Chapter 10
NICO
My wife is a good cook and an excellent conversationalist.
We start the evening by talking about safe things—vineyard logistics, the weather turning earlier than expected, and my travel schedule for the next month.
Neutral ground. Business-adjacent. Topics that don’t require vulnerability.
But the longer we sit under the pergola, the more the night loosens its grip on formality.
“So why did you come back to Italy from California?” she asks after I tell her how much I loved studying in the States, working in wine country where nobody cared about my last name.
“My father wasn’t well,” I explain. “And my sister and her husband are not part of the business; they don’t want to be. So, it fell to me.”
She takes a measured sip of wine. “You didn’t want it?”
I lift a shoulder. “I did. Just not like this. I wanted something that was mine first. That’s why I bought vineyards in Chile.”
“I spent a season there,” she tells me, surprising me.
“In Colchagua Valley?”
“Yes.” She smiles faintly as if recollecting fond memories. “Matteo sent me. I’d just turned eighteen. It was a small operation. Old bush vines. They were working with irrigation stress and canopy management because the heat kept pushing sugar faster than phenolics.”
I don’t know a lot about my wife—and maybe if I’d bothered to find out, I wouldn’t have been under the misconception that she’s dull or plain or even unsophisticated.
“You worked there?”
She sets her wine glass down and smiles fondly at a memory. “I cleaned tanks, tracked ferments, and slept in a room that smelled like dust and yeast. I learned more there than I did in any classroom.”
I am fascinated. “Leaving Italy and exploring wine country around the world taught me a lot.”
She listens, I notice. She’s curious. She wants to know. It’s not just small talk. In fact, I have a feeling that my wife hates and avoids aimless conversations.
“We do think very highly of ourselves and our wine in Italy don’t we?” She refills my glass with wine.
“We make good wine.”
“Certainly! But I have drunk some excellent Pinot Noir in Santa Ynez in California, Chenin Blanc in South Africa, Sauvignon Blanc in New Zealand….”
The way Alessia carries herself, the way she dresses and speaks, is at odds with how learned she is.
Maybe, idiota, you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover?
I’m confronted with my own shallowness—and how easily and cruelly I dismissed Alessia while she’s been living a life that I should admire.
“Did you ever want to have your own estate?” I ask her.
She waves a hand around. “Tenuta Pietra Alta is mine.”
“Well, it’s part of the House of Alighieri.”
“And that’s mine, too,” she says with quiet certainty. “Papà may have all kinds of opinions about women winemakers, but the trust is very clear. The estates pass to the heirs, to us. The House of Alighieri can only be inherited by blood.”
There’s no bravado in the way she says it, no triumph. She’s merely stating a fact.
The House of Alighieri Holding, the Società Agricola, the family trust, is 100% owned by the Alighieri family and can be passed only by blood. That’s written into the trust, which holds the land, estates, the brand, and the legacy assets.
When Cantina Alarico was folded into the House of Alighieri, I received a handsome payout that sets me and future generations up for life, as well as equity in the operating company, which handles production, distribution, and global sales.
I am CEO by contract, not ownership. I monetized my entry into this historic company—and won the dynasty only by marriage.
So, ultimately, I have a seat at the table. A salary that would make most men comfortable for life. But I don’t own any of this, and I never will. The vineyards, the land, the legacy—those belong to her and her sisters.
To our children, if we have any.
To blood.
All this time, I’ve been looking down on Alessia for marrying me so she could remain a winemaker, while I stepped into the lofty title of CEO.
But now I know with uncomfortable clarity that I didn’t marry into power.
I married adjacent to it. That realization is humbling—a much-needed kick in the ass.
“You are a very impressive woman, Alessia.” The words slip out before I can weigh them, parse them.
She blushes.
“I know.” I let out a long breath. “I know I didn’t start for us well.”
She leans forward, forearms resting on the table. “You told me you wouldn’t be faithful.”
I did say that. I’d been angry then—resentful, defensive. I’d told myself I was being forced to marry the dull sister, whom I believed no one wanted. As if she were being handed to me because no one else would take her.
Cristo!
My arrogance really did know no bounds.
“I’m sorry for that.” I cup her cheek. “Alessia, I haven’t been unfaithful. Not once. Not this entire time.”
Doubt flickers in her eyes.
“I wouldn’t lie to you,” I add. “I have no reason to.”
She pulls back slightly, shaking her head. “But—”
“I know,” I interrupt gently. “And I have no right to ask this, but…can we start again?”
Her expression twists with confusion. “Start what?”
“Our marriage.” I release a slow breath. “We’re married in name, but maybe we could actually be a couple.”
She pulls away from me, straightens. “You want to start our marriage?”
“Yes.” I give her a crooked smile, equal parts humility and hope. “I’d like to get to know you. Date you.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “You want to date me?”
“Yes,” I admit, a little bashful.
Now, she smiles. “And what would that look like?”
I think she’s teasing me. Or flirting. Either way, it’s disarming.
“Dinner,” I suggest. “Walks through the vines. Talking. Maybe kissing in dark corners.”
She laughs—bright, unguarded, and real.
That’s when I know that I’m falling for my wife.
The women I’ve been with before were beautiful, intelligent, and accomplished. But none of them come close to Alessia’s authenticity. With her, I don’t search for hidden meanings or read between the lines. She says what she thinks—without fear, without pretense.
That kind of courage is rare.
I know because I don’t have it.
Even when I left the family business to build something of my own, it was a calculated risk. A safety net beneath me. Trust funds. Family money. I was never in danger of losing everything.
Alessia’s courage is silent and far more radical. She lives honestly every day. She doesn’t dress up because a photographer shows up. She doesn’t perform femininity to be palatable. She doesn’t cook elaborate meals to earn affection.
She is herself—completely, unapologetically—and if that doesn’t appeal to someone, she assumes, rightly, that it’s their problem.