Camilla Knew Her Before Manhattan
Chapter 04 - Camilla Knew Her Before Manhattan
Camilla agreed to meet only after Alessandro told her about the photograph.
Not Sophie.
Alessandro.
That mattered.
They met in a law office.
Neutral.
No restaurant.
No family property.
Camilla arrived without the red gown.
Cream sweater.
Dark trousers.
No diamonds except small earrings.
She looked younger.
More tired.
Sophie disliked the fact that vulnerability made cruelty harder to organize.
Camilla sat.
Looked at Sophie.
Then said:
“I knew who you were.”
No apology first.
Good.
Sophie folded her arms.
“How?”
“Your mother.”
My mother? Actually Sophie's mother. Camilla met Étienne and perhaps Sophie? Need explain.
Camilla had spent two summers at Domaine Dubois as a teenager.
Vittorio Russo brought his family to Provence while negotiating wine investments.
Sophie had been younger.
Eleven.
Maybe twelve.
Blonde child running between vines.
Camilla barely remembered her face.
She remembered the surname.
The vineyard.
Étienne.
“So at L’Étoile Noir—”
“When Laurent said your name during staff briefing, I noticed.”
Sophie stared.
“You knew before I came to the table.”
“Yes.”
“And you humiliated me deliberately.”
Camilla looked away.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because my father told me if a Dubois ever appeared near Alessandro, I was to make sure she looked unreliable.”
Silence.
There.
Ugly.
Precise.
“He told you that recently?”
“Years ago.”
“What exactly?”
Camilla remembered Vittorio’s words:
The Dubois family destroys people with stories they cannot prove.
If one comes near the Morettis, do not let anyone listen.
Sophie laughed.
“So you thought humiliating a waitress was family duty.”
Camilla’s face tightened.
“When you say it like that—”
“How else?”
No answer.
Alessandro said:
“Did you know about the laundering?”
Camilla shook her head.
“Not until tonight.”
“Do you expect us to believe that?”
“No.”
Interesting.
She continued.
Her father kept business separate from her.
Or claimed to.
She knew wine investments.
Auction houses.
Political donors.
Not laundering.
She did know one thing.
Vittorio had been obsessed with the 1982 Margaux.
Not wine.
A particular bottle.
“Why?”
“I thought it had sentimental value.”
Sophie and Alessandro exchanged a look.
The menu.
The empty slot.
The recurring bottle.
Camilla continued.
When she was sixteen, she saw Étienne and Vittorio arguing in the cellar at Domaine Dubois.
Étienne held a bottle of Margaux.
Not opened.
He said:
“If anything happens to me, this bottle ends you.”
Sophie’s pulse jumped.
“Where is it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did your father get it?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“Because for fifteen years he has been buying every 1982 Margaux connected to the Dubois estate.”
That explained the obsession.
A physical hiding place.
Microfilm? Could be too spyish but fun. We can make label/cork containing deposit key. Maybe not actual data inside wine due spoilage. Maybe custom bottle base contains rolled microfiche. Let's decide later.
Alessandro asked:
“Why were you engaged to me?”
Camilla went still.
There it was.
They had been publicly together almost a year.
Sophie knew enough gossip to understand marriage discussions were expected.
Camilla looked at him.
“Because our fathers wanted it.”
“Mine is dead.”
“Yours wanted it before he died.”
Alessandro frowned.
“I never heard that.”
“My father did.”
Camilla almost smiled bitterly.
“Funny how dead men become convenient witnesses.”
Good.
She believed Vittorio encouraged the relationship partly to monitor Alessandro.
Not pure affection.
But she had wanted it too.
“That doesn't excuse how I treated Sophie.”
No.
“But it explains why I panicked when I heard Dubois.”
Sophie asked:
“Are you sorry?”
Camilla looked at her.
“Yes.”
“Do you expect forgiveness?”
“No.”
Better.
Then she reached into her bag.
A small notebook.
Red leather.
“I stole this from my father last night.”
Alessandro’s eyebrows lifted.
Camilla ignored him.
“It lists every 1982 Margaux he purchased since 2012.”
Thirty-seven bottles.
Auction houses.
Private collectors.
Restaurants.
One entry:
L’ÉTOILE NOIR — PRIVATE CELLAR.
Sophie looked up.
Laurent went pale when called.
He checked inventory.
The bottle existed.
Purchased by Monsieur Laurent in 2014 from an estate liquidation in Provence.
He never knew provenance connected to Dubois because the lot passed through intermediaries.
It sat in his cellar.
Unopened.
At $41,000 replacement value.
Camilla laughed weakly.
“That’s the bottle Alessandro tried to order.”
Not exactly.
He had asked for the vintage generally.
But fate had placed one specific bottle on the list.
Too neat.
Still plausible because Laurent curated rare stock.
They returned to the restaurant under police observation.
The bottle was gone.
Cellar log showed removal at 3:18 that afternoon.
Authorized by:
MONSIEUR LAURENT.
Everyone looked at him.
Laurent stared at the screen.
“I did not remove it.”
His credentials had been used.
Camera?
The cellar camera had been disabled for eleven minutes.
Professional.
Then Sophie remembered Jean-Luc.
The sous-chef who gave her stale baguettes.
He worked near the cellar access.
She called.
No answer.
Kitchen locker empty.
Uniform gone.
Monsieur Laurent looked sick.
“Jean-Luc has worked here nine years.”
Again.
Trust measured by years.
Dangerous habit.
Alessandro asked for Jean-Luc’s background.
Laurent hesitated.
“French. Lyon. Culinary school.”
Sophie knew more.
Jean-Luc had once mentioned his father worked customs at Charles de Gaulle.
Carlo Renaud.
The initials C.R. in the ledger.
The customs officer who helped move wine shipments.
Sophie stared.
“Jean-Luc is Renaud’s son.”
Laurent closed his eyes.
Of course.
They found Jean-Luc’s full name in payroll:
Jean-Luc Renaud.
He had never hidden it.
Nobody asked.
The son of one man in the laundering network had spent nine years working feet from the bottle everyone else was hunting.
And at 5:42 that evening, Jean-Luc texted Sophie for the first time in eleven months.
I HAVE THE MARGAUX.
May you like
Then:
IF YOU WANT TO KNOW WHERE YOUR FATHER IS, COME ALONE.
