“Hello?”
My voice is rough, a little slurred. The rich, ruby-red wine in my glass shimmers under the soft Italian light of Vince’s private study, a momentary calm to the agitation the wine is building in my nerves.
It’s early afternoon here in Italy, the warmth of the sun still lingering after my late morning with Vince.
We’d just settled into a comfortable silence, me nursing my glass of Barolo, Vince away for his usual workout sessions, when the phone rang – an unfamiliar number, probably a sales call.
“Signor Lior? This is the building manager from your penthouse in New York.” The voice on the other end is stiff, professional, yet tinged with an unmistakable tremor. “I… I regret to inform you that your apartment, the entire penthouse level, was completely destroyed in a fire yeste
