The warehouse was dimly lit, the air heavy with tension and the faint scent of gun oil and aged wine. Alessandro stood at the head of the long table surrounded by his most trusted men. Their faces were cold, unreadable, yet each of them listened with sharp focus. They knew what was at stake.
“First order of business,” Alessandro began, his voice steady and commanding, “someone is trying to rebrand my wine and it seems they aren’t giving up.”
A low murmur rippled through the room, but no one dared interrupt.
“Same label. Same bottle design. Just cheaper quality. They’re trying to pass it off as our vintage.” His eyes swept across the table. “That’s not just theft. That’s an insult.”
Niccolò, his right hand man, stepped forward slightly. “We already found two of the distributors pushing
