But Kim had said to pour this Petrus—he’d pronounced it “pet-troos” and Milos had made a note of that—directly from the bottle to a glass would be an insult to the wine. Imagine… a wine with tender feelings. It had to be candled and decanted. Milos hadn’t the foggiest what the hell that meant, but he’d gone along, and soon he was watching, fascinated, as Kim slowly poured the wine into the crystal decanter while staring through the neck of the bottle at a candle flame on the other side.

And now Milos did the pouring, from the decanter into the pair of wide-mouthed tulip-shaped glasses Kim had set out. Half a glass each. He handed one to Cino, then raised his own.

‘To a weekend full of surprises,” he said, locking eyes with her.

“I’ll drink to that,” she said.

Milos took a sip and swallowed. It tasted… awful. But he let nothing show on his face. He looked at his glass.

I spent two and a half grand a bottle for this shit?

He took another sip. Not quite as bad as the first, but still awful.

He glanced at Cino who looked as if she’d just spotted a maggot in the bottom of her glass.

“Eeeeuw! This tastes like cigarette ashes!”

“Don’t be silly,” Milos said. “It’s delicious.”

Actually, she wasn’t far off. It did taste like ashes.

“Blech!” Another face as she returned the offending glass to the table and pushed it as far away as she could reach. “Like sneaker soles.”

“Just try a little bit more.” Milos forced a third sip. Ugh. How was he going to drink the rest of this? “It’s really excellent.”

“Tastes like dust bunnies. Where’s my Dampierre? I want my Dampierre.”

“Very well.”

He pressed a button built into the coffee table, sending a signal to the kitchen. Dressed in a crisp white shirt and a black vest, Kim whispered into the room a moment later and did one of his little bows.

“Yes, sir?”

“It appears the lady does not find the Petrus to her liking.”

Another little bow. “Most unfortunate.”

“Old holy water,” Cino said.

Milos wanted to clock her. “Perhaps you would taste it, Kim, and give her your expert opinion.”

Kim smiled. “Of course, sir. I would be honored.”

He whisked this oversize silver spoon from his vest pocket and poured maybe half an ounce of the Petrus into it. He sniffed it, then slurped it up like hot soup—Milos never would have believed Kim could be such a slob—and rolled it around in his mouth. Finally he swallowed. His eyes rolled up in his head before he closed them. They stayed closed for a moment. When he opened them he looked like someone who’d just seen God.

“Oh, sir, it’s wonderful! Absolutely magnificent!” He looked damn near ready to cry. “Nectar of the gods! Mere words cannot do it justice!”

“See,” Milos said, turning to Cino. “I told you it was good.”

“Laundromat lint,” she said.