They should’ve known something was off the moment the limo bus door opened.
Oscar — tall, silent, dark Ray-Bans at dusk — didn’t greet them with a smile. No music, no champagne. Just a curt nod and a smooth, gloved hand gesturing them inside. María hesitated. Enzo brushed past her, pulling her in behind him.
The rest of the group followed: Olivia, still giddy from brunch; Dante, already livestreaming to his followers; and Carmen, quiet and watchful, always two steps behind.
The first stop was supposed to be Castello di Amorosa, the medieval-style castle winery everyone was excited about. But halfway up Highway 29, Oscar rerouted — without explanation — and pulled into the gates of Darioush.
“I didn’t book this,” María said, her voice tight.
“No,” Oscar replied flatly, “but someone did.”
No one spoke as they were ushered into the opulent Persian-inspired tasting room. A host was already waiting. “Right this way, Miss Santiago,” he said. He knew her name.
And that’s when things started unraveling.
The wine was exquisite. Too exquisite. Each pour seemed paired with a comment that felt a little too personal — “You prefer something bolder, don’t you?” “You’ve been through quite a year.”
Enzo grew visibly tense. He excused himself for a “call,” but never came back. Dante checked the bathroom. Empty. Olivia tried calling — straight to voicemail.
Then Carmen found the note. Folded beneath a napkin next to María’s glass. Five words, scribbled in rushed ink:
“He lied. Ask the driver.”
Oscar was already waiting by the bus. Engine running.