The wrought-iron gates of Bellmont Vineyard groaned as I pushed them open, a sound that matched the ache in my chest. Ten years. Ten years since I'd walked away from this place, from the twisted vines and sun-baked earth that had raised me more than my absent parents ever did. "Mira, is that you?" Nonna's voice drifted from the main house, frailer than I remembered. I plastered on a smile and climbed the stone steps. "It's me, Nonna." She appeared in the doorway, smaller somehow, her legendary fire dimmed to embers. When she embraced me, I felt every one of her eighty-three years in the tremor of her hands. "You came," she whispered. "I didn't think you would." Guilt twisted like a corkscrew through my ribs. I'd been too busy building my restaurant empire in New York to visit. Too consumed with Michelin stars and James Beard nominations to remember where I'd learned to pair wine with food, to coax flavor from the earth itself. "Of course I came. You said it was urgent." Nonna's expression darkened. She took my hand and led me through the house to the back terrace. "Look." I followed her gaze across our property line, and my blood turned to ice. Where there had once been nothing but wild olive groves stood a gleaming modern winery. Solar panels glinted on the roof. A massive sign proclaimed: "Castellano Estate – Award-Winning Wines." Castellano. The name hit me like a punch to the gut. "No," I breathed. "Not him. Anyone but him." "He showed up three years ago," Nonna said bitterly. "Bought the Moretti property for cash. Built that monstrosity in eighteen months. Now half my distributors have dropped me for his wines." Dante Castellano. My former business partner. The man I'd spent five years developing recipes with, blending his family's wine expertise with my culinary vision. We were going to revolutionize the farm-to-table movement together, create an empire that honored both our heritages. Then he'd stolen everything—our business plan, our investor contacts, even the proprietary wine-pairing algorithm we'd developed—and disappeared. I'd rebuilt my career from ashes. Clawed my way back to the top through sheer spite and talent. But I'd never forgotten. Never forgiven. "How bad is it?" I asked. Nonna handed me a folder. Financial statements, past-due notices, foreclosure warnings. My grandmother's life's work was circling the drain while Dante's business thrived on stolen foundations. "Six months," she said quietly. "Maybe less if I can't turn things around." I stared at the gleaming estate next door, rage building like pressure in a champagne bottle. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows of his tasting room, I could see people laughing, drinking, celebrating. Celebrating on the back of our stolen dreams. "Mira?" Nonna touched my arm. "I know that look. Whatever you're thinking—" "I'm thinking," I interrupted, my voice cold and calm, "that I'm going to destroy him." "Revenge won't save the vineyard." "No," I agreed, a plan already forming in my mind. "But it'll be a hell of a bonus." I pulled out my phone and opened Instagram. Dante's winery had 847,000 followers. His personal account showed him at charity galas, wine festivals, celebrity restaurants. He'd built himself into a brand. Brands were fragile things. I should know—I'd built and broken enough of them. "I'm staying," I told Nonna. "Cancel the foreclosure attorney. We're going to save Bellmont Vineyard." "How?" I smiled, sharp as broken glass. "By burning his empire to the ground and using the ashes as fertilizer." ---