Chapter 25
NICO
I am furious with Cesare.
That asshole didn’t summon Alessia because of barrels. I knew it the moment he opened his mouth and didn’t bother pretending otherwise.
The audit.
The scolding.
The binder theatrics.
All of it was scaffolding.
What he wanted was simpler, uglier, and far more effective—to show me the consequence of ignoring his calls to hire a new winemaker from his approved list.
I’ve been canceling interviews, dragging my feet, and he finally decided it was time to flex.
To remind me who still has leverage.
To show me that Alessia can be pulled out of her vineyard like a misbehaving child. That her authority is provisional. That her brilliance can be flattened into a line item with the right pressure applied in the right place.
And worse—to show her that when it comes down to it, I will smooth things over instead of standing in front of her and taking the blow.
I replay the moment as we drive away from Suvereto, the narrow road unwinding in my headlights like a quiet accusation.
Guardrails. I said the word like it was neutral, like it wasn’t a leash.
Alessia sits beside me, spine straight, hands folded in her lap—the posture she adopts when she’s hurt but refuses to bleed where anyone can see it. She hasn’t looked at me since we left the house.
I tell myself I did the right thing.
Cesare was already primed for war. If I’d challenged him outright—if I’d defended her the way every instinct in me screamed to—he would have escalated. He would have doubled down. He would have done what he’s been threatening without ever saying it aloud.
He would have forced my hand.
He’s been telling me for months now.
Hire someone.
The estate can’t be without a winemaker.
Don’t let sentiment cloud judgment.
And now the unspoken addendum, finally made clear: “Or I’ll prove she isn’t ready.”
Cesare doesn’t care how hard Alessia works. He doesn’t care that she’s been making wine for half her life, that Matteo trusts her judgment more than his own, or that the crews would follow her into fire.
He cares about control, which is why he’s reminding me that if I don’t move fast enough—if I don’t make the decision he wants—I’ll be made to watch while he manufactures a failure and lays it at her feet and mine.
A small, traitorous voice in my head whispers: What if he’s right?
Not that she isn’t brilliant. She is. I know she is.
But that Tenuta Pietra Alta is one estate, not a constellation. Appointing her across the board would be a declaration of war I might not survive, especially if she fails to deliver.
It’s a convenient doubt.
Renzo would call it exactly what it is.
An excuse.
The night after we come back from Suvereto, we don’t make love for the first time since we promised to build a real marriage.
We sleep in the same bed, but she’s not close to me.
The next day I kiss her and she hugs me—like we’re back to normal—when I leave for Florence.
But we’re not okay.
Not normal.
She’s hurt, and she isn’t pushing a confrontation over it. And, I’m not telling her the truth.
I want to tell her everything—that this was a power play, that she was never the problem, that Cesare is setting traps and I’m trying to step around them without setting them off.
But I don’t. Because she’ll get hurt. Worse, it will be me who will hurt her. Alessia is precious. I want to take care of her.
So, I choose diplomacy over loyalty.
I am exercising protection by omission.
Or are you dressing up cowardice as strategy?
I drive back to Florence. The company helicopter isn’t available. This is fine with me. Driving helps me think.
I dial Renzo when I reach the autostrada.
“I’m done postponing the interviews,” I tell him.
There’s a pause. “What changed?”
“Cesare upped the pressure.” Then I tell him what happened after the harvest celebration.
“As I remember you canceled Fontana, Costa, and the American who I’m pretty sure Cesare wants in for you to hate and turn to Fontana.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Or maybe you’ve been running?” Renzo suggests.
I don’t argue.
“He’s trying to force your hand,” Renzo continues. “And sow doubt about Alessia’s capabilities while he’s at it.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” His voice sharpens. “Or do you like the doubt because it gives you cover?”
“I like the cover,” I confess.
“You think Alessia isn’t ready?” Renzo presses.
“No.”
Pause.
“Yes.”
Longer pause.
“I don’t know.”
“Matteo thinks she is,” he reminds me. “And he’s forgotten more about wine than most people ever learn.”
I grip the steering wheel. “I’m trying to protect her.”
“By letting her father define her?” Renzo counters. “That’s containment, not protection.”
“Renzo, schedule the fucking interviews, and you can play pop psychologist when we have a bottle of wine between us.”
He lets out a brittle laugh. “I guess Cesare wins this round.”
“Yes, he does.”
No two ways about that.
Cesare showed me, I guess Alessia as well, that I will choose the company over her—choose strategy over us.
As Florence rises to meet me, I realize—with a sick, settling certainty—that by trying to shield her from the fire, I may have taught her that she’s standing in it alone.