Chapter 2 #2
“Oh, you mean she’s the price of admission.” Renzo lifts his hand, palm open, gesturing toward the frescoed ceiling, the desk, the power embedded in the walls. “Into this office.”
I don’t like how what he’s saying is making me feel guilty, and I have no reason to feel this way.
I haven’t seen my wife since we married ninety-one days ago.
I haven’t fucked another woman during that time either—that’s a long time for a man like me who’s been single for most of his adult life, except for one serious relationship five years ago with Chiara.
Renzo watches my face like he’s reading a report.
“You need to understand where you are,” he says. “Have you thought about how Cesare is going to react to this?”
I give him a hard look. “Cesare tolerates whatever benefits him.”
Renzo’s mouth twitches. “True. But Alessia…is not Cesare.”
“She agreed to my terms. I made it blunt and clear before we married.”
Renzo doesn’t hesitate. “Just because you did doesn’t make it right to humiliate her like this, Nico. And…honestly, this isn’t who you are. Stop escorting Chiara like she’s your date. Stop feeding the story. And”—his eyes sharpen—“show your wife.”
I scoff. “Show her. Like a product.”
“Like a spouse,” Renzo snaps.
I laugh again, because if I don’t, something else might crack. “She lives in Bolgheri. She’s happiest with dirt under her nails.”
Renzo shrugs. “She’s coming tonight for the Valdoria anniversary…spend time with her instead of Chiara. You can do that, right?”
I shoot him a glare brimming with frustration.
“Or is what everyone’s saying true—that you can’t stand looking at your wife because she’s the ugly Alighieri?”
It’s cruel. But it’s what they call her.
Compared to Alba and Antonella, Alessia looks like a child switched at birth. Her sisters inherited their mother’s beauty; Alessia inherited her father’s face. Not ugly—not even close—but plain, in a way society mistakes for failure.
Which is absurd.
She has striking hazel-gray eyes; she never bothers to frame them with makeup.
Lips that are naturally full, left bare because lipstick would feel like an affectation.
Skin darkened and healthy from hours spent outdoors, not curated under lights.
Her hands are rough—rougher than mine—but then I don’t spend my days growing things, pruning them, keeping them alive.
There is an earthiness to Alessia that doesn’t photograph well and doesn’t beg for attention. She looks real in a world where it’s increasingly hard to tell whose tits are natural and who got a butt lift.
I press my fingers to the edge of the desk. “Fine.”
“And maybe go to Bolgheri…spend some time with your wife? You may as well work from the offices there than here.”
I cock an eyebrow. “Now, why would I do that?”
“You’re married. There is no divorce coming. You want to live like this? Or do you want to have some semblance of a relationship with Alessia?”
“What’s wrong with how it’s going?” I demand, and then, when he gives me a flat, unimpressed look, I continue. “And I’ve been busy, you know that. I’ve been dealing with the merger. The board. The export renegotiations. Staffing. Debt structure. The—”
“Hey, sell this shit to someone who doesn’t know you as well as I do,” he cuts me off. “You haven’t even consummated your marriage, so….”
“I didn’t know you were keeping such a close eye on my sex life,” I throw at him, feeling cornered.
I married Alessia for the CEO chair. I didn’t lie about that. She married me for a vineyard. We made our bargain clean.
Except—
The night after the wedding, when we were finally alone in the palazzo suite, she stood there in a simple dress, hair damp from the shower, hands clasped tightly in front of her like she was bracing for impact.
And I—me—felt something I hadn’t planned for.
Not lust. Not tenderness.
Respect.
A sharp, inconvenient awareness that she was real. That she had been traded like property, and she had still shown up.
If I touched her, it wouldn’t be a contract anymore.
It would be a claim—mine on her and hers on me, and I don’t take what I can’t honor.
I hear myself speak, and the honesty surprises me. “If we live together and sleep together…I can’t pretend it’s just business.”
His expression softens, surprise melting into something warmer.
“I’m not the man who touches his wife and then disappears for weeks,” I continue roughly. “If I make her mine, I have to…be something else.”
Renzo’s eyes hold mine. “And is that such a bad thing? You know that Cesare is soon going to put pressure on you, as are your parents, for you to have a child.”
Cazzo! That I am really not ready for.
Before I can answer, there’s a knock at the door.
It opens without waiting.
Chiara steps in, looking very much like the antithesis of the woman Renzo and I have been discussing. She’s in a cream blouse, tailored trousers, hair swept back, lipstick that looks effortless, which I know it’s not.
“We need to go over tonight’s guest list,” she says briskly, then stops when she feels the air in the room. Her gaze flicks to Renzo. “What did I interrupt?”
Renzo stands, smooth. “A necessary conversation.”
He walks out without looking at her again, leaving me alone with the woman Florence keeps photographing at my side.
Chiara closes the door behind her and turns. “So?”
“So…apparently, there is gossip about us.”
She laughs. “Is there?”
“Yes. You know it, too. According to Renzo, it looks bad.”
She waves a hand, dismissing Renzo’s concerns. “You’re seen as a handsome Italian scion, and from a PR perspective, I can’t see the problem.”
“But”—I let out a long exhale—“maybe we want to be careful? My wife will be at the event tonight. Maybe you and I should keep our distance.”
A flash—hurt, anger, pride—passes across her face before she locks it down. Chiara has always been good at locking things down.
“You’re worried about your wife,” she says coolly.
“I’m worried about the company.”
Chiara studies me for a long moment. Then she nods, crisp. “Fine. I’ll manage optics.”
She turns to leave, hand on the handle, then pauses.
“Nico,” she says without looking back.
“What?”
“No one expects you to be loyal to a wife you married as part of a business partnership.”
Then she’s gone, her footsteps swallowed by the palazzo’s old stone throat, and I wonder if I’ve been giving Chiara the wrong signals, the ones that say I want to cheat on my wife…with her.
Order The Wrong Vintage!
* The main, principal floor of a grand building, traditionally the first floor above the ground level or second story in American terms (Italian)
* Bocconi University or Università Bocconi is a private university located in Milan, Italy that specializes in finance and business
* Yes (Italian)