Chapter 29
NICO
I watch her push to her feet so abruptly that the wooden chair claws across the flagstone, sending a sharp, grating echo. Nearby tables still; conversations stall mid-word, like breath held too long.
Alessia moves away, slipping through the crowd as water through outstretched fingers.
My name drifts to me—muffled, curious, concerned—but it sounds distant, drowned beneath the pulse in my ears.
“Nico, what’s going on?” Toni, I think, asks, but I’m still watching the horror show I created in front of me.
I want to go after her, but I don’t.
What can I offer her?
Cowardice draped in concern, plated excellently to look good but it doesn’t change what it is.
“Nico?” Renzo says and that gets through, probably because he claps his hand on my shoulder. “Someone should go after her, make sure she’s—”
“She needs time,” I cut him off.
Chasing her would only shame her. This isn’t a scene for witnesses. She needs room to breathe after the grueling harvest and what she reads as my betrayal. I have no right to demand anything now.
So, I don’t follow her.
“She looked very upset,” Renzo persists.
“She needs to be alone,” I snap. I’ve gotten to know my wife, and what I have learned is that she takes time to process things. If I spoke to her now, it would make zero impact.
“She does,” Alba confirms. She looks as devastated as her sister just did.
“What the hell is going on?” Toni grabs Renzo’s chin and forces him to look at her.
“Cara,” he murmurs, then sighs. “We’re interviewing Fontana for the head winemaker role.”
“I got that—and that Matteo is dying,” Toni says softly. “But why didn’t you just tell Alessia?”
Her innocence is both balm and blade.
I complicated everything when it was simple. Just tell Alessia. That’s it. Tell her Matteo is dying and that he doesn’t want her to know. Tell her Cesare is pressuring me to hire a winemaker—and that it can’t be her.
So fucking simple.
And I didn’t do it.
I should have trusted Alessia with the truth. With my fears. Instead of pretending I was in control, I should have treated her like a partner—leaned on her the way she leaned on me through harvest.
She wanted me to hold her at night so she could sleep for the few hours she allowed herself. She was vulnerable with me. She let me in.
I took what she gave.
And I didn’t give it back.
I set my glass down with exaggerated care.
“How much time does Matteo have?” Alba asks, her shoulders slumped.
“A few months,” I tell her.
“He’s her mentor. She sees him as a parent.” Alba pushes her hair back from her face and ties it into a ponytail with a hair tie she pulls out of her bag. “He’s not without flaws, our Matteo. He’d never stand up to Papà for her or anyone. But he loves Alessia—and more importantly, she loves him.”
Toni’s shoulders slump. “I still don’t understand why you hid this from Alessia? I thought you both…well, it looked like you’re having a real marriage.”
“People can make mistakes in a real marriage.” The words are hollow as they spill out of me.
I can see now how much I fucked up.
I chose omission—it was easier than confrontation.
I have plenty of excuses.
Harvest is sacred ground, and I didn’t want to pull her from it.
I wanted time to plan, to shield her from Cesare’s relentless ambition.
I was so sure I could control the fallout.
That illusion shatters now, leaving only shards.
“Where would she go?” I ask.
Florence is new to me, but it’s Alessia’s city. She grew up here.
“She has a place in the Palazzo.” Toni picks up her glass of wine and looks at it mournfully. “She doesn’t know that Alba and I know. She used to go there after Mama died and whenever Papà was, you know….”
“She’ll be alright. She just needs to think about it for a moment,” Alba ventures, voice brittle with hope.
I say nothing. I’ve gotten to know my wife’s silences. This one is edged with pain.
I rise, murmuring apologies. No one stops me from leaving.
I need to get away.
I need to process what’s going on.
The lantern-lit streets feel cavernous, the night air heavy with indifference.
Back at the Palazzo, my apartment stands empty: our bedroom linens unmoved, the sitting room cushions uncompressed, the kitchen silent beneath its copper pots. Even the private patio outside the French doors is still, moonlight shimmering in the swimming pool.
I’m worried about her. But I know she doesn’t want to be found.
So, I don’t search. Any attempt from my side would insult her intelligence—she knows every hidden stair, every secret panel. If she wanted me there, she’d tell me.
I settle by the pool. This way, if she comes back—God I hope she comes back—I’ll see her.
I replay the evening in brutal detail: my vague apology, the way I softened the truth instead of trusting her with it.
I witness my own timidity and feel the sickening weight of my weakness.
The truth settles in my chest like a stone: I didn’t defend her and I didn’t tell her about Matteo. Whatever my reasons, that is the truth that matters to her.
Hours pass before her silhouette appears in the corridor. She stands framed by the doorway, moonlight gilding her hair, eyes red-rimmed but dry.
Her posture is calm, her limbs unhurried.
She has emptied herself of tears and refilled with resolve.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, voice cracking.
She inclines her head once—a gesture that is neither forgiving nor condemning.
“I believe you,” she says softly. “I believe you didn’t mean to hurt me.”
A spark of relief flares, unearned and brief.
“But I don’t trust you.” Her words land without malice, simply fact. “You didn’t lie,” she continues. “You chose not to tell me. That’s worse—it says you decided what I could handle.”
“That wasn’t—” I begin, but her hand rises in gentle refusal.
“I’m not asking for a justification.”
I fall silent, hollowed by her composure.
“We’ll stay married,” she says, voice steady. “Publicly, practically—whatever you need, Papà needs.”
My chest tightens. “And privately?” I query, dread winding through me.
“Privately,” she replies, measured. “We’re free.”
“No,” I snap. “We’re not going back to that.”
“This isn’t your choice, Nico. This one is mine.” There is no harshness to her tone, no dramatic flourish, just the soft click of a door closing on shared illusions. “I’ll sleep in the guest room tonight. I’d go to Alba…but….”
I ruined that for her, too.
I confided in her sister and drew her into a scheme she didn’t want to be a part of.
“I only told her yesterday when she arrived,” I murmur. “I begged her to give me time.”
“I love my sister! We’ll work this out,” she speaks over her shoulder as she walks to the bedroom where we slept last night. Where we made love. “I’m just going to get my things, and then the room is all yours.”
“Alessia, please don’t do this.” If I thought it would help, I’d go on my knees. Hell, I’m happy to do it even if it doesn’t help.
She turns now and smiles at me. It’s filled with sadness. “See, when you didn’t stand up for me at Suvereto, I was hurt, but I didn’t say anything. I convinced myself it doesn’t matter. But it does, Nico.”
“He dragged you there to push me, Alessia. I was dragging my feet on the interviews and he—”
“Used me to use you. Classic Duca Alighieri.” She lets out a broken laugh. “And you delivered what he wanted. You let him insult your wife and start the process of finding Matteo’s successor. And I really hope it won’t be Davide Fontana.”
“Never,” I vow.
That man may be Cesare’s favorite, but he is certainly high on his own supply and completely wrong for the corporate culture at the House of Alighieri.
“May I ask you something?”
I nod, wait.
“Do you think I spent too much money on those barrels?”
I shake my head. Of course, she didn’t. “I told you he was—”
“Who do you think would be the best winemaker for the House of Alighieri after Matteo?” she demands, cutting me off.
I don’t even have to think about it. I’ve seen her this harvest and since before that—and I know that Alessia Alighieri is the rightful heir to Matteo Rinaldi.
“You.”
“And you won’t stand up for that.”
“Cara, you know your father, and I don’t have much influence on the board. So—”
“So, you’ll just keep doing what the puppet master tells you to do?” She doesn’t raise her voice, but it’s a close thing.
Before I can even think of how to answer she adds, “What will happen if you do hire me as the head winemaker?”
I raise an eyebrow. “You know what will happen.”
“What will happen, Niccolò?”
“I’ll be fired.”
“And?”
I sigh in frustration. “And, he won’t let you keep the job.”
“Will we be destitute if you and I don’t have our jobs?”
I give her a puzzled look. “What?”
“Can you afford not to have a job, Nico?”
“Of course.”
“So, I’ll ask you again, what are you afraid of?”
My temper rises. “Alessia, you married me so you could have your job at Pietra Alta. Don’t pretend that you’re above your father’s manipulations.”
“But I didn’t love you then, Nico.” Her soft words slice through me. “If my father asked me to give you up or my job at Pietra Alta, I’d give it up in a heartbeat.”
“It’s not the same thing, Alessia. I sold my family’s legacy for this,” I throw at her.
“You combined two wine houses to make something bigger, more sustainable—like a red blend. And you and your family got paid handsomely for it.” She exhales and shakes her head. “Look, we’ll go back to having a marriage on paper. You fuck all the Chiaras and whomever and—”
“No! I love you. And I know you love me.” I grab her shoulders. “Did I make a mistake? Yes. But I did it because I thought I was protecting you…and yes, me as well.”
She pushes me away, “That is not protection.”
“I can’t live without you, Alessia. I don’t know what magic you’ve done but you’ve become my life.”
“Stop lying.” She pushes my hands away, sobbing.
My heart breaks. I can’t stand this. I can’t. I pull her into my arms and hold her as she weeps. I don’t know how to comfort her.
“You know what hurts the most?” she moans. “That you didn’t trust me. If you had, we could’ve worked together to help each other and taken care of Matteo.”
“I know.”
I take her to bed. We lie there holding each other. I haven’t cried since I was a child—but I do now in her arms with her.
I pretend that this is us working things out and not Alessia saying goodbye.
Morning arrives as a cruel mockery, all golden light and birdsong.
She’s not in bed with me.
The walls breathe around me with their familiar creaks and settling sighs.
I listen for Alessia's movements—the soft pad of her feet across the terracotta tiles, the gentle clink of a spoon against porcelain—but the Palazzo remains unnaturally quiet.
I go to the kitchen and discover only the ghost of her presence: a single cup in the sink, the coffee pot still warm, and scrawled on a yellow Post-it note: Gone home to Pietra Alta.