Chapter 26
NICO
While Alessia is a silent storm, her sister Alba is anything but.
I’m in the lobby when she enters the Palazzo Alighieri.
I’ve seen Alba before—many times, in fact—but almost always through a screen.
She’s been traveling a lot these past few years—Tokyo, Hong Kong, Milan—while I’ve been tethered to Florence and the boardroom grind.
She reports to Renzo, yet she’s presented directly to me on several occasions, confident and incisive.
I’ve seen her in person, too, but only in passing, during the chaos of the wedding.
This is the first time I am truly seeing her face-to-face—unhurried and fully present.
I’m both amused and awed by the way she walks—like she owns every gilded dome and rust-colored roof of the city.
The afternoon sun glances off her high cheekbones, the river breeze teasing loose strands of her dark hair. She looks nothing like Alessia. Side by side, you wouldn’t think them sisters at all—until you notice their eyes.
Same eyes.
Same fire.
Same steel.
Alba likes her designer wear—Alessia warned me about that. And considering her outfit probably clocks in at around three hundred thousand euros, she wears it with an ease that suggests she’s not flaunting anything at all.
A Loro Piana camel cashmere coat.
Ferragamo boots.
A Brunello Cucinelli power suit in rich chocolate brown.
A large Bottega Veneta bag that can hold a laptop.
Diamond studs, substantial but restrained. Probably Cartier.
An intricate white-gold bracelet. Chanel?
And on her wrist, a vintage Bulgari watch—one I suspect is sentimental rather than strategic.
Her heels strike the flagstones in a crisp staccato that echoes through the vaulted corridors—stone that has intimidated far more seasoned executives than she.
“Nico.”
We exchange air kisses.
“I didn’t know you were coming by,” I say pleasantly.
She gives me a knowing look, lips quirking. “You mean Alessia didn’t mention it.”
“No,” I reply. “She didn’t.”
“That’s because she doesn’t know,” Alba says breezily. “I’m a surprise.”
She most definitely is.
Before I can interrogate that further, employees begin streaming in from various wings of the Palazzo.
Alba is intercepted—hugs, kisses, questions flying from every direction.
“How long are you staying?”
“Are you excited about the Tokyo opening?”
“You look incredible—are you seeing someone?”
People know Alba. And she knows them right back—by name, by project, by detail. She responds in French, Italian, Spanish, and English, effortlessly covering, by language, about ninety percent of our workforce.
Alessia knows her people at Pietra Alta.
Alba knows everyone at the House of Alighieri.
Alessia is an introvert; and she told me that Alba is an extrovert, and Toni somewhere in between.
Alba draws energy from people the way Alessia draws it from the land.
I’ve heard enough of Alessia’s one-sided phone conversations with her sisters to know that Alba is vivacious and relentless, while sweet, sharp Toni is mischievous and observant, the baby of the family.
My phone buzzes. I glance at the calendar alert and nod toward Alba.
“I’m assuming that since you’re here, you’ll be attending the Level One executive meeting in person.”
“Yes,” she says brightly. “It’ll be a relief not to present from another hotel room with questionable Wi-Fi.”
I gesture toward the elevators, and she shakes her head, refusing it without explanation.
We take the stairs.
“I’d like a word afterward,” she adds, chin lifting slightly—half challenge, half amusement—daring me to say something sensible like I’m busy.
Before I can respond, we’re in the hallway of the executive offices and waylaid by the top brass of the company, all of who clearly know Alba well.
“Ciao, Gennaro—still filching the good pens?” she teases our head of finance.
Gennaro—mid-fifties, perpetually stern—breaks into a smile I’ve never seen before.
“Only for you, Alba.” He hands her a slim copper pen that clicks with satisfying precision.
She gives him a conspiratorial grin as she studies the pen. “Where did this come from?”
He…chuckles?
Gennaro, who usually growls at us for not controlling costs, chuckles and says, “From Chateau Deer’s End.”
That’s the Alighieri vineyard in Napa, bought by Cesare in the late nineties.
Alba laughs—and it sounds just like Alessia’s.
My heart clenches.
It’s been two weeks since the harvest.
I haven’t returned to Pietra Alta.
I’ve been busy interviewing winemakers and with work.
I’ve also been hiding. My wife is cool on the phone when I call her, as I do every night. She only responds to text messages—never initiates one with a photograph and a funny message or an intimate one like she did before.
She doesn’t say she misses me.
I don’t know how to resolve us.
So, I’ve buried myself in interviews and strategy decks.
“Tanja—the Milan soft opening was daring,” Alba says warmly. “Crystal glassware under vaulted ceilings. Candlelight everywhere. Stunning.”
Tanja, our silk-draped head of marketing, blushes as she smooths her skirt.
“Nico!” Renzo calls from down the corridor, scowling at his phone.
Before I can respond, Alba lets out a soft laugh. “Finally, during daylight. I was starting to think you were a vampire,” she teases.
“They let me out for good behavior,” Renzo quips.
She greets Renzo with quick kisses on both cheeks.
Renzo is Alba’s boss, so they talk often and usually because of their schedules, late for him, early or very late for her, depending on which continent she’s on. He’s told me more than once how much he enjoys working with her. Enough that I once asked—only half joking—whether he was interested.
The look he gave me shut that down immediately.
In the meeting room, I’m struck again by how different Alba is from Alessia.
Where my wife is rooted, elemental, Alba moves like a precision instrument.
Alba belongs beneath boardroom fluorescents the way Alessia belongs beneath open skies and twisting vines. And yet—I sense the same core. The same values. After all, Alessia did raise her sisters.
The meeting starts promptly at ten.
Renzo gives the business overview.
Gennaro follows with finances.
Matteo’s update arrives by email—he isn’t feeling well. I asked him again yesterday to tell Alessia, but he isn’t ready.
The secret gnaws at me. I want to tell my wife so she’ll have more time with the man she thinks of as her father—but I can’t betray Matteo’s trust.
But you can betray Alessia’s?
When Alba presents, she doesn’t grandstand—she’s confident without being fluffy.
She begins with Japan: a strategy that mirrors the country’s ethos—measured expansion tied to long-standing dining rituals, a deep-rooted respect for craft and ceremony rather than flash.
“Japanese wine culture prizes precision,” she explains. “Ritual. Pairing. They understand restraint as an art form.”
Next, she moves on to China.
No hyperbole, no breathless flimflam—just clear-eyed analysis.
“China’s wine scene is young,” she continues, “and has money to burn. They crave story—provenance, legacy. They want to be able to talk about the wine with their friends. Share it, show it off.”
I look around the room, and even though there are questions, no one is challenging Alba’s authority as the Senior Vice President of Hospitality for the House of Alighieri.
I know that Cesare didn’t fight this promotion because he doesn’t think the restaurant and wine tasting rooms are esteemed—they’re just gimmicks, suitable for a woman to lead.
Winemaking, on the other hand is serious business, the backbone of the House of Alighieri—not to be trifled with.
In Alba, I see the same devotion to integrity that steers Alessia in the vineyard. This is stewardship, not ambition for ambition’s sake. They seem to have the same motto: preserve the soul, prosperity will follow.
When Alba fields questions—on supply chains stretched across oceans, on sommelier training programs, on balancing long-term brand equity against short-term buzz—she does so effortlessly and with humor. She knows how to play her audience.
Her answers are precise, unblinking, rooted in data, and delivered with genuine understanding—but not devoid of a little bit of fun that she sprinkles along through anecdotes.
I’ve been in several meetings with her now, and I know that she doesn’t bluff.
By the time the meeting wraps, the charged buzz in the air is palpable—like the moment just before grapes are pressed, when potential hangs thick and sweet. Heads nod. Pens click. Small flutters of excitement pass around the room. All that comes from Alba.
She has charisma!
“How about we have our conversation with lunch?” I suggest once the meeting room is empty, and just she and I remain.
Alba laughs. “Good idea. I’m starving.”
And as we leave the room, I can’t shake the thought that the Alighieri daughters are far more formidable than their father gives them credit for—and underestimating them might be his most dangerous mistake.
Alba and I go to the private dining room of the Palazzo’s hidden restaurant, Da Noi, Our Place. This is where guidebooks end and whispered recommendations begin. This space is reserved for the family and esteemed executives and guests.
The heavy oak door closes behind us with a muffled thud.
Inside, candlelight dances along frescoed walls; the air is cool, scented with polished marble and old wood.
No printed menus wait on the table—only crisp white linens, polished silverware arranged like soldiers at attention, and a hushed staff gliding between tables.
The head waiter comes all but running. “Signorina Alighieri. It’s a pleasure.”
They do the air kissing business, and I’m not surprised Alba knows everyone here as well—especially since she heads all hospitality, including this restaurant, for the House of Alighieri.
We are barely seated when the chef—he’s got two Michelin stars and manages the kitchens at both Da Noi and the flagship Ristorante Palazzo Alighieri—all but falls over himself to reach Alba.
“Chef Prospero. Come stai?”