
The skies above Château Bellevigne were a tapestry of brooding grays, the clouds heavy with the promise of rain. As the first drops began to fall, they painted the ancient stone façade of the chateau with glistening trails, each droplet reflecting the muted light of an overcast autumn day.
The surrounding vineyards, usually a vibrant spectacle of colors in the fall, were now subdued under the somber skies. Leaves, tinged with hues of burnt orange and deep red, trembled as the rain intensified, each droplet causing them to shiver and release their hold, drifting slowly to the wet earth below.
Puddles formed on the cobblestone paths that wound through the estate, the raindrops creating a symphony of ripples that danced across their surfaces. The once-bustling grounds of the chateau were now deserted, the usual sounds of life and labor replaced by the rhythmic patter of rain.
The imposing structure of Château Bellevigne, with its tall towers and ornate balconies, stood as a silent sentinel amidst the weathered landscape. Its windows, like watchful eyes, gazed out over the vineyards and the distant rolling hills, shrouded in a veil of mist and rain.
In the dimly lit chamber of the Château, Adrian watched over Miss Sterling, who was gagged, restrained, and visibly distressed. The door opened and another of The Monarch’s intermediaries entered, at least Adrian thought this one was new, though his demeanor as cold and calculating as any of them.
“Mr. Brown,” he addressed Adrian with a clinical tone. “Your performance thus far has been adequate, but the next phase is critical. The Monarch requires you to play a role in Blackwood’s arrival here.”
Adrian, his face a mix of anxiety and defiance, responded, “And Miss Sterling?”
“Miss Sterling is the bait,” the intermediary stated bluntly. “Blackwood’s actions have become unpredictable, and his influence in the counterfeit wine world is a variable that The Monarch wishes to eliminate. Your job is to disarm him should he come prepared for a fight.”
The intermediary glanced at Miss Sterling, then back at Adrian. “If he resists or hesitates you kill her. The Monarch does not accept failure.”
Adrian nodded, understanding the gravity of his assignment. The intermediary’s gaze lingered on him for a moment longer before he turned and left the room, his footsteps echoing in the silent corridor.
Left alone, Adrian looked at Miss Sterling, regret and resolve warring within him. She was now an unwilling participant in a dangerous game, one that he himself had been coerced into playing.
…
Elias Blackwood approached the imposing gates of Château Bellevigne under the heavy, rain-soaked skies. The revolver, tucked securely in his waistband at the small of his back, was a cold reminder of the dangerous path he had chosen. His mind raced with possibilities and plans, but the primary thought was Rory — he had to save her.
As he neared the entrance, two of The Monarch’s intermediaries emerged from the shadows, their expressions unreadable. Without a word, they escorted him through the grand doors of the chateau and down the ornate hallways, footsteps echoing in the vast, empty spaces.
The heavy door to the chamber creaked open, revealing a dimly lit room where Adrian stood with a pistol pointed directly at a bound and gagged Rory. The sight of her, so vulnerable and in distress, fueled a fire in Elias’s chest. He fought to keep his emotions in check, knowing any sign of weakness could be fatal.
“You’re to wait here,” one intermediary instructed, his voice cold. “The Monarch will join you shortly.”
Elias nodded, his eyes never leaving Rory.
“Are you armed?” Asked Adrian as the door behind Blackwood clicked shut.
“What kind of question is that?” Blackwood spat with no small amount of disgust on his tongue. “What answer do you think you’ll get?”
“Indeed, you’re right. So let me rephrase; if at any point beyond this conversation you reveal yourself to be armed,” Adrian cocked the hammer on his pistol and aimed the gun directly at Rory’s head, “She dies. I should have been more clear from the beginning.”
Elias met Adrian’s gaze, his own expression a mask of steely resolve, despite the turmoil raging within him. “Understood,” he said curtly, his voice betraying none of the anxiety that gripped him.
Blackwood raised both hands in the air and turned slowly around, revealing the revolver as his raised shoulders lifted the back of his suit coat.
“Good,” said Adrian, “With your back to us, slowly remove the gun and put it on the ground by your left foot. Then, slowly, turn back around, and with your right foot slide, don’t kick, the gun as far down the wall as you can.”
Blackwood complied, the gun ending up some ten paces from him along the wall.
“Thank you. Have a seat,” Adrian gestured to a nearby table and chairs, “Have a glass of wine, I hear this vintage is divine.”
Only then did Blackwood notice the unassuming black leather tote sitting on the table and his heart dropped into the pit of his stomach. Without looking, he knew these were the counterfeit bottles he sold to the restaurant proprietor less than a week before.
He reached for a glass, pouring the wine with as steady a hand as he could manage. The rich aroma of the wine filled the air, a stark contrast to the tension that enveloped the room. As he took a sip, he couldn’t help but appreciate the cruel humor in drinking a forgery of his own making at such a moment.
As Elias drank, the room’s tension was shattered by the piercing crack of a gunshot. Time seemed to slow as Elias’s heart raced, a moment of confusion and horror washing over him as he struggled to understand what he’d done to trigger Rory’s execution. But as he looked up, the scene before him told a different story.
Adrian, the would-be orchestrator of this grim tableau, crumpled to his knees, a growing stain of crimson spreading across his shirt from the bullet wound in his chest. Standing over him, Rory held a smoking gun, the ropes that had bound her lay discarded on the floor.
“My daughter,” coughed Adrian as he gasped for breath, his eyes wide with shock and betrayal. The gun slipped from his weakening grip as he collapsed onto the floor, his life ebbing away with each labored breath.
“Neither of them made it out of the car. We don’t provide for hostages.”
The finality of Rory’s words hung heavy in the air, a stark revelation of the ruthless game they were all entangled in. Adrian’s desperate bid to save his family, now known to be in vain, lent a tragic weight to his final moments. As he lay motionless, the life extinguished from his eyes, the chamber fell into a somber silence.
Elias stood frozen, processing the grim reality that had just unfolded. The shock of Adrian’s death was compounded by the revelation of Rory’s calculated ruthlessness. He looked at her, trying to reconcile the woman he had known with the one who now stood before him, a stark embodiment of cold pragmatism.
Rory, her gaze now on Elias, lowered the gun. The mask of The Monarch was beginning to slip, though Elias was having a hard time understanding whether it was Rory or The Monarch who was the fictional character.
Elias, his thoughts a whirlwind of terror and confusion, struggled to find his voice. “Why, Rory? Why all this deception, all this… this destruction?”
“It was never just about wine,” Rory explained, her words measured. “It was about claiming a place in a world that never saw me as anything more than an heiress playing at business. Or correcting a sommelier who treated me like a child. Or showing a broker the errors of his ways when he decides I don’t deserve first refusal for collectibles when they become available.”
I created The Monarch to dismantle the very foundations of this elitist industry, to rebuild it with me at its core.”
Elias grappled with the revelation; the woman he had come to admire, perhaps even care for, was the architect of a scheme that had cost the lives of his friends and confidants, and shattered his world.
As Rory stepped closer, the tension between them was palpable.
“There is room for another, at the top. Or bottom. However you want to look at it. I know you’re in this for the right reasons because I know what they did to you, and to your father before you, that made you into who you are. We’re fighting the same fight, Elias!”
Elias’s eyes narrowed, a storm of emotions brewing behind his gaze. Rory’s words echoed in his mind, a siren’s call to a partnership born out of shared grievances and a mutual desire for retribution.
“You know about my father?” Elias asked, his voice a mix of surprise and suspicion.
Rory nodded, her expression solemn. “I know what the industry did to him, how they ruined his reputation, his life. And I know how it shaped you, Elias. You turned your pain into a weapon, just like I did. We are the same, Elias.”
“We are nothing alike, Rory!”
In a fleeting moment of decision, Elias’s hand moved towards the hidden holster under his coat. The resolve in his eyes spoke of a choice made long ago. But before he could grasp the handle of his concealed gun, Rory’s instincts kicked in.
With a speed that belied her composed demeanor, she fired. The gunshot rang out, echoing through the chamber, and Elias felt a searing pain rip through his shoulder, knocking him off balance. His attempt to draw his weapon was thwarted; he stumbled backward and fell, clutching his wounded arm.
Rory, her expression a mix of regret and resolve, stood with the smoking gun still aimed at Elias. But before she could make another move, the doors to the chamber burst open. Police Nationale officers, weapons drawn, flooded into the room.
“Ne bougez pas!” one of the officers shouted, his command slicing through the tension.
Rory’s gaze flickered between Elias and the officers. The realization that her meticulously laid plans were unraveling before her eyes was evident in her stunned expression.
Elias, gritting his teeth against the pain, watched as the police swiftly moved in, securing the room and apprehending Rory. Despite the chaos, a sense of relief washed over him; Rory’s reign as The Monarch was over, and the intricate web of deception she had woven was finally being dismantled.
As the officers led Rory away in handcuffs, their eyes met one last time. There was a complexity in that glance — a mixture of defiance, acknowledgement, and an unspoken understanding of what they had both lost and gained in this game of shadows.
Elias, now slumped against the wall, watched the scene unfold, the adrenaline slowly ebbing away, leaving him with the pain of his wound and the weight of everything that had transpired. The truth was out, but the cost had been high — a cost that would linger long after the wound on his shoulder had healed.
As the chaos in the chamber subsided, one of the officers approached Elias, who was receiving medical attention for his shoulder wound. The officer, a seasoned detective with an air of authority, pulled up a chair and sat beside him.
“Mr. Blackwood, you’re lucky we got here when we did,” the detective began, his tone professional yet not without empathy. “We’ve been on this case for a while, tracking the counterfeit wine network. Your activities drew our attention, but it was your visit to Miss Sterling’s apartment that accelerated our move.”
Elias, wincing slightly from the pain, looked at the detective. “So, you were following me?”
The detective nodded. “We had suspicions about a larger scheme at play. When we saw you head to Château Bellevigne, we knew we had to act fast. It wasn’t just about counterfeit wines anymore; it was clear something more dangerous was unfolding.”
Elias absorbed this, the pieces of the night’s events falling into place. “And Rory? Miss Sterling?”
“She’s been on our radar, but we never connected her to The Monarch until tonight. You played a crucial role in uncovering this, intentionally or not,” the detective explained.
As the detective stood up to leave, Elias called out, “What happens now?”
“Justice, Mr. Blackwood. For everyone involved.” The detective’s gaze was firm. “As for you, we’ll need your full cooperation moving forward.”
Elias nodded, a sense of closure washing over him. The world he had known, the world he had navigated with deceit and cunning, had come crashing down. But in its place, there was a chance for redemption, a chance to right some of the wrongs he had been a part of.
The detective walked away, leaving Elias alone with his thoughts. The chateau, once a symbol of power and intrigue, now stood as a reminder of the cost of ambition. As he looked out the window at the rain-soaked vineyards, Elias realized that his journey had come to an end, but a new chapter was about to begin — one where the lines between right and wrong were no longer blurred by the allure of the forbidden fruit of the vine.