Chapter 6 #2
Cesare finally lifts his gaze. His eyes are sharp, assessing, uninterested in anything but outcomes.
"Your wife left early last night," he says.
Not a question. And your wife, not his daughter. Asshole!
"Yes."
"It's not a good look."
The son of a bitch says it in front of Renzo on purpose—flattening her, flattening me by association.
"She has responsibilities in Bolgheri. Green harvest doesn't wait." I keep my tone light and casual. I'm supporting my wife, but I'm not going overboard.
I glance at Renzo. He lifts his coffee cup in a mock toast, tacitly acknowledging the familiar maneuver. Yes—he sees it, too
"Matteo spoils her," Cesare continues. "Fills her head with delusions of grandeur."
I don't intend to touch that with a ten-foot pole. I will eventually hire winemakers, but not right now—that is with Cesare as it should be. He has the better eye and experience.
"You didn't attend the event last night…it was quite well planned by Alba."
"No, I didn't attend." He doesn't explain. Doesn't justify. As if the idea of offering to is beneath him. Then he raises an eyebrow. "I hear you haven't been to Tenuta Pietra Alta yet."
"The merger has kept me busy."
What is the old bastard circling?
Cesare turns his attention to Renzo. "Do you have the list?"
Renzo straightens slightly. "The list of what?"
"Winemakers," he bellows. My father-in-law is known for his short temper.
But Renzo doesn't scare easily, and I'm hoping Cesare learns that quickly—otherwise, my friend is going to cross the Duca Alighieri sooner rather than later.
Renzo shakes his head. "Nico and I discussed it. We agreed we need more information before we start reaching out globally. Matteo's departure isn't public knowledge yet. No reason to start a conversation that invites speculation."
Cesare steeples his fingers. "Matteo is nearing retirement."
"Yes," Renzo says calmly. "Eventually."
"And when that happens"—Cesare waves a hand at the case holding the many awards our wines have won—"we will need a successor with international credibility. We need to start vetting the long list now."
I don't ask who's on the list or who isn't. Because at this moment—this exact moment—I don't care. I know of Alessia's ambitions even though they are abstract to me. Academic. Something Matteo indulges because he's sentimental and aging. Pietra Alta is a contained experiment. Low risk.
That's how I've been thinking about it because that's how Cesare has.
"I will look into it," Renzo says calmly, "with Matteo."
Cesare arches an eyebrow.
"And once we have decided together, we'll bring the list to you," Renzo adds.
Cesare nods once, as if the matter is settled, and then turns his attention to other urgent business. "Let's talk about Tenuta Poggio delle Stelle."
That's one of our legacy estates in Montepulciano, and a problem we've been circling for months.
Production has been uneven—nothing catastrophic, but enough to raise eyebrows.
Yields are down in certain parcels, variability creeping in where consistency used to be our calling card.
Alcohol levels are climbing faster than expected, acids dropping before phenolic ripeness is fully achieved.
The wines still sell, but they don't sing the way they used to.
"You've seen the numbers," Cesare continues. "Costs are rising. Returns are flattening."
"Labor," I remark. "And water stress."
"And leadership," he adds pointedly.
He's not wrong. Poggio delle Stelle has been coasting on reputation for too long—comfortable with tradition, resistant to recalibration. The vineyard team is competent but conservative. They prune the way they always have. Harvest when the calendar says to, not when the vines demand it.
In Montepulciano, that kind of rigidity shows up quickly in the glass. We may need a new winemaker.
"The estate needs intervention," Renzo says. "Structural correction."
Cesare's gaze flicks between us. "Correction costs money."
"And time," I add. "But neglect costs more."
This is the language Cesare respects. Risk mitigation. Brand preservation. Margin protection.
He steeples his fingers. "We cannot afford another estate underperforming while Bolgheri is overdelivering."
There it is again—Bolgheri framed as an outlier, not a standard. Is that because it's one of the newest estates in Italy, or is it because Alessia runs it?
"I want options," Cesare orders.
"We're working on it with consultants, and we'll have a strategic plan ready to present to the board next week." Renzo straightens and takes the chair next to mine.
"Once we have that, we can look at bringing in new vineyard management. A reset," I finish for him.
As I speak, a thought surfaces uninvited—of Alessia walking her rows at dawn, cutting with intention, reading stress before it becomes failure. Is she as good as Matteo says she is? Or is Cesare right and she's just a dilettante?
My wife isn't just on my mind; I find that when we return to my office after the meeting with Cesare.
"Will you be visiting Alessia in Bolgheri?" Renzo asks.
I want to go and see her, I admit, just to get to know her better because she's managed to intrigue me. And yet….
"My wife is where she belongs. I am where I do," I shoot back at Renzo. "The arrangement works."
"For whom?" he demands.
My jaw tightens. I don't like being interrogated, especially when I'm still reeling from what I have learned about myself since I met my wife last night, for the first time since we married. "For the House of Alighieri."
Renzo sets his coffee down carefully. "With respect, Nico, arrangements that rely on one party absorbing all the cost tend to fail."
"You don't know what you're talking about," I snap, but it's obvious that he does. I am continuing to act like a petty bitch who doesn't want to admit that he's wrong.
"She's your wife," he growls. "Treating her with disrespect is the same as treating yourself with disrespect. Remember that."
With that, he walks away, leaving me feeling worse than I have since my engagement to Alessia was announced.