Chapter 13
ALESSIA
Nico stays for two nights and three whole days.
Then he goes back to Florence, to meetings and obligations. I tell myself that this is normal—that this is how it works.
And yet, I worry.
Did he go back to Chiara or some other woman?
Will he ever come back?
It’s pathetic to moon after a man. I know that. Hell, every woman in the world knows that, but that doesn’t stop me.
It’s been nice to have him here. To start the day…how did he put it? Yes, with something sweet.
The first night after he leaves, he calls.
He’s never called me. Maybe a text message or two about logistics and where we need to be to do something formally, but he’s never called before.
It’s late. After ten. I couldn’t sleep, so I went to the lab in the cellar.
I like being there at night, when I’m alone.
I’m tracking ambient yeast activity and watching it tick upward on the monitor while listening to Taylor Swift sing about how she’s avoided the fate of Ophelia when Siri informs me that there’s a call from Nico Alarico and asks if I’d like to answer.
“Yes, yes,” I quickly say.
“Nico?”
“Dolcezza,” he murmurs. He’s started calling me that, and it’s…well, it’s nice. I’ve never had a nickname with a lover before. It’s intimate.
“How are you?” he asks.
I hesitate, but only for a moment. “I miss you.”
“Oh, cara, me, too.”
“Really?” I can’t help the eagerness in my voice.
“Yes. It was nice, wasn’t it, to be together?”
“Yes, very nice.”
I sit down, smiling like a fool. “I’m in the cellar.”
“You are?” There’s a smile in his voice. “We kissed there for the first time.”
Heat rises through me, pools between my legs. He arouses me. It’s such an amazing feeling. This marriage, which I thought was doomed from the start, appears to be rising from the ashes.
“Well, I’m not kissing anyone right now. I’m running bench trials to calibrate yeast strains, nutrient protocols, temperature curves, and—”
“I’m in bed, and I want you.”
I inhale slowly as I imagine him lying in a bed at the Palazzo Alighieri. His olive skin in contrast against the white sheets, which have the Alighieri half-sun logo discreetly embroidered.
“Nico.” That’s all that comes out because my throat is closed up. I am behaving like an ingenue being seduced by a lothario, not a grown woman having an intimate conversation with her husband.
“I’m so hard, Alessia.”
I gasp at the image he conjures.
“Next time I see you, we’re going to do more than kiss,” he promises, his voice hoarse.
“Yes,” I agree.
We both fall silent for a long moment, and then he chuckles. “So, do you have fermentation strategies?”
“What?” This man is making my head spin!
“Dolcezza, as much as I’d love to hear your gorgeous voice while I pleasure myself, that’s not how our first time is going to be.”
I’m not used to a man talking so easily about sex. In fact, I know no man who talks like this.
“I have fermentation strategies…parcel by parcel,” I tell him.
“Do you know that Renzo is madly impressed with you?”
I smile at that. “Well, I liked him a lot, too.”
“Are you trying to make me jealous, wife?”
I laugh at the ease of talking to him when I never thought it would be possible to be like this with Nico, not after how he behaved earlier.
“Maybe! Are you jealous?”
“Yes. Of every man who gets to spend time with you while I’m sitting in Florence, arguing with the board about how to manage pricing.”
As I walk back to the house, he tells me how premium wine prices climbed too fast post pandemic and that, combined with younger consumers drinking less wine and more fruity cocktail spirits, is hurting the wine business worldwide.
“Restaurants are marking wine up nearly two-three hundred percent at times. It’s killing volume,” he says, agitated. “So, we’re arguing on the board if we should hold prestige pricing or cut to protect market share.”
I undress with him in my ear, getting ready for bed.
“I think the prices are too high. Unaffordable,” I remark.
“We’re making wine a luxury item, and that’s going to hurt us in the long run.
How come I sell a bottle of wine for three hundred euros in my tasting room, and then the restaurant charges thirteen hundred euros for it?
How much sense does that make? Who can afford that? ”
“A select few,” he admits.
“And they can’t drink enough wine for us to stay in business. Then we have to shrink our vineyards, produce less and less…which I think is a shame. We should have prestige wines, but not everything can be on the high end.”
I put him on mute as I brush my teeth, and listen to him as he agrees with me on increasing market share with our less prestigious wines—the Chianti and the Rosso Montalcino.
“We should sell our vini da tavola with smaller markups. I know this is Alba’s domain, and I know Cesare hates this, but what do you think about an Alighieri wine club? A global one?” he muses.
I get under the sheets naked, the same sheets that still smell like him.
“Will this mean American tourists are going to traipse through my vines?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know if I like that! But it’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make to bring our wine to more people. A wine club means regular sales, a subscription service, and a way for us to get rid of some of our wines that are not moving. American vineyards have been doing this for years.”
We end up talking for two hours.
About vine.
About the business.
About how veraison is progressing, whether the Cab Franc is coloring evenly, and how the sugars are tracking against acidity.
I walk him through my sampling schedule and the decisions I’m weighing.
He talks to me about board meetings, and even though he doesn’t say it, I detect that he and my father don’t get along. Their values and views of the wine world are not the same.
At some point, I realize my cheeks hurt—because I’ve been smiling the entire time we talked.
The days that follow fall into a rhythm that feels dangerously good.
Mornings in the vines—checking color change, tasting berries, feeling skins between my fingers.
Afternoons in the lab—monitoring yeast viability, running assays, updating projections. The work is relentless and exacting, but it has always been my comfort.
And threaded through it, there is Nico and me.
That first conversation is the start of a week-long one between us. We talk every night, and during the day we text each other a lot.
It’s like having an affair where you constantly reach out to your amore because it gives you a thrill.
Nico: What does “phenolic maturity” actually taste like? Asking for Renzo, who’s talking out of his ass.
Me: How is Renzo?
Nico: Why do you ask?
Me: Just asking because…he’s so handsome.
Nico: That’s not funny, dolcezza. He’s in Venice for a client meeting and on a conference call with me and fifteen others. So, what does phenolic maturity taste like?
Me: Promise and restraint.
Nico: Why is it that everything you say has sexual undertones?
Me: I think you’re just horny.
Nico: Tell me about it!
That night, while I’m having dinner with Lucia and Edam, he sends me a message with a photograph of a wine list from a restaurant in Florence.
Nico: They have a bottle of your Cab Franc. I didn’t order it. Felt like cheating on you.
Me: That might be the most nonsensical thing you’ve ever said.
Nico: Noted. Still true. I want to drink it with you and only you.
The romance doesn’t interrupt my work or his. It runs alongside it—like color blooming where yesterday there was only green.
I tell my sisters on a three-way FaceTime call two nights later.
Alba gets on the call first. Tokyo neon reflects faintly in the glass wall behind her. She angles her phone toward the window so I can see the city unfurling beneath her like circuitry.
“Isn’t it spectacular?”
Before I can answer, Toni pops on, wind-tousled, cheeks pink, holding her phone at arm’s length as she spins. The image blurs briefly before settling on a gondola gliding past a stone bridge.
“I beat you on the view,” she announces triumphantly.
“What are you doing in Venice?” I ask, smiling despite myself.
“Weekend with friends. We took the train.”
“Good for you,” I say—and mean it. Someone should be enjoying themselves.
I shift on the lounger beneath the pergola, the wood still warm from the day. For a moment, I let myself imagine it: disappearing for a weekend, being unneeded. Winter will come, I remind myself. There will be time then. Maybe Australia. Sun. New vineyards.
I wonder if Nico will come with me.
“My view is one you’ve seen,” I add lightly. The camera catches the long wooden table, the dimming sky, and a glass of water sweating beside me.
“It’s still the best place in the world.” Toni’s expression softens. “I miss Bolgheri. And I miss you both.”
I draw my legs up on the lounger, resting my chin on my knees. I hesitate—just a beat—then say, “So, Nico came by and stayed for two nights.”
Alba lets out a low whistle. “No wonder you’re glowing.”
I blush, instinctively tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “We didn’t…you know…go all the way. In fact”—I clear my throat—“we only kissed.”
“Was it good?” Toni’s eyes are wide as she leans closer to her screen.
“Very.” I am unable to stop the giggle that escapes me.
Alba grins. “You look happy. I’ve never seen you look like this.”
“Well, then he left for Florence,” I admit, twisting the hem of my shirt between my fingers. “But he calls every night and texts all day long. It’s really, really nice. And I’m really, really scared it’s going to vanish.”
“Is he still sleeping with Chiara?” Alba demands, all warmth gone.
I shake my head. “He said he hasn’t been with anyone since we got engaged.”
Toni arches a brow. “Do we believe him?”
“I do,” I say without hesitation.
Alba claps slowly. “Well, well, well. Looks like someone’s fallen hard.”
I laugh again, giddily. “It’s just easy to be with him. He listens. Asks questions. Flirts outrageously. I—it’s like having an affair. One that feels good…has promise.”
Toni tilts her head. “Then why haven’t you gone all the way?”
I lift a shoulder. “I don’t know.”
“Well, they have to get to know each other first,” Alba says reasonably.
Toni snorts. “Please. You don’t need to know a man to fuck him.”
“Toni!” I groan. “You’re my baby sister.”
“I’m twenty-three,” she says, unrepentant. “And I could be a handsome guy’s baby if he wants.”
“Ugh.” Alba rolls her eyes. “Please tell me you’re not calling some old guy Daddy.”
“Have you seen that video going around?” Alba asks suddenly, eyes lighting up.
We both frown and shake our heads, not sure where she’s going with this.
“So this woman’s in the confessional, and she says”—Alba drops her voice to a husky whisper—“‘Daddy, I’ve been a bad girl.’” She pauses dramatically. “Then the camera pans to the priest, and he goes, ‘For the last time, it’s Father—forgive me, for I have sinned.’”
We dissolve into laughter.
“You know what,” Alba adds thoughtfully, “maybe I should reread The Thorn Birds.”
I drink some water, still chuckling at Toni’s joke. “I don’t think that aged well.”
“And neither did Lolita,” Alba sighs. “And I love Nabokov.”
Toni says something else, but my phone buzzes in my hand.
Nico: Are you free tomorrow night? I want to take you to dinner.
I straighten.
Me: Okay. You want me to cook or—
Nico: Read my message again, dolcezza.
I do. My smile spreads, slow and wide.
Me: You want to take me out.
Nico: Yes.
Me: Where?
Nico: Osteria Magona.
My heart skips.
Me: Nice.
Nico: Have you been?
Of course I have. Michelin-starred. Close to Pietra Alta. Our wines are on their list. I know the chef and the sommelier.
Me: Never with you.
Nico: Be ready by six. I’ll pick you up.
I lower the phone slowly.
“Well?” Alba asks. “Is he sexting?”
“Dick pic?” Toni presses.
“No.” I roll my eyes. “He’s taking me to dinner. Tomorrow. To Magona.”
Toni squeals.
Alba claps.
“So,” Alba says briskly, already shifting into command mode, “what are we wearing?”
“I just got invited,” I say helplessly. “I haven’t thought that far.”
I can’t stop smiling.
“I’m seeing him tomorrow,” I add, more to myself than to them. “We’re going out.”
A terrifying, thrilling thought crashes in.
“Oh God,” I whisper. Louder, then: “I need lingerie.”
My sisters howl with laughter.
“Of course you do.” Alba is scrolling on her phone as she talks to us on her computer.
“Nothing uncomfortable,” I warn weakly.
“Relax. You like La Perla and you like Pucci,” she replies.
“Pucci is too colorful.”
They both ignore me.
“Alba, get her a purse to go with the outfit,” Toni adds. “Her bag game is tragic.”
“I don’t need a bag!”
“I have two Birkins,” Alba says dryly. “What do you think I do with them?”
“I wouldn’t know what to do with one,” I mutter.
My closet is black, beige, and white. It’s practical. I am, after all, a pragmatist. But maybe for tomorrow night….
“Okay,” I announce. “I want something feminine. Flowing.”
Alba’s brows lift. “Hmm.”
“And sandals, maybe? Though I haven’t had a pedicure in forever.”
“I’ll send someone,” she replies immediately, furiously typing away on her phone.
“I’m busy tomorrow—”
“Noon. Skip lunch. A manicure and pedicure.”
“No nail polish.”
I refrain from putting anything on my hands beyond olive oil to moisturize, and sometimes not even that, to avoid contaminating the wine. Nail polish can chip and fall into the wine. No one needs that.
“Obviously.”
Fifteen minutes later, she announces, “Done.”
“What?” I gape.
“Pucci chiffon dress. Prada flats. Chanel purse.”
Toni whistles. “You’re terrifying.”
“I’m efficient.” Alba preens. “And I have an excellent buyer on retainer.”
I exhale, dazed.
I’m excited. Terrified. Thrilled.
I’m going to dress up. Go on a date with…my husband.
Wow.