Chapter 4
NICO
The gardens of Palazzo Alighieri were designed to impress people who believe beauty should remind them who owns it.
They stretch along the back of the palazzo in layered terraces—formal hedges trimmed to obedience, lemon trees heavy with fruit, stone balustrades opening to a view of the Arno curling through Florence like a private indulgence.
Lanterns glow low and golden as dusk settles, casting light against ancient walls and turning the river into a ribbon of molten copper below.
This is where the House of Alighieri entertains when it wants to show off.
The air smells of citrus and crushed herbs and money spent carefully.
Waiters move silently with trays of crystal flutes and Burgundy stems.
Valdoria is being poured—older vintages, decanted properly, labels turned just enough to be seen without shouting.
This is all by design…Alba’s design. She’s the invisible hand behind all of the House of Alighieri’s hospitality efforts.
Cesare doesn’t appreciate it, but I do. I see what she does, and I’m grateful for it.
Cesare is old-school and believes a man is superior to a woman—I don’t agree.
I can’t make the changes I want to make, eliminate the gender inequality that exists in the company, but I will when I have secured the power to do so. Until then, I bide my time.
I look around the crowd, and my eyes fall on Chiara.
Once, I thought I loved her and that we’d marry. She wanted that, but I never felt the spark one should feel for the person they intend to marry. And now the irony is that I’m in a marriage of convenience.
I am not attracted to Chiara, regardless of what she thinks or what the tabloids do. She is familiar, and we work well together. She’s a damn good communications and PR professional.
She’s at the far end of the terrace, holding court without appearing to.
Her laugh rises and falls with skill.
She touches an arm here, tilts her head there, knows precisely when to listen and when to speak.
She’s in a dress that skims her body—gold-threaded, backless, daring just enough to be admired but never questioned.
Chiara Jossa is excellent arm candy.
Smart. Fluent. Strategic.
She’s the kind of woman you’re proud to stand beside because she understands how power circulates in a room. Because she knows how to make you look effortless by association.
Maybe I should’ve married her, I think absently, and that’s when I see my wife.
She’s near a balustrade, her back half-turned to the crowd, deep in conversation with Matteo Rinaldi.
The head winemaker leans in slightly, animated in a way I don’t normally see.
He’s her mentor, and I know that Cesare believes Matteo merely indulges Alessia’s dreams of being a winemaker—but I know better.
He trusts her. He didn’t give her Tenuto Pietra Alta because it’s the smallest of the Alighieri estates—he gave it to her because he believes it’s the one with the most potential.
She’s wearing a dark green dress, severe by Florence’s standards. No sparkle. No embroidery. The cut is clean, the fabric heavy enough to hold its shape. Her hair is simply pulled back, exposing the line of her neck. No necklace. Minimal makeup—if any at all.
She looks…plain…yes, but also…capable.
She’s not performing—I doubt she’s capable of that kind of pretense. Maybe she and I are alike in that way. We’re more comfortable with authenticity than with catering to society’s expectations.
But we both know what’s expected of us, which is why we walked in together, smiling for our guests as the room turned to look at us.
The new couple.
The alliance made flesh.
Cameras flashed.
Applause followed us like a cue we’d rehearsed.
For a few minutes, it worked.
We moved through the crowd as we were meant to—introducing ourselves, accepting congratulations, nodding at investors and board members, and people who would forget her name by morning.
We spoke to others, but never to each other.
Not really. Our smiles were perfectly timed. Our distance, equally so.
Then, as if on instinct, we separated as we have in our relationship. I have a good excuse with the merger and my need to be in Florence, and hers to be in Bolgheri. A marriage like ours survives because of the distance.
She drifted toward Matteo Rinaldi and the winemakers, into conversations that mattered to her. I was pulled in the opposite direction—toward donors, press, people who wanted assurances and handshakes and a version of me that didn’t hesitate.
By this point at the party, we might as well have arrived alone.
I should remedy that, go to her, and continue the facade.
But I don’t move. There is something compelling about the way she holds herself with quiet dignity that I don’t see in any other woman in this garden. She stands out—despite the lack of diamonds and finery. She stands out because she’s herself. Authentic.
I watch Matteo’s expression as my wife speaks. He’s listening, not indulging, as I know he sometimes does with important clients who want to genuflect to the legendary winemaker or show off their limited knowledge of wine.
No, they’re talking like equals.
A waiter passes. I take a glass—Brunello this time, Fonteferma Riserva. Good choice. Structured. Serious. Not a wine meant to charm quickly.
I take a sip and turn to look at Chiara, who laughs loudly, drawing attention. She’s not aggressive, just flirtatious in a way that is still somehow professional. Even though I don’t know Alessia, I know she wouldn’t be able to pull something like that off.
I want to go to her, but I don’t. I resist. I have no idea why. It would make everyone’s life easier if I just played a husband in public—instead, I….
“Nico.” Chiara smiles at me and steps forward as I join her circle of conversation. “I was just telling Mr. Pignola here about the rebrand we’re planning.”
Mr. Pignola—silver-haired, immaculately dressed, one of those old families whose cellars matter more than their bank accounts—nods politely. His attention, however, drifts almost immediately. Not to the branding materials Chiara gestures toward with practiced ease, but past her shoulder.
“Ah,” he murmurs. “Matteo.”
He’s brought my wife here for some reason…no, no, I know why. He wants me to make her happy. He told me as much, and I told him that we’re not making each other happy—we’re here for the sake of business.
He has his hand on Alessia’s back as if he’s holding her there, stopping her from bolting.
“Santino, how are you doing, old friend?”
They shake hands, and Mr. Pignola’s eyes fall on my wife.
“Ah, Alessia, how are you, cara?” He hugs her fondly.
He knows her.
He likes her.
I don’t know why that should surprise me, but it does.
Matteo ignores Chiara, not bothering to even greet her. Alessia smiles and nods. She doesn’t look at me.
Chiara’s smile tightens by a fraction. Barely perceptible. But I see it.
“What you have done with Pietra Alta…my dear, is amazing,” Mr. Pignola says with stars in his eyes. He’s obviously smitten with my wife.
She shrugs shyly, and for a moment I see a little girl—genuinely stunned that someone is complimenting her. She isn’t used to this. Something uncomfortably close to guilt stirs in my chest, at not being the man who makes her used to praise.
I am a husband by contract. This is not my job!
Alessia inclines her head. “Santino, I’ve done nothing special…just following in Matteo’s footsteps.”
She calls him by his first name. I don’t even have permission to do that. Interesting.
“Oh, come now, don’t be so modest. You’re responsible for the Cabernet Franc parcel on the upper slope,” he continues. “The one with the unusually restrained extraction in the last vintage.”
Her eyes light up—not with pride, but recognition. “We adjusted early,” she gushes. “The skins were thicker than anticipated, and the nights stayed cooler than forecast. I didn’t want to push it.”
Mr. Pignola nods slowly. “And the acidity held?”
“It did.” She’s almost giddy when she says that. “But…barely. We harvested in the night through to first light.”
The conversation shifts—no effort, no prompting—from marketing to method. From surface to structure.
Chiara tries to re-enter, mentioning international perception, critics, and positioning. The words sound polished and empty.
Mr. Pignola is no longer listening to her.
He turns fully toward Alessia. “It’s a difficult balance, isn’t it, when you’re growing vine. People forget that restraint is often the hardest choice.”
Alessia’s face transforms from somber and polite to open and inviting.
“It’s easier to impress than to endure,” she says, laughing.
Unbidden, a thought enters my mind: what does she look like when she makes love?
I have thought of Alessia sexually—after all, she’s my wife—but I haven’t dwelled on it, not at all. I’ve been busy. But now….
“Alessia is of the vines,” Matteo says proudly and indulgently, like a father. “I know no other winemaker who knows and feels the terroir and her vines as she does.”
Her vines.
Matteo watches her with open approval.
Mr. Pignola asks another question, then another. Alessia answers without hedging, without performing. She doesn’t look at me once.
Chiara stands beside me, beautiful and immaculate and suddenly…irrelevant.
I take another sip of my Brunello and realize I’ve misjudged the room. Misjudged the women in it. Misjudged my wife most of all.
Chiara is excellent at making people want things.
Alessia helps them understand why they want what they want and how she gives it to them through her abilities as a vignaiola.
Mr. Pignola finally turns to me. “You married well, Nico.” Then, to Alessia, “I look forward to tasting your next vintage.”
As they drift away—Matteo and Alessia pull back into another cluster of serious conversations—I’m left standing beside Chiara, the music softening, the Arno glinting below.
For the first time tonight, I don’t feel flattered by the woman on my arm.
I am embarrassed.
And that, more than anything else, unsettles me.
Chiara is brilliance on the surface. Alessia is depth that doesn’t announce itself. I tell myself that’s not fair. That they’re different women with different roles. But the thought won’t let go.
Chiara is everything a CEO is supposed to want at his side.
And yet….
“Oh…we have to meet—” Chiara takes me away to talk to someone else who is important. I can’t focus on that conversation because I’m listening to the one taking place next to us.
“We adjusted extraction early—less pump-over, more patience,” Alessia says to another vintner, whom I recognize as someone from the Frescobaldi family.
The man hums thoughtfully. “And the oak?”
“Neutral for now. Let the fruit speak first.”
There’s no performance in her voice. No awareness of being overheard. She isn’t selling anything.
“See…that’s what I like about you, Alessia, you’re not excessive with the barrique like some others we know,” the Frescobaldi man jokes.
I’ve sat in boardrooms across three continents listening to people talk confidently about things they barely understand. I know the sound of competence when I hear it.
Chiara glances my way and catches my eye. “Nico, tell Mr. Bana about the strategic realignment we’re doing to appeal to the next generation of luxury consumers.”
Before I can speak, Matteo leads Alessia away, further from me.
“Ah.” I talk about the strategic realignment bullshit that’s Chiara’s pet project, one that right now feels vapid compared to how my wife talks about wine. She’s creating the product we sell, the product that people want. The rest is just…cosmetic.
I hear her from a distance as she laughs softly at something Matteo says, the sound unguarded.
I have been looking at my wife as a farmer—someone who doesn’t fit my circles, and yet, it occurs to me that she belongs here more than I do.
I don’t quite know what to do with that realization.