Chapter 19 #2
Chiara walks us through the revised messaging for the Vendemmia Gala—how we frame the pricing freeze as accessibility, how we emphasize stewardship over profit, and ultimately how we reassure distributors without sounding apologetic.
She's good at her job. No doubt about it. I should be more attentive, but I'm not. I nod in the right places and ask the right questions, but my eyes keep drifting—to the path between the vines and the house.
Every few minutes, I catch myself listening for footsteps.
I've sat in boardrooms during hostile takeovers without breaking concentration. I've negotiated contracts that could sink companies. And yet here, under a pergola that smells faintly of rosemary and crushed fruit, I can't keep my attention where it belongs.
Renzo notices, amused. "Nico, you have an opinion about the narrative?"
I give him a tight-lipped look that says everything I don't say out loud. The son of a bitch knows I'm distracted, and he's enjoying it.
"What are your suggestions?" I drawl.
He grins. "We should stagger the storyline throughout the evening." He taps the printout of a slide. "I think we need to let the narrative breathe."
"Agreed," I say. The asshole threw me a lifeline because I have no idea what he’s talking about.
Chiara leans forward. "Nico, are you even looking at slide fourteen?"
"I am," I reply confidently. I am absolutely not, because all I can think about is Alessia—somewhere out there in the vines, hair tied back, hands stained, body running on caffeine and sheer will.
This is what it means to be in love, I realize.
Not possession or proximity, but a constant, low-grade awareness—like a current running under everything else.
It's distracting as hell…and I don't want to change a damn thing. But work is work, and it needs to get done.
"Okay." I stand abruptly, needing the action to break out of my lovesick sob story. "Summarize the key points."
Chiara bristles but complies.
Renzo smirks.
I lose her in less than half a minute after she starts speaking.
I feel Alessia before I see her.
There's a shift in the air.
A pull.
I turn just as Alessia comes into view at the far end of the courtyard—boots dusty, sleeves rolled, hair coming loose at the nape of her neck. She looks exhausted…and radiant.
She freezes when she sees me.
For one suspended second, the world narrows to just us.
Then she crosses the distance in long, urgent strides—and I meet her halfway.
I don't think or check myself, I just reach for her.
I wrap my arms around her, pulling her against me, breathing her in like a man who's been underwater too long.
She buries her face in my chest, fingers clutching my shirt, and the sound she makes—half laugh, half relief—goes straight through me.
"Cristo," she murmurs. "You're here."
"Fuck, Alessia, I've missed you," I say hoarsely as I lay my lips on hers.
Her eyes hold a quiet reverence, as if my confession caught her by surprise.
I groan into her mouth, kissing her like I haven't kissed a woman in years. I explore her mouth hungrily as my hands start to unravel her braid.
"Nico," she whispers as I nibble at her lower lip.
"Si, cara." I pull back to look at her, my hands on her waist, holding her to me, and her hands fisted in my shirt.
"We have an audience." Color rises to her cheeks—but she doesn't step away from me.
I glance past her. Chiara's face is a mask—tight, white, furious.
Renzo is delighted, like he’s won a bet with himself. "Well, that answers the question of whether you needed to be here."
Alessia curls into me, like she needs the closeness just as I know I do.
When did this happen? When did she become so vital?
"I'm sorry if I disturbed you," she whispers shyly.
"No apologies needed, dolcezza, we were wrapping up."
Chiara stands. "Nico, we still have—"
“I know what we have," I cut her off.
Chiara looks like someone pissed in her wine.
“Of course.” Her tone is professional. Her eyes are anything but. “I’ll—” She waves her phone. “I need to take a call.”
As she walks away, Renzo lets out a quiet chuckle. "If looks could ferment, Alessia, cara, you'd be vinegar by now."
"I'm made of sturdier stuff," my wife replies haughtily.
I huff out a laugh.
Alessia tilts her head, studying me.
“Are you alright?” she asks, meaning: Are you okay with what just unfolded?
"I am now that you're here," I tease, eyes glinting.
And that's the truth of it, because whatever battles are waiting, boards, fathers, betrayals, I know this much with absolute clarity, there is no version of my life where Alessia isn't with me.
"So…what's next?" Chiara asks tersely.
Alessia stiffens. She pulls back, eyes flashing—not hurt, not uncertain, but royally, unmistakably annoyed.
"Next? Harvest. Harvest. And…hey, guess what, harvest," she retorts.
Chiara cocks an eyebrow. "I thought you'd be too busy for"—she waves a hand to indicate us, still in each other's holds—"this."
I'm about to tell her to mind her own business and remind her that she just crossed one of the lines I told her not to cross, when Alessia lets out a breathy laugh.
"I'm never too busy to be with my husband. I don't need to schedule affection with what’s mine."
Talk about staking a claim!
Renzo coughs into his hand to hide a grin.
I give him a pointed look. He shrugs, giving me a look that says this is all too fucking hilarious and my fault in the first place.
"Renzo, didn't you suggest helping with the harvest?" I toss at him.
His eyes light up. "I did. I thought I'd be useful."
"You're wearing a suit," Alessia points out dryly and then looks at me. "So are you."
"I have a change of clothes in our bedroom, cara," I remind her.
The word bedroom makes her blush, and I find myself absurdly undone by it—by this quiet collision of confidence and shyness, strength softened by something sweetly unguarded.
Twenty minutes later, Renzo is in the vineyard, jacket abandoned, sleeves rolled up, tie gone—and still somehow managing to spill grape juice down the front of his shirt within the first five minutes.
Alessia watches him with folded arms.
"That," she muses mildly, "is why we don't harvest in Italian tailoring."
Renzo lifts his stained hands. "I regret everything."
Unlike Renzo, I have changed. Work boots. Old jeans. A House of Alighieri t-shirt.
"Are you gonna stand here and pretend like this is a magazine shoot or get to work?" Lucia demands, hands on hips.
"Getting to work." I raise both hands in surrender and then look at Alessia. "She terrifies me."
"Me, too," Alessia agrees on a laugh.
As we get to work, Chiara starts to irritate everyone, especially my wife, because she's out with her phone.
She circles us slowly, snapping photos.
Renzo scowling. Me holding a bin.
"This is excellent social media content," Chiara chirps brightly.
Alessia's jaw tightens. "I'd prefer it if we don't document this."
Chiara ignores her and looks at me with wide eyes. "This is the kind of thing that humanizes you, Nico. Shows you're approachable."
"We're working," Lucia snaps.
Chiara smiles, unbothered. "Exactly. It's authentic."
I know why Alessia is reticent. This is a private moment for her. Her first harvest with me. I get it.
I put my hand up. "No photos, Chiara."
Chiara looks at me, surprised. "I'm just doing my job."
"And I'm setting a boundary,” I say coolly.
There's a beat.
Alessia doesn't look at me—but I can feel how angry she still is, how much she hates Chiara's presence here, like a contaminant she can't rinse away.
Renzo reads the room…or the vineyard, as the case is, precisely.
"Chiara"—he slings an arm around her shoulders—"why don't you come back to Florence with me? You've done enough humanizing for one day."
She bristles. "I'm not finished."
"Yes, you are," he tells her firmly and pleasantly. "Helicopter's waiting.”
She looks at me, searching for backup.
I don't give it.
"When will you be back in Florence?" she demands.
I can all but hear Alessia's teeth grinding.
"I have no idea," I say casually.
"We have meetings," she says petulantly.
"We have Wi-Fi," Alessia quips.
I wave a hand at Renzo, asking him to get her the fuck out of here, now, before someone gets physically hurt, probably Chiara.
Ten minutes later, they're gone.
The vineyard exhales.
Alessia turns to me slowly. "Why on earth did you bring her?"
I raise an eyebrow. "Same reason I had Renzo with me. We were working."
"Renzo isn't trying to fuck you."
I've never seen her like this. Jealous. It's nice.
"How would you know? Renzo might swing both ways."
Okay, so maybe I shouldn't joke with a woman living on very few hours of sleep and caffeine, one whose trigger is hair thin.
"Vaffanculo!" The swear comes out rough, scraped raw by irritation.
"Alessia, cara—"
"Maybe you should get on that helicopter, too."
"Dolcezza—"
"Quella stronza! That bitch," she continues, talking over me, her eyes fiery. "How dare she stand in front of me, taking photos of my man?"
I like that she thinks I'm hers. Because I am. Completely.
In Chiara's defense, taking photos of me is her job, but I'm not an idiot, and I'm not going to defend her to my very furious wife.
"I stopped her," I point out, but I keep my distance from her because her small hands are balled into fists, and she looks as livid as she does beautiful.
"Buon per te! Good for you," she throws at me sarcastically and then adds, mutinously, "I was about to throw her phone into a fermenter. And then her curvy ass."
I smile even though I know it's going to madden her some more.
"I missed you, too, dolcezza."