Giovanni Moretti
The cold stone steps echoed beneath our feet as Chef Lorenzo, Riley, and I ascended from the wine cellar. The rich scent of aged oak and fermented grapes clung to my nostrils, a stark contrast to the tension hanging in the air. I could feel Riley's unease radiating off her in waves, her shoulders rigid under my hand.
"I hope you know, Riley," I said, breaking the heavy silence, my voice low and measured. "Alessia has a lot of people here looking out for her. People that are fiercely loyal and respect her more than I could ever have hoped for."
I paused at the landing, turning to face Riley directly. Her eyes, still glistening with unshed tears, met mine with a mix of defiance and curiosity.
"They'll make sure nothing like this can happen to her again," I continued, inf
