Chapter 33 Nico
NICO
My wife only texts me when she wants me to come with her to see Matteo.
And even though it's a commute—all the way to Pietra Alta, then driving her to Castagneto Carducci, then straight back to Florence because I'm not invited to stay the night—I say yes every time, much to Renzo's chagrin, since he's the one picking up the slack.
He complains, but there’s no real bite in it. He’s as relieved as I am that Alessia is thawing toward me—even if it’s only by degrees.
But relief isn’t resolution.
We’re not going to get back to where we were—or rather, move forward into something stronger—until I do what needs to be done.
So, I stop circling it. And I get to work.
I call my parents first, because Cantina Alarico isn’t just mine; it’s theirs, too.
My father may not have grown it into the multinational powerhouse that drew the House of Alighieri’s interest—that was my work—but he was a steward, as was his father before him.
“And you think this is the right thing to do?” he asks after I lay it all out.
“Yes.”
“Cesare is sometimes…” he trails off.
“An asshole?” I suggest.
Papà laughs. “Si. When you married her, your mother and I worried you were selling your soul in the name of business.”
“It was just a contract then.”
“And now?”
“Now, she’s my life. I love her. And… she’s more important than the company.”
I hear a sniffle. “Papà?”
“That’s your mother, you’re on speaker,” he explains fondly. “She’s a little emotional that your marriage is turning out to be real.”
“Did you not hear me tell you my wife’s barely talking to me?” I point out.
“But she wants you with her when she’s at her lowest,” Mama reminds me. “She wants you to hold her when she goes to see Matteo. When a woman does that, mio figlio—my son—it means she trusts you.”
“I think you’re reading too much into it. Most of the time she won’t even talk to me.”
My mother laughs softly. “It’s good she’s doing this.”
“You think this is good? I’m heartbroken, Mama.”
“But not as arrogant as you were when you told her your marriage would be in name only,” she retorts.
“You have a point.” I walk to the windows of my office and look out at Florence. “You really don’t mind if I lose everything—the CEO role, my control of Cantina Alarico?”
“The Alighieris paid handsomely for Cantina Alarico,” my father says. “We are all very comfortable now, thanks to what you built. The family name will live on wine labels, even if the wine is made under the aegis of the House of Alighieri.”
I take a deep breath, relieved that I have my parents' support, which is important to me.
“Thank you, Papà.”
“Now,” he says, voice firm, “go do the right thing. Bravery sometimes comes at a cost—but cowardice always exacts a higher one. And the stain lasts longer.”
We talk a little longer. They tell me how my sister and brother-in-law are doing and scold me for not checking in with her. I promise them that I will.
After the call ends I stay by the window. I know what path I must take even if it terrifies me.
There’s a knock on my door and Renzo sticks his head in. “You tell your folks?”
I nod.
He grins. “Good. Now let’s get this show on the road, yeah?”
I walk with him to the glass-walled conference room perched above the slow, muddy Arno, where the board meets. The whole board is not in session today—in fact the only two board members in the room will be Ilario Russo and me.
Renzo nods at Rio and takes a seat across from him, his sleeves rolled.
Rio is not House of Alighieri staff. He’s the trust lawyer—an external sentinel by design, a role created to ensure the House of Alighieri is protected from itself.
The law understands what history has proven again and again: too much power concentrated in too few hands has toppled empires.
It was Cesare’s father who established the trust and it’s the Alighieri trust that owns everything: the rolling estates, the vines that stretch across the hills like green oceans, as well as the Alighieri name and logo.
The board governs it.
The chairman stewards it.
And I—the CEO—am only an employee.
Italian family trusts exist for one reason: to prevent kings.
To ensure that no single patriarch, no charismatic executive, no brilliant tyrant can drive the legacy into the ground.
The trust lawyer answers only to the trust—not to the chairman’s whims, not to the board’s shifting moods, not even to centuries of tradition.
I walk up to Rio, and we shake hands. He’s here because I asked him to come. On the calendar, it simply says business update in case one of Cesare’s people wonders about it. I flirted with the idea of meeting Rio somewhere else and nixed it because that would look even more suspicious.
Rio’s gaze flickers over me with the careful patience of a man who has watched powerful families devour themselves.
He took over his father’s law firm last year, a few months before I was made CEO of the House of Alighieri.
In a way, we’re both finding our feet in new jobs that feel too big for us.
He’s my age—give or take a couple of years.
He’s a big man, muscled like someone who spends too much time in the gym, which he probably does, considering he used to be a professional skier.
He even competed at the Turin Olympics and won a bronze medal for Italy.
In all honesty, Rio looks more like a mafia underboss in his tailored suit than a lawyer.
“Well, I’m assuming we’re not here for a business update,” he remarks.
I quirk an eyebrow. “Why do you say that?”
He grins. “Matteo Rinaldi has all but left his job. Renzo is managing the winemakers right now with help, and I use that term loosely, I believe, from Alessia Alighieri.”
“She’s not helping—she’s running the show.” Renzo leans back in his chair and studies the trust lawyer. “For someone who has offices on the other side of the Arno, Rio, you know a lot about what’s going on here.”
“I also know that Davide Fontana was here, and since I didn’t hear from HR, I’m assuming he didn’t get the job,” Rio continues.
I guess we’re all establishing a power structure by showing off what knowledge we have.
“No, he didn’t.”
“Well?” Rio spreads a hand over the desk. “Why am I here?”
“I want to hire Alessia Alighieri as the head winemaker. Matteo has always wanted her to be his successor.”
Rio doesn’t look surprised.
“Cesare wants someone with a stronger pedigree and international appeal,” he says, voice cool and even, like a frosted windowpane.
“Cesare wants someone with a penis,” Renzo quips dryly.
Rio smiles a little, and it looks ominous. I think it’s just how Rio looks. “As chairman, Cesare can veto an executive-level hire, Nico.”
“Yes.”
“Will he veto—"
“He will,” I interrupt.
Rio gives me a measured look. “And then?”
“And I’ll tell him that as CEO, executive-level hiring decisions are under my purview.”
Rio’s eyebrows go up in surprise. “And you want to do this even though you know how he’ll react?”
“Yes.”
Rio looks at Renzo. “Is he serious?”
Renzo leans back, his fingers steepled. “Si.”
A shadow of amusement flickers across Rio’s mouth. “You doing this for personal or professional reasons?”
I shrug. “Does it matter?”
“Indulge me,” Rio drawls.
“I love my wife. She’s absolutely qualified to succeed Matteo. She’s an Alighieri to boot.”
He searches my face, like he’s missing a piece. “Cesare doesn’t care about that.”
“I don’t care what Cesare cares about,” I retort honestly. “I’m running this company, and while I’m running it, I make the hiring decisions.”
I’m surprised by how calm I sound. I know this will end badly, and it doesn’t matter—because I know I’m doing the right thing.
“He can remove you as CEO, Nico.” Rio squints now as if he’s trying to make sense of all of this, of me.
“Tell me something I don’t know!” I don’t pretend to hide the sarcasm.
“In fact, Nico, I have it on good authority that he will fire you if you don’t hire either Fontana or that other guy…. Whatsisname?” Rio looks at Renzo.
“Elda Costa,” Renzo supplies.
“That’s the guy from Frank Cornelissen’s operation in Sicily?”
Renzo dips his head in agreement.
“Right.” Rio looks at me now, holds my gaze as if he’s testing my resolve. “What will you do if he fires you?”
I look out at the river’s dull sweep, at my own reflection ghosted over its surface, and think of Alessia standing ankle-deep in vineyard dust, her fingers staining with soil as she makes decisions that will echo through decades—decisions I’ve been shirking while I smoothed tempers and swallowed my words.
“Nothing,” I say at last.
Rio chokes out a dry laugh. “And you, Renzo? How many days do you think you’ll last if Nico is fired?”
“Don’t worry. If he fires Nico, he’ll have my resignation on his desk before he can say vaffanculo to me.”
“Well,” he enunciates slowly, “this is interesting.”
I smile, hold his stare. “Isn’t it?”
Then I stand up, tuck my hands in my pockets, and look out of the windows, my back to Rio and Renzo.
“As the CEO, the appointment of a head winemaker is an operational decision. Codified. Protected. Reviewed by your office, Rio.”
“That is correct.” Rio’s voice is cool and precise.
“I will not appoint another winemaker but Alessia,” I declare softly. “Not now to appease him. Not later, disguised as strategy.”
His expression shifts, just barely, mouth curving with control. “You’re picking a fight you can’t win.”
I turn and look at Renzo, who grins at me before addressing Rio.
“Actually, Rio, he’s ending one he should’ve fought sooner. Cesare’s being a patriarchal asshat when he says a woman can’t be a winemaker. If that’s the kind of company the House of Alighieri wants to be, and if Nico as CEO and I as COO cannot change that, then why the fuck should we stay here?”
“In fact”—I move closer to Rio—“why should you?”
Now, Rio barks out a laugh. “Ah, I see what’s happening here.”
I lean forward, palms flat on the polished wood. I’m in his personal space now.
“Cesare can fire me. He can humiliate me in front of the board. But I will not betray my wife or my principles. I refuse to lead a company that thrives on fear rather than excellence.”
The silence that follows is thick enough to taste.
Rio rocks back in his chair. He’s entertained and concerned. I think he likes the drama of the moment.
He gives me a measured look and then turns to Renzo for a beat and then back to me. “You understand the consequences.”
“I do.”
“We do,” Renzo adds.
There’s a knock on the door, and my EA peeks in. “I’m sorry, Nico, it’s Alessia. She…ah…it’s Matteo.”
I left my phone with her, with strict instructions to come get me if anything critical happened—or if my wife reached out.
I hold on to the table, now for support. “Is he…is he gone?” I ask.
My EA quickly shakes her head. “No. But Alessia said for you to hurry.”
Renzo stands up. “Go,” he urges.
“Yes,” Rio agrees with him. “Go now, be with your wife. Company can wait.”
The helicopter drops me just outside Castagneto Carducci, where a car picks me up and drives me to Matteo’s place. I keep texting Alessia throughout the trip, telling her I’m on my way. She replies each time with a simple: Grazie.
My mother is right. My wife wants me with her when things are the hardest, and that means I haven’t lost her, but I can if I fuck this up.
As I walk up the steps to the porch, the door opens, and I come face-to-face with Cesare. He steps into the sunlight like a man who has aged a decade overnight.
It’s fair to say I’ve never seen the great Duca Alighieri broken as he is right now. He’s not diminished—Cesare will never be that—but stripped of something essential.
His shoulders sag. His face is drawn, mouth pressed thin, eyes shadowed in a way I’ve never seen before.
For a moment, he doesn’t notice me as his eyes are vacant, and then he does.
“Nico,” he greets flatly.
I nod. “Cesare.”
“Good, you’re here.” He’s not looking at me but past me.
“How is he?”
He exhales, long and uneven. His fingers press briefly to his temple, as if in an effort to steady himself. When his hand falls away, it does so without its usual precision, with weariness.
“He’s sleeping,” he mumbles. “In and out. The doctors say it won’t be long.”
“Alessia—”
“She’s with him,” he cuts me off. “I…I have to…I have to go.”
He doesn’t look commanding or powerful now, just human. Just one of us.
“Okay. Are you going back to the Palazzo or—”
“Suvereto,” he snaps and then his face twists with pain. “To wait…to…until…I get word that….” He’s gone.
He looks up at me and sighs. “Life is short, isn’t it, Niccolò?”
He rarely uses my full name. “Yes, Cesare, very short.”
“You stay with her…until….” He’s gone.
“I will.” It’s the easiest truth I’ve spoken.
“Bene. Bene.”
I watch him walk without his usual brusqueness down Matteo’s narrow entryway. And as I do, I understand something I didn’t want to before.
Cesare isn’t a monster.
He’s a man who has confused control with love for so long that he no longer knows the difference.
When Cesare is out of view, I turn and knock briefly on the door. It opens almost immediately, and Alessia flies out and hugs me.
“You’re here. You’re here,” she whispers.
I rest my face in her hair and swallow back my tears as best I can, because she needs me to be solid for her—because she’s breaking here, with me, so she can be strong when she’s with Matteo. We all have our roles in moments like this, and mine is simple: to take care of my big-hearted wife.