Chapter 4 Snapper #2
Los Caballeros had been part of my life since birth.
The secret society dated back centuries—to our grandfathers’ grandfathers and beyond.
The name itself connected us to the Knights Templar, the medieval warriors who’d defeated the Moors and taken control of Jerez in southwestern Spain.
They’d renamed it Jerez de los Caballeros. Jerez of the Knights.
When our ancestors immigrated to America in the late 1860s, they brought the society with them.
They’d settled first in Napa Valley, then moved down to the Central Coast, where they’d replaced the apple orchards with grapevines.
Soon after, my family started Los Caballeros Vineyards and Winery.
Since the property had natural caves, those were developed for barrel storage, and at the same time, a secret meeting room was added.
According to a sign carved of wood that hung in the space, the first gathering was held in 1865.
Eleven members currently served. My oldest brother, Brix, led us now that Tryst had stepped down.
He’d earned his nickname as a teenager when he became obsessed with measuring degrees Brix, the sugar content in grapes that determined optimal harvest timing. Our father thought it fit him perfectly.
The rest of us—Cristobal, Cru, Bit, Kick, me, along with Noah and Dalton Ridge, Press and Beau Barrett, and Zin Oliver—formed the active brotherhood.
We met only when necessary, usually when someone needed our help, like now.
We used our wealth, our connections, and our resources to protect our own.
Sometimes we operated outside the law, but regardless, always in secret.
The Viejos were the generation before us. Tryst had served as their leader after our father, Alfonso, died. The others—Hewitt Ridge, Martin Barrett, Michael Oliver, Charlie Jenson, Lucas Hope, Malcolm Warwick, Noah Cullen, and Baron Van Orr—were the remaining elders.
The temperature dropped twenty degrees as soon as I stepped inside the caves’ entrance.
I’d spent a lot of time in here over the years—for wine events, parties, and of course, Los Caballeros meetings.
But this would be the first time I was the one requesting help.
I watched everyone enter and take their places around the large round table that dominated the center of the room—solid oak, scarred by centuries of use, surrounded by high-backed chairs that had been here longer than I’d been alive.
Sconces on the walls provided light, and a single ventilation shaft in the ceiling ensured we wouldn’t suffocate.
After all those expected had arrived, we remained standing. Brotherhood protocol dictated we wait for the leader to call the meeting to order.
Brix made eye contact with each of us in turn. Then with each of the Viejos. Tryst last.
“Los Caballeros,” he began. “We’re here this morning because our brother needs our help.”
The Viejos took their seats, and out of respect, the current members stood behind them.
Brix turned to me. “Go ahead.”
My mouth went dry. Public speaking had never been my strong suit—that was more Brix’s territory. But this was too important to fumble.
“Earlier today, Saffron Hope came to me with a request.” I reached for my phone and brought up the photo I’d taken of the journal page.
“She found this in her great-grandmother’s attic—evidence that in 1955, Marilyn Hope and Concepción Avila, along with their husbands, created a wine called the Christmas Blessing. ”
I handed my phone to Brix, who viewed the image before passing it along.
“The wine was remarkable. Made only once. Sold out in hours. Those who tasted it said it was extraordinary.” I paused. “Saffron wants to recreate it. This year. To have it ready by Christmas.”
“That’s six to eight weeks,” Cristobal said. “Barely doable even with carbonic maceration.”
“I know. But the point is, it is possible. Cru’s confirmed we have the grapes she needs, along with the equipment and space.”
“What do you need from us?” Zin asked.
“This endeavor must be undertaken with the utmost secrecy.”
The room remained quiet; I hadn’t expected anyone to disagree.
“And that means, we need a crew. We’ll be harvesting three varietals in separate pickings over the next fourteen days.”
“Handpicked?” Tryst asked.
“That’s right.”
He motioned to Brix, who stood behind him.
When he moved to the side, Tryst pushed his chair from the table and got to his feet.
“In the last five years, wine sales worldwide have drastically decreased from the highs we previously experienced. Many of us here today have struggled in the same way we all know the Hope family is now.”
Was I the only one here who hadn’t been aware of their predicament?
“We also know that Lucas Hope will not come to us for help.”
Malcolm Warrick, who’d come close to losing his own home and winery less than a year ago, spoke up.
“No one understands his position better than I do. I would not have come to you either if it hadn’t been for my daughter and son-in-law.
” Malcolm’s eyes met Bit’s. The acceptance and appreciation on his face was met with Bit’s obvious affection for the man.
“There’s one other thing I should mention. Saffron isn’t aware that I know about the foreclosure. Like her father, she’s a proud woman, whom I’m giving the time and space to tell me when she’s ready.”
“Spoken like a man in love,” my brother Kick said under his breath.
Tryst raised a brow. “Spoken like an honorable man.”
I was humbled by my uncle’s praise. I was nine years old when my father passed away from a sudden heart attack, and Tryst had stepped in as his surrogate. “Thank you,” I said to him.
“There’s one other thing I need to point out. The journal Saffron found contained only the varietals used in the wine. What we don’t have is the formula that would include the percentages used.”
More murmurs went around the room. I waited until it quieted down, then continued.
“Saffron found another passage that I’ll read aloud. ‘We have agreed—each of us keeps our portion. What we created can never be made again. Perhaps someday our children and grandchildren will find a way to reunite our efforts.’”
Unlike many other things I’d said thus far, what I read next was met with surprise. “As you can imagine, there hasn’t been much time for us to search for the missing formula. Saffron and I will be undertaking that while also planning the harvest.”
“We can help,” Bit offered.
More murmurs of agreement went around the room.
“Whatever we can do to ensure this wine gets made will be greatly appreciated.”
Tryst stood slowly. “Excuse me for a moment.” He left and retreated farther into the caves. When he returned, he was carrying something wrapped in cloth.
He set it on the table in the center of our circle and unwrapped the fabric.
A wine bottle. Old, dusty, the label faded, but still legible—Christmas Blessing Wine, 1955.
“Holy shit,” Kick muttered.
“This is the only known bottle in existence,” Tryst said. “It’s been in the rare room for as long as I can remember. Worth a small fortune to collectors, but worth more for what it represents.”
I stared at the bottle, my mind racing.
“You could have the contents analyzed,” Tryst continued. “Modern technology can identify every varietal, every percentage, perhaps even fermentation temperatures. But understand—once you open it, it’s gone forever. The only bottle of Christmas Blessing Wine that I know of will cease to exist.”
The weight of that settled over me.
“May I?” Bit asked, reaching for the bottle.
“Of course,” said Tryst.
My brother held it up to the light, studying the wine through the dark glass.
“If we don’t open it and Hope Winery goes under, this bottle becomes nothing but a reminder of what could have been both then and now.
The wine was supposed to be a blessing. The name itself says so.
How does something kept in a bottle for over seventy years bless—benefit—anyone?
” He set it down carefully. “But if we open it, if we use it to save the legacy…doesn’t that honor what this wine represented better than keeping it in a dark room? ”
“He’s right,” Brix murmured.
“The decision is not one to be made lightly.” Tryst turned to me. “Or without the Hopes’ consent.”
The only way to help Saffron and her family was to admit I knew her reason for wanting to make the wine. Something she’d likely see as a betrayal. It also meant her father would need to know what she intended to do.
“Let it serve as a backup plan for now,” Cru suggested. “If we can’t find Concepción’s notes, we’d at least have this.”
I looked around the circle. “I’m asking for a lot. Your time, your labor, your discretion. And potentially, this bottle. But I know this will be worth it.”
“We need to vote,” Brix said. “All in favor of granting this brotherhood’s resources to pull this together in any way possible, raise your hand.”
It was more than I’d asked, and I wondered if anyone would challenge my brother. However, every hand went up. There wasn’t a single dissent.
Two hurdles were crossed. My family had agreed to help, as did Los Caballeros. Now, the real work—and struggle—would begin.
The meeting broke up with the usual protocols—handshakes, quiet conversations, plans being made. I stayed near the table, fielding questions from the Viejos about timing and logistics until most of them had filtered out.
I noticed Kick waiting near the stone wall. When I made my way over, he fell into step beside me as we headed out of the caves.
“That was intense,” he said.
“Yeah.”
“Tryst offering up that bottle—didn’t see that coming.”
I glanced at him. “You think we should use it?”
“I think we should find Concepción’s notes first.” He kicked at a loose rock on the path. “But if it comes down to analyzing that bottle or watching the Hopes lose everything? Then yeah, we use it.”
We walked in silence for a few more steps before he spoke again. “You know what you’re getting yourself into with all this?”
“Making wine? I’ve done it before.”
“Not what I meant, and you know it.”
I stopped walking and faced him. “I don’t.”
“You’re about to spend the next six weeks working side by side with Saffron Hope. Every day. Long hours. Close quarters.” He raised a brow. “You sure you can handle that without making things complicated?”
“Things are already complicated.”
“Yeah, but right now, in a way you can ignore. Once you’re in the thick of this—harvest, fermentation, bottling—you won’t be able to ignore anything.”
He wasn’t wrong. “What would you do?”
Kick’s expression was unreadable, and he was quiet for a moment. “Honestly? I’d tell her how I felt before we got started. Get it out in the open so there’s no question about where you stand.”
“That’s a terrible idea.”
“Probably.” He grinned. “But at least then you’d know if she feels the same way before you spend six weeks torturing yourself.”
“She doesn’t.”
“You sure about that?”
I thought about the way she’d looked at me across the table at the diner. The tears in her eyes when I’d promised to help. The way she’d squeezed my hand like I was the only solid thing in her world. “No. I’m not sure about anything when it comes to her.”
“Then maybe it’s time to find out.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “Either way, you’ve got my help as well as the rest of the caballeros. Whatever you need—crew, equipment, someone to kick your ass when you’re being an idiot—I’m here.”
“Thanks, man.”
We reached our trucks, and he paused with his hand on the door handle. “One more thing.”
“What?”
“Don’t overthink this. You’ve got a tendency to get in your own head and talk yourself out of the good shit.” His expression turned serious. “Don’t let Saffron slip away because you’re too scared to take the shot, Snap.”
I nodded.
“So what will you tell her?” he asked.
“Fuck if I know,” I said honestly.
He squeezed my shoulder. “I wish I could offer words of wisdom.”
“Me too.” But no one could. I just prayed that whatever I came up with, she’d believe.