Moscato's Mystical Journey

Chapter 1: The Baptism

The job, as it was explained to me, was simple: pick up a client and his child from Hôtel Metropole and take them to lunch. I was told to expect a stroller. Maybe a nanny. Definitely attitude. What I did not expect was Alonzo Moretti—Italian fashion mogul, perfume theorist, and man who once claimed that linen had an aura—striding out of the revolving door in full velvet, trailing the scent of bergamot and bravado.

He wasn’t pushing a child. Not unless the term had been redefined to include a teacup Maltese wearing a silk hood and diamond collar, seated inside a Louis Vuitton stroller with gold-spoked wheels. The dog, tiny and luminous, blinked once at me and then closed his eyes like a pope blessing the masses. Alonzo, without missing a beat, handed me a lavender-scented envelope.

"His name is Moscato," he said. "Today is his baptism."

I blinked. "His…?"

"Baptism," Alonzo repeated. "In Bordeaux. Not the city. The wine. Do try to keep up."

It was barely past noon.

We drove through Monaco in near silence, save for Alonzo cooing softly to Moscato in Italian and correcting the GPS voice when it mispronounced anything vaguely European. "It's not 'Nice' like 'pleasant.' It's 'Nice' like 'knees.' Please, this is a sacred day."

Our destination was a secluded restaurant perched above the sea, the kind of place where the menu had no prices and the wine list came in a leather-bound tome. As we pulled up, Alonzo adjusted his sunglasses and whispered, "He is ready."

Inside, he swept through the dining room like a visiting monarch, pausing only to request a private cellar tour. When the sommelier arrived—a gaunt, suspicious man with a PhD-level knowledge of grape soil—Alonzo greeted him with a bow worthy of a Broadway finale.

"I require your finest Bordeaux," he said, placing a velvet pouch on the counter. It clinked. "For a sacred purpose."