Chapter 8 #2
Two bottles wait in an ice bucket on a wooden cradle, while one, a tinto, a red, is waiting next to them. The labels for all the wines are intentionally turned outward.
“We’ll start with the Alighieri Metodo Classico Rosé Extra Brut. It’s our palate reset.” She opens the bottle with the ease of someone who’s done it a thousand times, thumb firm against the cork, releasing it with nothing more than a soft sigh.
It’s somehow incongruous with her sloppy hair bun, her bare, luminous face, and eyes that hold centuries of inherited knowledge.
She pours with a steady hand, watching the mousse rise in a fine, persistent column. She waits, letting it settle.
“This is very low dosage,” she explains.
“We don’t correct what the vineyard gives us—we respect it.
It’s predominantly Pinot Noir for structure and tension, with a touch of Chardonnay for lift.
The color comes from brief skin contact, just enough to coax out that wild strawberry hue without losing precision.
We age it nearly twenty months on the lees, so you get that brioche edge, a little toasted almond, but still bright red currant and blood orange. ”
“Why so long on the lees?” Stasia asks, leaning forward.
“Because patience builds texture,” Alessia replies simply. “The bubbles become finer. The palate becomes silk instead of sparkle.”
I watch the editor take a sip, close her eyes. “It’s…restrained in the most marvelous way. Elegant, but not showy. I have to say, Alessia, this rivals anything from Reims.”
Alessia lifts one shoulder in an almost careless shrug. “We don’t try to rival anyone. But yes…I do think we’re better than most of them.”
The editor and photographer laugh.
Chiara says nothing. She should help the editor write more positively about the wine, but she’s out of step, I think, because she didn’t expect Alessia to be this woman—genuine, charming, and elegant.
Next is the white, a Vermentino from the coastal parcel, pale gold, and almost luminous.
“This comes from the lowest block,” Alessia continues. “Closer to the sea. The salt spray matters. We harvest early, ferment cool, and leave it alone. I think you’ll find it similar to say a Meursault from Bourgogne.”
Everyone, including me, agrees with that assessment.
I have tasted plenty of Alighieri wine—the best and the not-so-great—and Tenuta Pietra Alta has been getting better and better over the past four vintages.
According to Matteo, that is thanks to Alessia’s influence.
Even though he’s been the winemaker officially, she’s the one who has been doing the work.
Alessia gestures toward a table, where lunch has appeared without fuss: warm focaccia torn by hand, burrata still cold at the center, paper-thin prosciutto, and tomatoes dressed only with olive oil and salt.
“Everything is grown or sourced at Tenuta Pietra Alta,” she tells us.
“Alba, my sister who manages hospitality for the House of Alighieri, has made sure that all our estates with a restaurant must grow in-house as much as possible and buy only locally. It does prompt our chef’s creativity, even if he grumbles at times because he can’t just source what he wants from wherever he wants.
Then Alessia pours the red, her prestige wine.
One hundred percent Cabernet Franc.
“Only in exceptional vintages do we bottle this on its own,” she explains. “Most years, the fruit is too valuable to stand alone.”
“Is that the case for this?” Eugenio asks as he looks at the vintage
Alessia wiggles her eyebrows. “The year 2021 was a brilliant vintage for all of Bolgheri—especially Cab Franc.”
They ask questions, and she answers.
All the while, the editor takes notes even as she records and the photographer walks around taking shots, many of them, I suspect, with Alessia in them because now they see who she is…the story.
“What is so special about the Cab Franc?” Stasia asks.
“This parcel is higher. The skins are thicker. We extract gently. Less pump-over. More time.”
“And oak?” Stasia asks.
“About fifteen percent new, and the rest is neutral,” Alessia answers immediately. “The fruit has its own voice.”
Chiara murmurs that Alessia is too technical and boring. I ignore her. I think the editor is fascinated with Alessia’s knowledge, as I am.
They stop asking Chiara questions entirely and instead turn to Alessia asking about harvest decisions. About yeast strains. About climate adaptation. About fermentation.
She answers everything with calm authority, never once performing, never once glancing at me for reinforcement.
I watch her, glass forgotten in my hand. She’s commanding without raising her voice, without changing her clothes, without trying to be anything other than exactly who she is.
I am sunk.
Not charmed. Not intrigued.
Lost.
The editor leans back, finally, eyes bright. “How about we walk to the vines? We’d love some shots of you there.”
This makes Alessia hesitant. “Ah…look, I don’t want my photo—”
“I’ll get your approval before we print anything,” the photographer quickly assures her.
“Really?”
“I’ll take care of that,” Chiara interjects.
Alessia raises an eyebrow. “No offense, Chiara, if it’s my photo, I’m going to decide if it gets printed in a magazine that goes to every enoteca and vineyard in Italy.”
Chiara clenches her jaw. “Of course,” she mutters and then looks at me, frustrated.
I don’t smooth it over.
I don’t care enough to.
All I can see is my wife—hands stained, voice steady, utterly herself—and the undeniable truth settling deep in my chest:
She doesn’t need anyone to make space for her.
She is the space.
By the time the editor and photographer leave—dust trailing their car down the gravel road—the light has shifted.
Golden hour has burned itself out, replaced by that soft, bruised-blue twilight that settles over Bolgheri when the heat finally loosens its grip.
Chiara waits until they’re gone.
She walks ahead of me toward the line of cypress trees that edge the lower drive, heels sinking slightly into the dirt. The scent of resin and warm bark hangs heavy in the air. It’s quieter here, close to the pergola.
“What the hell was that? You undermined me and let her do the same,” she says without preamble, arms folding tight across her chest.
I stop beneath one of the cypress trees, its shadow long and narrow. “That was me preventing you from trying to sideline my wife on her own estate.”
Her laugh is brittle. “Nico, don’t be dramatic. I was managing optics.”
I tuck my hands in the pockets of my suit pants.
I took my jacket and tie off within the first half hour of getting here.
Unlike Chiara, I don’t enjoy sweating my balls off.
I give her a dry look, barely hiding my irritation. “Really? Is that what you were doing?”
She meets my gaze with quiet, simmering resentment. “I pitched her. I got them here.”
“You pitched her as window dressing,” I remind her, as I look around and let my eyes settle on my wife, who’s sitting under the pergola.
She’s on her laptop, on a call.
The entire time we’ve been here, she’s been working—even as she handled the editor and photographer, she was fielding questions from her team and stepping away to make phone calls.
If I had given it any thought, I’d have known that she’s hardworking, but now I have the evidence of it.
“You introduced Alessia as an estate manager. You let the editor assume she assisted in the vineyard, and Matteo Rinaldi runs the show. That wasn’t an oversight, Chiara.”
She opens her mouth. Closes it.
Alessia’s voice carries from the pergola then. “No, eight barriques won’t be enough. I need ten—preferably twelve.”
Chiara half turns to look at my wife as if she’s an intrusion, but she’s just doing, I believe, what she does. Works all day in the vines and then works the rest of the time here on her computer, going through data, planning her next day, her next vintage.
“Yes, I know that was our usual allocation,” she continues. “But the Cab Franc parcels performed exceptionally. Thicker skins, longer hang time. I’m not over-oaking—I’m separating lots.”
Another pause, shorter this time.
“I’ll take medium toast, tight grain. Taransaud for the new wood. I want Stockinger for the neutral barrels—same coopers as last year. I’m not compromising on airflow in the cellar.”
Alessia listens, then adds quietly, decisively, “I’m willing to wait if I have to—but I won’t downgrade.”
Barrel allocations aren’t casual purchases. They’re negotiated years in advance. Earned through reputation, consistency, and trust. And she’s pushing—because she knows the vintage can carry it.