“It is grown in my own vineyard in Veneto,” Eduardo Bianchi said.
“Absolutely superb,” Stone said, trying to keep his voice from trembling. Dolce’s stockinged toes had reached the top of his sock and were drawing it down around his ankle. He felt as though he was being undressed by an expert.
“It is an Amerone,” Bianchi was saying. “The grapes are dried in the sun before they are pressed. It concentrates the flavor.”
“Just wonderful,” Stone said, trying not to giggle. She was tickling his leg now. Carefully, he drew his foot away from hers. From a corner of his eyes, he saw her make a moue.
“Dolce,” Bianchi said to his daughter, “you are unusually quiet; you must entertain our guest.”
“Yes, Papa,” she said, sliding a glance in Stone’s direction.
When they had finished dining, Bianchi stood. “All of you, please return to the little sitting room, where Pietro will serve coffee.” They all rose and filed out. Bianchi turned to Stone. “Mr. Barrington, perhaps you will join me for a glass of something?”
Before Stone could reply, Bianchi had turned and departed through another door. Stone hurried to catch up.
29
E DUARDO BIANCHI LED THE WAY INTO A richly paneled study, all walnut and leather. The shelves were filled with gorgeously bound books, and the paintings on the walls were newer than those in the rest of the house, but very good.
“Will you join me in a glass of port?” Bianchi asked.
“Thank you, yes,” Stone replied.
Bianchi went to a butler’s tray across the room and read the label on a bottle from which the cork had been drawn.
Stone took the opportunity to pull up his sock.
“Pietro has decanted a Quinto do Noval Nacionale ‘63 for us,” he said, setting down the empty bottle, picking up a beautifully blown Georgian decanter, and pouring two glasses. He handed one to Stone, indicated that he should sit in one of a pair of wing chairs, side by side, then sat down beside him. He raised his glass. “To the future,” he said. “May it be less uncertain.”
Stone wondered what his host meant by that. He sipped the wine, which filled his mouth with the most wonderful flavors. “It’s superb,” he said.
Bianchi nodded. “The Nacionale vineyard at Quinto do Noval is very small, containing the last of their oldest vines that have not yet been attacked by the phylloxera pest that wiped out most European vineyards in the last century. We will not always have this wine to drink.”
Stone sipped it gratefully.
“I have heard a great deal about you over the years,” Bianchi said. “From Dino and Anna Maria—she prefers a more American version of her name. And, of course, I have heard of you from others.”
“Others?” Stone could not prevent himself from asking.
“We have acquaintances in common.”
“We do?” Stone bit his tongue. He must stop responding like a trained bird.
“I am occasionally represented in some matters by Woodman and Weld, with whom, I believe, you are associated.”
Stone nearly choked on his port. Woodman & Weld was representing a Mafioso?
“Perhaps this surprises you?”
“Well, no,” Stone lied.
“I understand that most, perhaps all of what you know of me is from Dino.”
“Well…”
“My daughter’s husband and I subscribe to, shall we say, different philosophies of life. And Dino is not so tolerant as I when judging others; therefore, something of a gulf exists between us, one that I fear may never be bridged.”
“I’m sorry.”