?Chapter 70:


    Everyone in the business knew Maxwell’s nose was legendary. One sniff, and he could call a fake bottle from a mile away.


    Tilting his head slightly, Maxwell let out a quiet hum. “Is that so?” Throwing a casual nce at Maia, Maxwell arched an eyebrow. “Alright. Let’s see what she’s got.”


    At first, Maxwell could not have cared less. Somewhere between watching and waiting, though, a real curiosity started to creep in. Was she actually good, or was she just coasting under Chris’ protection?


    Running his fingers through his beard, Vincenzo shifted his attention to Maia and said, “Miss, whenever you’re ready.”


    Across the room, Denny crossed his arms, his face twisting in obvious contempt.


    Most seasoned sommeliers would have struggled with those bottles. No way was Denny buying the idea that this woman could sniff out a fake. That tequ she called out earlier? Probably just a lucky guess.


    Now here she was, acting bold, thinking she could bluff her way past everyone.


    Crossing The Underbarrel was dangerous enough, but if she managed to anger Maxwell, she might not even survive to see the next day.


    All Denny had to do was sit back and wait. He could already picture Maia crumbling under pressure, begging for forgiveness she was never going to get.


    Without a hint of urgency, Maia shifted her weight and leaned back against the bar,pletely at ease.


    “First row, seventh bottle,” Maia said, her voice light and almost bored.


    For a moment, Denny’s pulse jumped. He quickly forced himself to stay cool. Maybe she got lucky once. Luck wouldn’t save her twice.


    At the sound of her callout, Vincenzo tilted his head slightly toward the assistant behind the counter. The young man nodded, moved swiftly, and brought the bottle forward, setting it down with a quiet clink.


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    By that time, the crowd had fully gathered, closing in and forming a tight ring around Vincenzo, Maia, and Maxwell.


    “Macan 1950,” Maia said thoughtfully, running her fingers along the bottle’sbel. “Supposedly crafted with traditional methods. Barley of the highest quality. Pure spring water. Aged for decades in sherry oak barrels. It checks all the surface boxes, but…”


    With an easy motion, Maia lifted the bottle and gave it a slow, deliberate swirl. “If it were genuine, the liquid would shine with a deep amber glow touched by gold. This one? The color’s a little too pale.”


    Without missing a beat, she twisted the cap open, grabbed a clean ss, and poured out a careful measure. She held the ss under her nose, inhaling softly. “First notes should hit you with dried fruit,” Maia exined. “After that, oak, vani…”


    “And a trace of cinnamon ought to follow. Layers of honey and caramel should be there too. But this one? Only the first two show up. Everything else… is missing.”


    After a brief pause, Maia raised the ss to her lips and took a small sip. A knowing smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “The real Macan 1950 would roll across your tongue rich and smooth. Layers of dried fruit, dark chocte, a whisper of citrus peel, and a hint of smoke. It finishes long, deep, heavy with oak and spice.”


    Setting the ss down with a soft clink, Maia turned to Maxwell. “Want to give it a try?”


    Maxwell fixed his gaze on her, amused and curious. “You’re telling me this bottle’s a fake?”


    A simple nod was her only answer.


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