Chapter 26 #2
Prospero Perez—whose reputation for tyranny in the kitchen is legendary, a man who worships hierarchy and legacy as if they were endangered species—steps forward and hugs her.
“Alba, bambina mia, how wonderful to see you!”
I’m not surprised any longer at how everyone, man and woman, is captivated by Alba. It’s her bubbly energy and authenticity that draw people to her, and her integrity keeps them with her.
He tells us that we’re having crudo di ricciola with spiced fennel juice and traditional sweet-and-sour sardines for an appetizer, and fagottello pasta with Morlacco cheese, grilled eel, and Mantuan pumpkin for the main course.
He will, of course, make sure Alba is served her favorite dessert, which I learn is red-wine-poached pears with zabagione.
When we’re alone, we talk about the company—the usual business small talk. How is that project? And how did that problem get solved?
Then we fall silent for a while as we eat, enjoying the amazing food companionably, the only sound the occasional clink of porcelain.
Alba has a rare gift of making stillness feel purposeful, not strained.
She lets out a moan after taking her first bite of the dessert, which I eschewed for a double espresso.
Prospero doesn’t give two shits about me, even though I am the CEO of the company, and doesn’t care if I didn’t eat the dessert he made with his own hands. But I think if Alba had refused him, he’d have declared war on the entire House of Alighieri.
After a moment, she sets her fork down, the tines catching the candlelight.
“So,” she begins, voice smoothing over the tablecloth. “You’ve been talking to several winemakers.”
The question hangs between us like a suspended note.
Cazzo! How does she know?
“I sit on committees you don’t,” she continues evenly. “And I read between lines you pretend aren’t there.”
I draw in a slow breath. “What else have you read…ah…between the lines?”
Her brow knits, sharp as carved marble. “Matteo is retiring. He’s been threatening to do so for a couple of years now.
But he’s been holding off until he can establish Alessia to succeed him.
She’s been running Pietra Alta for years, even if he’s had the title of winemaker there. Now, it’s officially hers.”
“Your father—”
“Will most definitely burn the vineyard to the ground before he hands Alessia authority he doesn’t control,” she finishes.
I pause, taken aback by her bluntness. Alessia would never phrase an opinion so nakedly, so close to the bone. Alba has no such restraint. Where her sister edits, Alba delivers with a hammer blow.
I choose each word of my response, aware of their weight. “So, you understand why I need to interview winemakers.”
“I do.”
Relief lasts but a few seconds because she adds, “And so will Alessia, but she has no clue about any of it, does she?”
“No, she doesn’t.” But neither does Alba know about Matteo’s health. That is a closely-guarded secret, known only by Cesare, Renzo, and me.
She leans back, her hands resting on the velvet-covered armrests of her chair. “What exactly are you afraid of?”
Alba has a way of talking that is both soft and challenging.
She’s an adept executive. Cesare is crazy if he thinks his daughters aren’t going to take over the House of Alighieri and remain just family figureheads on the board giving control to their spouses and waiting to have sons who will take over.
“Your father will remove Alessia as winemaker.”
She nods slowly. “And?”
“He’ll fire me.” I shrug. “I don’t have much pull with the board…not yet.”
Her shoulders shift as she folds her arms—a stance not of rebellion, but of deep consideration.
“Papà has the influence he has because he has been leading the House of Alighieri for nearly five decades. But the family trust is where the actual power lies. Don’t let anyone, not even Papà, tell you otherwise. ”
Most privately owned companies, such as the House of Alighieri, are held by a trust di famiglia, a holding structure governed by strict Italian family trust law.
Like most trust families, the House of Alighieri's board has Cesare as chairman, the patriarch, and, in practice, the ultimate authority.
I am the executive director on the board, an expendable entity. As CEO, I am only an employee. A very well-paid one, yes, and a board member by appointment. But I don’t own a single speck of dirt.
I serve at the pleasure of the trust.
Ilario Russo is the independent trust lawyer. I like him because he’s completely no-nonsense and dedicated to the trust and its ethos. However, from what I have experienced, he appears to let Cesare make decisions as he sees fit.
Rainer Mancini is the Chief Financial Oversight Director. He previously led Cassa Depositi e Prestiti and is completely on Cesare’s side, even if the man committed murder.
The Alighieri daughters hold a seat each on the board, but they have relinquished control by granting their father their proxy. I think it was done when they were young, and that has continued out of habit…or respect.
With a board that is definitely skewed on Cesare’s side, I am not winning many battles. In time, I hope to replace Rainer and maybe have the trust lawyer on my side, but right now….
“The trust is on your father’s side,” I remind her.
She flicks her gaze toward me, humor tugging at her mouth. “Are they? I know Rio, and he’s on the side of the trust, not Papà. And in any case, Rio’s the man my father pretends not to fear—and absolutely does.”
This is new information for me.
“In other words”—she leans forward, drops her voice—“power in families like ours doesn’t come from shouting the loudest. It comes from who controls the trust—and who’s brave enough to use it.”
“I know what the legalese is, Alba, I also know what your father is capable of and so do you.”
Her eyes betray a flicker of disapproval at my statement, but she doesn’t interrupt.
“He ended Philip Barbieri’s career because he questioned a distribution deal,” I continue, voice low. “Made Italy too small for him. Forced him to sell at a loss.”
Alba’s jaw tightens, the candlelight casting shadows under her cheekbones.
“He pushed Vittorio Serra into early retirement by leaking doubts about his judgment,” I add. “Ruined his reputation. No lawsuits, just pressure applied until the man collapsed.”
“That was years ago,” she murmurs.
“He hasn’t softened,” I counter. “He’s only learned to make it look cleaner.”
She lets out a groan of frustration, and I see the real Alba who Alessia says gets frustrated when she thinks something is unfair.
“You’re not wrong,” she fumes. “But you’re also not…wholly right.”
I frown, leaning forward. “Meaning?”
Her fingertips touch the rim of her wine glass. The wine inside shimmers like garnets in the glow. “You’re thinking like someone who believes power only exists where it’s exerted. But we have power, too, Nico. We just don’t like using it.”
“By we, you mean your sisters and you?”
“Yes.”
I shake my head. “Respect isn’t armor. It’s a courtesy. And Cesare doesn’t play by that rule.”
She looks down at her hands, the light revealing the faintest tremor in her fingers. When she meets my eyes again, her expression softens.
“Protect her,” she pleads, her voice almost a whisper.
“I am. I promise.”
“Not while you’re defending your job,” Alba replies gently. “Protect her the way she protected us.”
Her words strike me silent.
“She didn’t tell you, did she? About our childhood?”
“No.”
She chuckles. “Alessia would think it’s vulgar to talk about what you did for your family, which is your duty.”
I smile at that very correct assessment. “I know she raised you.”
“Yes, she did.” Alba’s eyes moisten with emotion. “Toni was twelve…she wanted to quit piano classes. Papà was against that. A good girl knows how to play the piano, but it clashed with Toni’s football practice.”
“Alessia stood between Cesare and Toni.”
Alba lets out a long exhale. “That’s one way of putting it; the other is how she stood in front of Toni and got yelled at for days, even when Toni wasn’t there.”
This doesn’t surprise me. This is who my wife is. Kind. Loyal. Sweet.
I miss her. So fucking much.
“And me,” Alba adds, “when I chose hospitality over finance. He sneered at frivolity. Alessia took the heat. She was supposed to,” her breath hitches, “take over the Chianti Classico, but she gave it up. He made her. I didn’t know it until…doesn’t matter. By the time I found out it was too late.”
My chest caves like it can’t hold the weight.
He took things away from her.
And now he’s making me do the same.
Fucking Cesare!
Guilt that I’ve neatly packaged and justified unravels in my chest.
“She’s the quiet one.” Alba looks straight at me. “But she’s the strong one. She absorbs so others don’t have to. She always has.”
“What do you want me to do?” I murmur, staring at the linen.
Alba sighs, shoulders slumped. “I don’t know.” Then she straightens, looks me in the eye. “But I know that she deserves a future that isn’t crushed by someone seeking symbolic victory instead of doing the right thing.”
She reaches across the table, brushing my wrist with a gentle firmness—a sister’s plea. “I’ve always wanted her to have someone who loves her—not someone who rescues her, but someone who stays.”
My throat tightens. “I love her,” I admit, then let out a rough, humorless laugh.
“Why do you love her?” Alba demands, her challenge clear.
I don’t hesitate. I know the truth. Hers and mine. “Because she’s the most beautiful, kind, and capable woman I know.”
Alba’s expression softens, surprise melting into warmth. “Mio caro cognato, my dear brother-in-law, I’m honored to be the first to know. This makes my heart very happy.”