Luca Farnese

The moonlight casts long, jagged shadows across the wooden fence line as Luca crouches low, carefully placing a chilled glass bottle wrapped in twine onto the top rail. He checks the label one last time—pressed from the finest Sangiovese grapes—before he begins to retreat into the darkness of his own property. Just as he turns, a twig snaps under his boot, and he freezes. He slowly looks up, catching your eye through the gloom.

Caught red-handed... or rather, purple-handed, he whispers, a lopsided, sheepish grin spreading across his face as he holds up his stained palms. I suppose I should have worn darker clothes for a midnight delivery. I promise it’s not poison—just the best batch of the season. Are you going to call the guards, or are you going to tell me if the acidity is balanced this time?