Chapter 1 #2
The clusters cut during green harvest are too green for wine, but not useless. They’re sent to a nearby processor, where they're turned into verjuice*; the rest is composted and returned to the vineyard.
“If everyone underestimates me, it’s because I’ve earned it.”
Lucia’s eyebrows lift. “Ah. That’s what we’re doing today? Self-punishment for lunch?”
“No, punishment was Alba who I just ended a call with,” I joke.
“Is she upset about something?”
“Hmm.”
“This about the pictures on The House of Alighieri Insta?”
I look at her and frown for a moment, and then it lands.
Ah, pictures of Nico and Chiara. My husband is certainly putting it out there—my humiliation—for everyone to see.
But then the murmurs started when our wedding was announced.
The handsome, sophisticated Nico Alaric is marrying the plain, dull, ugly duckling of the Alighieri family—he will obviously keep a mistress.
Usually, those who do have mistresses are discreet—but not my husband. He warned me as much when we met at Palazzo Corsini to discuss the engagement.
It had been a reception for someone or something, I wasn’t sure—I’d been summoned by my father.
I’d walked the marble floors, under the frescoed ceilings, past waiters gliding around with white wine I made at Tenuta Pietra Alta—but not as the lead winemaker, I was told I’d get that job after I married the future CEO of the House of Alighieri.
I didn’t fit in—I never had at these events where women wore silk they couldn’t sit comfortably in, and men spoke in low, confident tones as if nothing had ever been denied them.
I arrived straight from Pietra Alta, hair pulled back too tightly, hands scrubbed raw but still faintly stained. I’d changed clothes, of course—but you can’t erase who you are with a professional Ferragamo outfit, which Alba had insisted I should have.
Nico didn’t have to do much to fit in. He was born for this.
He waited on the terrace for me. I watched him for a long moment—a thrill running through me that this beautiful man would be my husband.
While I dressed for speed, this man even had a haircut so precise it would be called coiffed.
He wore a tailored navy suit that fit him like it had been poured on and an expression of mild amusement, as though the event were a performance staged for his benefit.
He was beautiful. There was no point pretending otherwise.
Not in a delicate way that invited gentleness. He was the kind of handsome that announces itself before you open your mouth—sharp jaw, easy smile, posture relaxed because the world has always adjusted itself around him.
Women noticed. Men deferred.
And then my father put a hand on my shoulder and said, “Alessia, come.”
I walked toward Nico knowing—knowing—that whatever league he belonged to, I was not in it.
He looked at me the way people do when they’re polite but distracted, his gaze flicking briefly over my dress, my face, already filing me into a category that did not require further thought.
“This is my daughter Alessia,” my father said.
Nico smiled, quick and charming, extending his hand. “A pleasure.”
His grip was firm. I was suddenly aware of everything about myself—my plainness, my lack of sparkle, the fact that I did not know how to perform femininity as currency.
“This is Nico Alaric,” my father continued. “You’ll be seeing a great deal of one another.”
Something in Nico’s expression shifted then. Just a fraction. Calculation sliding neatly into place.
Later—after the photos, after the announcement, after the murmurs began—we stood together near a long table of untouched desserts. People watched us from a distance, already deciding what this pairing meant.
The handsome, sophisticated Nico Alaric.
The plain Alighieri daughter who smelled faintly of earth.
“Let’s go for a walk.” He held out his arm, and I slipped my hand in the crook of his elbow and let him lead me out into the garden.
I was hopeful then, trying to believe that even an arranged marriage could be…something.
He walked me to the far end, and as we did, we heard a man’s voice, “Is he going to put a bag over her head to fuck her?”
Then there was laughter following that. My cheeks burned. They were talking about me.
I looked at him, wanting him to say something to erase those horrible words, but he didn’t. Once we reached the fountain at the far end, he sighed, his voice impatient.
“Now that it’s done. Let’s get the ground rules in place.
” His Italian was fluent but with a touch of an accent.
He was born and raised in America and came to Italy in his mid-twenties, nearly a decade ago.
Maybe that’s why there was that tinge of American in his tone and a whole lot of American arrogance in his demeanor.
“I’m not going to change because we’re married.” He was calm and cool. He’d obviously thought this through.
“What does that mean?” I asked even though I had a fairly good idea. But I wanted it to be clear. While I had hope for a real marriage, he had planned for the exact opposite.
He studied me then, really looked at me for the first time—not with desire, not with cruelty, but with a frankness that felt almost clinical.
“It means,” he explained, “I’m not going to suddenly become your husband, Alessia. I’m not going to become a one-woman man.”
My chest tightened. “I see.”
“This is a business arrangement. Let’s not pretend otherwise.”
I nodded.
“You get Tenuta Pietra Alta, I merge Cantina Alarico with The House of Alighieri.”
He didn’t say, and you get an estate, and I get the whole company. Polite of him. Even decent.
He straightened, already done with the conversation.
“If I embarrass you,” he added, as if offering a courtesy, “it won’t be intentional. I’m just not interested in living quietly.”
I guess this is what he meant—if pictures of him and another woman are being paraded around social media, it’s not his intent to humiliate me; he just doesn’t care one way or the other.
You got Pietra Alta, Alessia. That’s enough. That’s more than enough.
But what of love? A real marriage?
Not in the cards.
I can’t divorce Nico. Papà won’t allow it—not if I want to someday become the head winemaker for The House of Alighieri.
So, this is my life now.
Nico will live his life the way he wants, and so will I.
It’s a fair bargain.
Then why does it hurt so much?
* The main grape harvest (Italian).
* Green harvest (Italian).
* The French concept of "sense of place", describing how a wine's unique environment—including soil, climate, topography, and tradition—imparts distinct characteristics, flavor, and personality to the grapes and the final wine.
* Darling (Italian).
* Miss (Italian).
* Acidic juice used for cooking.