Tony shook his head as he returned to his desk. He reached into his pocket for the key, unlocked the top drawer, and took out the folder.

It was leather.

He knew exactly where it had come from: Florence. The finest lambskin, lined with cork from the hills near Bragalone. His father had begun importing them before Tony was born, and the Company still held the exclusive rights.

There were only a handful of papers inside.

He read them again.

For perhaps the hundredth time.

Then he pressed the discreet button set into the edge of his desk.

“Maria.”

“Yes, Mr Tolomei?”

“Would you ask Mr Smith and Mr Barretta to come to my office?”

“Certainly, Mr Tolomei.”

Tony knew he had time.

He crossed to the cabinet built into the wall and took out a bottle of wine.

He had never cared for spirits. Beer did his stomach no favours. But a glass or two of wine—that he could enjoy.

This one had come from the Old Country.

“A gift from the gods,” his father used to say.

The vineyard, his father claimed, was little more than a strip of land on the edge of town, near the Church of San Michele. Yet it produced the finest wine in the world.

This was the last bottle his grandfather’s brother had ever bottled.

Tony Tolomei decided that today was the day.

He found the corkscrew.

The bottle resisted.

After nearly seventy years, the cork finally surrendered, and Tony left the opened bottle resting quietly inside the cabinet.

He carried two glasses and a bottle of whisky over to the small table beside the window.

Then he returned to his desk for the leather folder and the fountain pen whose silver cap bore the initials

A.T.

His father’s initials.

Two glasses.

A bottle of excellent Scotch from near Dunkeld.

The folder.

The pen.

They waited in silence until a knock came at the door.

Maria ushered in Mr Smith and Mr Barretta.

They exchanged the usual pleasantries, the sort of harmless conversation young executives always seemed eager to have with Tony Tolomei.

Eventually Tony explained that he required their signatures on a few documents relating to the formalities of his retirement from the Board.

“Simply a precaution,” he said with a smile.

“So there can be no misunderstandings, should I no longer be here to confirm the arrangements.”

Once the papers had been signed, Tony offered the two young men a whisky.

“The finest thing Scotland has ever exported,” he said. “From near Dunkeld.”

They accepted with obvious pleasure.

Tony watched them enjoying it.

There were still two hours until luncheon.

His final luncheon as a member of the Board.

When they had gone, Tony remained seated for a while.

Once again he read through the papers.

Then he returned to his desk and pressed another almost invisible button set into its side.

“Maria?”

“Yes, Mr Tolomei?”

“Would you come in… and would you ask that young man—Johnsson-Little—and Alma to join you?”

He paused for a moment.

“Let’s say… in fifteen minutes.”

“Certainly, Mr Tolomei.”

Tony Tolomei opened every cupboard and every drawer in the office.

He realised that everything in the room reminded him of something.

Yet everything that truly belonged to him was already either in his briefcase or laid upon his desk—

except for a single bottle of wine,

still waiting,

opened,

inside the cabinet.