I’d seen in my line of work over the years, alcohol was the one great equalizer of mankind.
She glanced at the bottle. “Why Saluzzo? Where did that name come from? It’s certainly not Scottish or Irish.”
“Saluzzo is the name of the very small village in Italy where my family is originally from. My father’s father and so on grew up there until the family briefly relocated to Sicily, just before coming to the United States.”
She narrowed her eyes. “That answers my second question, but not my first one. Why Saluzzo?”
My next breath got stuck in my throat. I’d never had to explain this before. “I wanted to preserve where my family came from. What and who they were before coming to the U.S. and getting caught up in everything with the five families. My ancestors’ legacy has gotten muddied over the generations, thanks to all the mafia rumors and our recent involvement. My father used to tell us that his grandfather worked his ass off every day of his life to defend our family’s good name. To convince people that he wasn’t a criminal but an honest, hard-working man who was only trying to provide for his family like everyone else.”
Lexi propped her chin in her hand, seeming enraptured.
I ignored the dreamy look on her face and pressed on. “My father eventually said to hell with everyone else. They can think what they want because he shouldn’t have to defend anything, which I agree with. So, I guess this is my small way of paying tribute to what my family has stood for over the years.” I shook my head, chuckling mirthlessly. “By naming a whiskey after the birthplace of my ancestors.” What a gesture.
There was clearly a reason why I hadn’t shared that with anyone before. It sounded ridiculous.
She leaned over the bar, lowering her voice. “You should be proud for honoring your family like that, Nico Rossetti.”
My breath sawed in and out of my lungs as my gaze slammed into hers.
Clearing my throat, I eventually picked up my glass and propped my elbows on the bar. “Okay, let your first lesson begin.”
Hunkering down on her bar stool, a smile played on her lips as she waved me on. “Teach away.”
Apparently, today was all about lessons and instruction. Earlier at the house, I’d demonstrated how to properly hold a dagger and strike with it in close contact situations. Obviously, she didn’t need to be told how to handle a gun. She’d taught me more Russian words and phrases, as well as how to cook some of her favorite Russian dishes. When I’d taught her a bit of Italian, she’d gotten dewy-eyed and kissed the hell out of me. That ought to come in handy in the future.
After that, I’d wanted to show her more.
I held my glass vertically upright and examined its contents. “First step, as with wine, is to inspect the whiskey’s appearance. The color, clarity, viscosity, can all be observed before you ever take your first sniff. Unlike wine, however, you never want to swirl the liquid around in your glass. You’ll get the best and most accurate taste if the aromas remain concentrated, and swirling it around ventilates the whiskey.”
She stared at her own glass, listening avidly. I weirdly appreciated that she actually seemed interested. A lot of people would find the subject matter dry and boring.
Her bare ring finger continued to glare at me.
Goddammit, I needed to put something on that. If nothing else, a ring should keep anymore half-naked strippers from shoving their junk in her face. I didn’t have to put any more significance on it than that. It was merely a statement of fact that she was legally married to another. That her pussy belonged to only one man and that was fucking me.
Jesus. Slow your roll.
I shook my head, clearing my throat. “Now, tip your glass horizontally, until it’s nearly perpendicular to your face.” She mimicked my action as I demonstrated. “Now, bring it back vertical. The droplets running down the inside of the glass there”—I pointed with my finger—“those are called legs, or tears. The slower they run down the glass, the higher the alcohol content. The longer the whiskey was aged in cask, the more the legs tend to separate and spread out. And the more fatty acids the whiskey contains, the thicker the legs will be.”
She snorted. “Definitely no vodka.”
“You’re right, legs.” She laughed at the double entendre. “Unlike your vodka, my whiskey actually has flavor.”