Chapter 28 #2
Not because I’m not good enough—I am. But because my father is a patriarchal crone who would rather burn the house down than hand its future to his daughter.
I turn to see Alba, who is looking at me with regret.
She knows.
And suddenly, sitting here with wine in my glass and a stranger smiling too close, I understand exactly how alone I’ve been in this all along.
“Cara,” Nico’s voice seems far away, like it’s coming from outer space and it’s not quite clear, not with the ringing in my ears.
Fontana makes a tut-tut sound. “I know it’s hard for the family…what with Matteo not being well.”
"What?” Toni squeaks.
“Davide, may I walk you back to your table,” Renzo keeps his tone neutral but I think he wants to beat the living daylights out of the man.
The famed winemaker glares at Renzo. “Scusi?”
“Matteo’s condition was told to you in confidence,” Renzo mutters angrily.
“I…I thought everyone knew” Fontana steps back, physically, suddenly aware of his faux pas.
Matteo is not well? What’s wrong with him? And no one told me.
No one.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Renzo’s jaw tighten.
See Alba’s distress. “He’s not well?” she asks Nico who shakes his head.
Fontana keeps talking. “Mi dispiace tanto. I am so very sorry.”
He pats Nico’s arm, and I don’t think he knows how close he is to losing that hand because I have never seen Nico this angry.
“I know Matteo is family to all of you. And I hope I can have the same role.”
I gape at Davide Fontana. Great winemaker or not, the man is an imbecile. Can’t he see that we’re all in shock, and he wants to continue to sell his candidacy?
“I’m honored to be considered,” he adds, underscoring his uncouthness. “It’s not often a house like yours opens a position like that.”
His arrogance is breathtaking.
Confidential interviews. Private process. And he’s announcing it over dessert like a conquest.
I finally glance at Nico, whose jaw is so tight that it may snap. His eyes are on Fontana who is mistaking his silence for approval, which is just plain dumb.
“I’m very much looking forward to continuing the conversation,” he says to Nico, then turns back to me with a smile that feels almost taunting. “I hope we’ll work closely together.”
This is the man they want to succeed Matteo? This is the man who is supposed to be better than me? Winemaking is not just about knowing the vines, it’s about leadership, and this man couldn’t lead a caterpillar.
“Thank you, Davide, for coming all the way to Florence to meet with our executives. I’m sure someone from the House of Alighieri will reach out to you shortly.” I give him a cool nod. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”
It’s a definite dismissal. I am an Alighieri heiress after all and I will not sit here and let this odious man pretend like he has a chance in hell to lead my family’s legacy.
He hesitates—just a fraction too long—then laughs it off, murmuring pleasantries before retreating to his table.
The moment he’s gone, Toni exhales sharply. “What’s wrong with Matteo?”
I wait.
“He’s dying,” Nico says hoarsely.
I gasp.
Nico’s hand comes to my shoulder, but I jerk It away. No. He doesn’t get to comfort me, not when he….
“You knew, and you didn’t tell any of us?” Alba accuses.
“Matteo doesn’t want anyone to know,” Nico protests.
“Except apparently that horrible man, Davide,” Toni quips. “Renzo, did you know?”
Renzo nods, his eyes on Toni. She shakes her head, her eyes filled with tears. “You didn’t tell any of us.”
“What’s wrong with him?” I ask, my voice way stronger than I expected it to be.
“Pancreatic cancer. It has metastasized.” Nico rubs a hand over his face. “Alessia, I’ve been begging him to tell you, but he…he didn’t want to burden you.”
We all fall silent.
The restaurant continues its choreography—waiters gliding, glasses clinking, conversations flowing.
But the air now crackles with an invisible current.
The future has arrived uninvited, taken a seat at our table, and poured itself a drink—patient, inevitable, and watching us all with hungry eyes.
“I’m sorry.” Nico’s voice cracks around the words, the syllables brittle, as if they might snap and scatter if spoken any louder.
The apology is hushed but still manages to thin the surrounding laughter into a threadbare murmur before smothering it altogether.
My grip involuntarily tightens around my napkin, its texture stiff and unyielding. “For what?”
“Cara, your father wants us to find a replacement for Matteo,” Nico continues. His eyes are on me—I can feel their weight even without meeting them. I don’t look up. I can’t. I don’t know what I’ll see there, and I’m afraid I might know exactly what it is.
“And he won’t consider you,” Renzo interjects.
A pulse of heat rises to my cheeks, breaking out in gooseflesh along my arms despite the warm restaurant, the words striking, featherlight but reverberating deep.
“I know that,” I say almost defiantly. “We all know that. So, why the secrecy?”
“I didn’t want to hurt you,” Nico replies softly.
“But you’d have to eventually—when Matteo died, and you hired a new winemaker,” I challenge, still not looking at him.
Alba reaches out to grab my hand. “Alessia, he—”
“Not now, Alba,” I cut her off, pulling away from her.
I love my sister, I do, but she knew about Nico interviewing winemakers to replace Matteo, knew and didn’t tell me.
I can’t deal with that violation while I’m dealing with the certainty of losing a father figure as well as the man I’ve come to love, the man who deceived me, lied to me, didn’t tell me something this important.
Nico’s eyes fill with emotion. “I wanted—”
“To keep me in the dark for as long as possible?” I offer, interrupting him, bile rising inside of me, spreading bitterness.
“I didn’t know how to tell you,” he finally admits.
“Yes, you did, Nico, you chose not to. Just like you chose not to stand up for me with my father in Suvereto. All your choices are rooted in shoving conflict under the carpet, and now we have an elephant-sized one buried under the fucking carpet and you’re acting surprised that the floor is buckling. ”
Nico opens his mouth—maybe to explain, maybe to apologize again, maybe to reach for me—but whatever it is, it comes too late. The damage isn’t loud anymore. It’s done its work quietly and efficiently, the way rot does.
I rise so sharply that my chair scrapes across the flagstones, a jagged cry in the hush.
Alba reaches for my wrist, her fingers brushing my sleeve.
“Alessia—”
“I can’t.” I’m not being dramatic. It’s a statement of fact, like announcing the weather. I don’t trust my voice with anything more.
Nico rises halfway, instinct pulling him after me. “Cara, please—just give me a minute.”
I finally look at him then.
That’s the mistake.
Because his face is full of emotions—regret, fear, calculation, love tangled with strategy—and I realize with a sick clarity that I no longer know which one will win when it matters. Maybe he doesn’t either.
“You think you can fix this in a minute?” I demand.
Sadness pools in his eyes as they meet mine. “Dolcezza, I am so sorry.”
The acidity of the wine puckers the back of my tongue just as his words hit, leaving a tannic aftertaste that lingers after each sip. A trace of salt from unshed tears wells behind my palate, mingling with the sharpness of pecorino from the last bite of my meal.
I shake my head—no. He doesn’t get to make me feel guilty for breaking over what he broke.
“I need air,” I say, though what I really need is distance. From the table. From the truth. From the way everything I thought was solid has turned pliable under my hands.
I weave through the dining room, past white tablecloths and low laughter, past a waiter who murmurs something apologetic as I brush by. The heavy doors feel too far away. My chest tightens with every step, breath coming shallow and sharp.
I push through the exit and into the night.
Florence is cool and indifferent around me. The sounds of the restaurant fade behind thick stone walls, replaced by the echo of my boots on cobblestones and the rush of blood in my ears.
I run, past fountains still murmuring under moonlight, back toward the Palazzo Alighieri. I slip through a narrow side entrance I learned as a child, stones worn smooth by centuries of footsteps.
I use my keys to get inside even as my lungs burn.
I walk faster and faster until I find the western corridor, abandoned and silent, where my footsteps whisper against mossy walls.
Behind a faded tapestry, I find the hidden door.
Beyond it, a steep, unlit stairwell.
I climb, hands grazing damp stone, heart drumming in my ears until the final door groans open.
Inside, in the pale lunar glow, I find my sanctuary: a small oratory tucked beneath the eaves.
Dust motes drift in the single arched window’s beam.
A narrow wooden bench hugs the wall; the air is musty, smelling of oak and age.
This was my refuge after Mama died, when the world cracked open and left me hollow.
I slump to the floor, press my forehead to my knees—and then I unravel.
It starts as a strangled cry I barely recognize, raw and animal.
My shoulders quake.
My fists twist in my hair as if I could braid myself back together.
Matteo is dying. Oh God!
And no one told me.
I trusted them—my husband, my sister, the voices I depended on—and they whispered decisions about my life in my absence.
I didn’t care about the job. I never did. I care that they believed I couldn’t bear the truth.
I press my mouth into my sleeve, but it does nothing to stanch my tears.
I fold in on myself, each breath a question etched in sorrow: If they could hide something this huge—what else have they decided I don’t deserve to know?