Chapter 12
NICO
I don’t leave Pietra Alta the next morning.
That decision surprises me.
I woke up to an empty bed, but her perfume, her essence, lingered.
I spent a night in a bed with a woman for the first time without sex being involved—and yet there was undeniable intimacy, born out of our conversation, of us telling our stories, showing each other what made us who we are.
I kissed her last night—for the second time in our lives.
The first was when we married, when the priest gave us permission after announcing we were husband and wife. Then the kiss had been perfunctory, for the light, for society.
Last night, it was for her and for me only.
It was light in touch but erotic in intensity.
When I lay on my back after, I was hard, wanting very much to touch her, explore her, be inside her.
It was a new feeling, one I haven’t had about my wife.
Maybe a glimmer of it was present when I saw her at the Palazzo Alighieri—but now that shimmer is a fire, sparked by talking to her, getting to know her.
She’s an exquisite woman, layer upon layer, with the kind of depth you only find in wines from exceptional years.
I turn on the DeLonghi coffee machine and make myself a cup.
I like her kitchen, it reminds me of my mother’s.
Warm and welcoming.
It’s the kind where everything is easy to find, even if you’ve never been here before, because it’s organized the way she is—practical, intuitive, and quietly generous.
I take my coffee on the terrace. It’s early in the day. The estate is waking up while the mist clings low to the vines. It will retreat as the sun comes up and works to ripen the grapes that have had a good sleep in the cool sea air.
I don’t see Alessia, but then the estate is large, and she could be anywhere. As I think about her, the door from the tasting room to the courtyard opens, and she comes out, looking radiant.
Her hair is tied up as it usually is, and she’s wearing jeans, knee-high work boots, and a House of Alighieri T-shirt. She rarely wears makeup—except that night at the Palazzo.
Alessia isn’t preoccupied with her appearance, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t understand it.
I remember her as my bride. The makeup had been soft—so subtle I’d wondered if she was wearing any at all.
Now I know better. It had been light and deliberate, meant to enhance what was already there, not disguise it.
I feel like a fool.
I was looking at the wrong things, measuring her by shallow standards, and in doing so, we lost time. And not just that, we also lost trust.
I said the wrong things. I did the wrong things. Now, if we’re going to find our footing and give this marriage a fighting chance, it will be harder than it ever needed to be. And the fault is only mine.
“Good morning.” She sets a brown paper bag on the table next to me. “Croissants. Freshly made.”
“Grazie.” I set my coffee down and open the bag; the smell of fresh pastries fills the air.
I take a bite and moan in delight. The chef at Tenuta Pietra Alta is truly remarkable.
“I’ll be working from here today,” I tell her after I wash down the first few bites of the pasty with coffee.
She looks at me as if I’ve just said something impossible. “Here?”
It’s my fault that she seems so surprised.
Cristo! I’ve been a fool.
“Si.” I keep my tone casual, though my choice is heavy with intent. “If that’s all right.”
“Yes, it’s alright,” she breathes. “Ah…the chef knows you’re here, which is why we’re all having fresh croissants for breakfast.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“You” —her eyes twinkle with laughter—“are the CEO of the House of Alighieri, and he wants to impress you.”
A startled chuckle bursts out of me.
“And…well, you’re also my husband,” she continues.
How did I ever think a woman with those eyes could be plain? How blind could I have been?
“Does that mean I’m going to eat well?” I tease.
“Yes.” She tucks her hands into her jeans, suddenly self-conscious. “He’s making lunch and wants to know what you’d like.”
I move closer to her because I can’t resist it. “I’d like to be surprised,” I murmur and then dip my head.
I kiss her softly, lightly. “Buongiorno, mia moglie.”
She blushes. “Good morning. Ah…I have to…you know…go.”
She’s flustered, and I’m absurdly proud that I’m the cause. She’s usually so unflappable—steady, composed, always in control—that seeing her thrown off balance feels like being trusted with something fragile.
“I’ll be right here,” I tell her.
She leaves with a bright smile that makes me incredibly happy.
I drink another cup of coffee and settle in under the pergola, where we had dinner last night, with my laptop.
I call Renzo before eight.
“You’re going to hate me,” I tell him.
“I already do,” he replies. “What did you do now?”
“How do you feel about having lunch at Tenuta Pietra Alta?”
There’s a pause. Then a laugh. “Did you spend the night with your wife, or did you get there early in the morning?”
I ignore his question. “Since we have several meetings, it would be better to do them face-to-face rather than over the phone.”
“So we did spend the night! And how is the little missus?”
I ignore his remark. “I’d like to go through the quarterly numbers and also get a progress report on South Africa.”
“Alright, I get the message, you don’t want to kiss and tell.” He’s obviously enjoying himself. “I’ll be there in a couple of hours.”
It takes him longer because of traffic, but by lunchtime we’ve taken over the long table under the pergola—papers spread out, laptops open, espresso cups multiplying like rabbits.
Zoya has been taking care of us—and flirting outrageously with Renzo. Not exactly professional, as neither of them stands on ceremony.
However, it stays firmly in the realm of lighthearted fun.
After all, Zoya is apparently having a hot and heavy relationship with a construction worker with very big, muscled arms.
Working like this is familiar and comfortable in a way Florence isn’t. This is how it used to be at Cantina Alarico—long days, informal work, laughter threaded through the labor.
Since the merger, we’ve grown more staid, shaped by the corporate gravity of the House of Alighieri. It wasn’t a decision we made. It simply happened. When you work in a place like Palazzo Alighieri, where history whispers from every corner, reverence becomes part of the air you breathe.
But here, in the open Bolgheri light, there is reverence and freedom. The land insists on it. You’re closer to the terroir, closer to the vine—to the heart of what we do.
Some of Alessia’s team join us for lunch in the dining room, giving us a sense of what guests experience when they come to the estate for a wine tasting.
Lucia, her assistant winemaker and right hand in the cellar, sits across from me, and next to her is Edam, the vineyard manager, who seems to know every vine personally. Then there is Hortensio from the lab, who looks like he hasn’t slept properly since veraison began.
The chef sets our table for a family-style meal and refuses to eat with us.
Dino Ferri has been the estate chef for over a decade, I learn. He runs everything from the kitchen to the tasting room with efficiency and creativity, according to Alessia, designing menus around estate-grown produce and seasonal availability.
Platters of grilled vegetables—zucchini, eggplant, peppers blistered until sweet—drizzled with olive oil pressed from the estate’s own groves.
A bowl of farro tossed with cherry tomatoes, basil, and shaved pecorino.
Slices of cold roast chicken with lemon and rosemary, still impossibly juicy.
Fresh bread torn by hand, crusty and warm, served with a dish of oil so green it borders on fluorescent.
No one talks shop at first.
Forks clink.
Slowly, the conversation starts.
Lucia admonishes Edam lightly about marking too many parcels as “needs attention”, and Edam fires back that vines, like people, deserve to be listened to before they’re corrected.
I think they’re sleeping together, and if they’re not, they need to because the air pretty much crackles with their chemistry.
Wine appears almost as an afterthought.
Alessia pours a Vermentino—pale, chilled, barely twelve percent alcohol. Bright and saline, the kind of wine made for working lunches, not contemplation.
The pours are modest.
At estates like this, no one pretends abstinence is virtuous. You drink. You just do it smartly.
“This is from the coastal block,” Alessia tells Renzo and me. “Early harvest. It awakens the palate.”
She’s right. The wine is crisp, almost bracing, cutting cleanly through the oil and herbs.
Renzo lifts his glass. “It doesn’t dull the senses for sure…it sharpens them.”
We ask questions without making it feel like an interrogation from the top brass.
Conversation drifts naturally—harvest forecasts, a stuck fermentation from the year before that everyone still winces at, and a university trial Alessia’s running with Pisa on drought-resistant rootstocks.
I notice, as I’m sure Renzo does, how her team looks to Alessia without realizing they’re doing it. It’s not deference or fear but trust.
This isn’t a hierarchy built on titles but on competence and mutual respect.
This is where Alessia is most comfortable—not at the Palazzo in Florence or a fancy party. She’s a competent winemaker and an astute businesswoman in the wine industry. She’s aware of how the market moves, what the trends are.
“I think we should think about rosé as an entry for younger people to learn about wine. They may balk at paying fifty euros on a bottle, but twenty euros a bottle shared amongst four? That could work!” she muses.
Edam wrinkles his nose. “I see some of the winemakers making their labels all kitschy and pink to attract the TikTok watchers. Please tell me we won’t do that.”
Alessia laughs and looks at me. “That’s a branding decision, so we need to ask the boss about it.”
They all turn to me. Ah, this is a test, I realize, and so does Renzo, who smirks.