Chapter 8
NICO
Of all the Alighieri estates, Tenuta Pietra Alta is the humblest.
There’s no grand gate, no marble declaration of power.
The estate rises out of the land as if it was always meant to be here—stone buildings softened by age, vines running in disciplined lines across hills that slope gently toward the sea.
The air smells of dust and sap and salt carried inland on a tired breeze.
This is working land.
Like many estates in Bolgheri, the roads are unpaved, created by tractors and trucks. If you want to see fancy cars, this is not the wine country to find them in. Well, unless you count the black Range Rover Autobiography we arrived in.
I wasn’t meant to come here today, but when I found out that Chiara would be taking an Il Vino Vive magazine editor and photographer to Pietra Alta, I knew I couldn’t let my wife be alone with her.
The article the editor is working on is about women winemakers in Italy, and of course, Chiara pitched Alessia Alighieri.
She’s already talking as we step out of the car, sunglasses on, phone in hand, relaying instructions to the photographer and the magazine’s editor.
The shoot is meant to be informal.
Authentic…a word that gets used a lot by people who don’t know what it means.
Chiara obviously doesn’t.
“Golden hour will be perfect here.” She gestures vaguely at the vines. “We want movement. Energy. Something,” she says with affect, “aspirational.”
I follow her gaze—and see my wife.
Alessia is halfway down a row of vines, sleeves rolled up, hair pulled back in a low knot that exposes the back of her neck.
She’s speaking to one of the crew, gesturing toward a cluster she’s already marked with tape.
She hasn’t noticed us yet. But then she does and nods tightly, starts to walk toward us.
I know she received an email two days ago, warning her about the editor. She responded briefly: Thank you for your interest. We’re very busy, so as long as we don’t have to spend too much time with them, it’s not a problem.
Chiara had complained about it, saying that Alessia doesn’t understand PR.
She doesn’t.
She doesn’t have to.
She understands wine, and that’s all that matters at the House of Alighieri.
For a moment, I watch her without interruption. Without comparison. Without expectation.
She belongs here in a way I don’t belong anywhere.
“Ah,” the editor says brightly as Alessia finally looks up. “Is that…?”
Chiara steps forward smoothly. “She manages the estate.”
Alessia walks toward us, wiping her hands on her jeans. She looks resigned to see Chiara and surprised to see me.
I walk to her and kiss her cheek. That startles her, but she smiles at me, and it’s genuine.
“Hello, wife.”
That makes her chuckle. “Hello, husband. I was expecting them, but not you.”
I slide an arm around her because I want to touch her. It’s a new desire. “I thought I’d accompany Chiara for your photoshoot.”
That stops her. She turns. “My photoshoot? I thought they were here to take pictures of the vine.”
“Is that why you’re dressed this way?” Chiara remarks, her eyes wide with disgust.
Alessia doesn’t seem to be affected by her harsh words, as I’d expect another woman to be.
“I’m dressed this way because I’m working, Chiara. Isn’t that why you’re dressed the way you are?” She waves a hand at Chiara’s ensemble. A skirt suit. Heels. Highly inappropriate for trekking around a vineyard.
Respect flares inside me.
Alessia Alighieri may be the plain sister who shies away from the media and keeps her own counsel, but she knows how to stand her ground.
It is unexpected.
The editor gestures toward his photographer. “We’d love a few shots of you working the vine,” he says to Alessia. Then, hesitating, “I assume you work here. Do you assist with the vineyards directly, or…?”
The unfinished question hangs between them.
Alessia steps out of my half-embrace without drama and approaches him. She extends her hand, calm and composed, and it dawns on me then that Chiara never bothered to introduce her at all. It’s careless at best. Deliberate at worst. And unlike her.
“I’m Alessia Alighieri.” She holds out her hand. “I’m the head winemaker at Tenuta Pietra Alta.”
The editor’s expression shifts—recognition blooming a beat too late.
Introductions follow quickly after that.
“You’re Eugenio Gallo.” Alessia’s tone is warm as she presses a hand lightly to her chest. “I loved your work on the Ornellaia retrospective—the black-and-white series in Civiltà del Vino. The way you captured the light in the cellar was extraordinary.”
The photographer visibly startles, then flushes. “Thank you, Signora Alighieri. I didn’t expect anyone to remember that piece.”
I watch it happen in real time.
The ambience shifting.
Attention re-centering.
My wife is charming—not because she performs it, but because she’s prepared for this visit.
She knew who was coming, even if Chiara failed to brief her properly on why.
She was preparing her vineyard for photography, not herself.
Though knowing what little of her I do know, I doubt she’d have done anything different with her ensemble or appearance.
My wife turns pleasantly toward the editor. “And Signora Ricci,” she addresses the junior editor by name, “your essay on phenolic ripeness under climate stress—published in Enologica Contemporanea…I think…it was last spring?”
When the baffled editor nods, she continues, “Brava! It was one of the most nuanced treatments of the subject I’ve read. Especially your point about adjusting harvest decisions parcel by parcel, rather than by appellation averages.”
Stasia Ricci stares at her like Alessia has sprouted a second head. “You…you read that?”
Enologica Contemporanea is an obscure academic publication that focuses on the chemistry of winemaking. I’m not entirely surprised that Alessia knows of it, a good winemaker would.
Alessia smiles. “Of course.”
She’s in a faded T-shirt, jeans, rubber boots dusted with chalky soil, grape stains darkening her fingertips—and yet, in this moment, she commands the space completely.
Chiara, I notice, has gone quiet.
“So…you’re the winemaker.” The editor moves toward Alessia, now knowing who the Alighieri is in this situation and who the dilettante is.
Chiara recalibrates with a meanness that shocks but does not surprise. I know her well, and this is her style. “Alessia works very closely with Matteo Rinaldi. It’s a wonderful mentorship.”
My wife doesn’t correct her.
Stasia nods like a doll. “So, Matteo Rinaldi is still the winemaker here?”
The photographer nods, losing interest. “Great. Maybe we’ll get a few shots of you…walking?”
“Me?” Alessia shakes her head. “I think the vines should be the main focus, right? We’re in veraison now. The cab franc is responding differently than the merlot—”
“Oh, we’ll get to that,” Chiara interrupts. “Let’s capture the mood first.”
Mood?
I watch Alessia’s mouth close. Watch her swallow whatever she was about to say.
She steps back—not retreating, just making space, not wanting to compete with Chiara.
I don’t know if it is because she thinks Chiara isn’t worthy, or because she’s afraid to lose.
Either way, I don’t let it pass, not this time.
It would be easy. Chiara smoothing things over, Alessia absorbing the slight, the magazine leaving with pretty photos and a shallow story. No confrontation. No discomfort.
“Actually,” I say loudly enough to stop all chatter.
I step forward, positioning myself not in front of Alessia but beside her.
“I thought we were here to write about women winemakers, and Alessia Alighieri is the only female winemaker in the company. Not only that, she’s both a winemaker here and she manages the viticulture as well—one of the few we have who are able to do both.”
“Oh…well,” Stasia stammers and looks at Chiara for direction.
That confirms my suspicions. Chiara pitched Alessia as a way to undermine my wife—and if I wasn’t here, she’d have succeeded, not because Alessia is weak, hell no, but I think because my wife doesn’t give two shits about editors and photographers.
But publicly, she’d be diminished. I don’t know how that benefits Chiara, but you bet the vineyard, I intend to find out.
“If you’re writing about women in wine,” I add, “she’s not the supporting voice, she is the authority.”
“Oh,” the editor says.
Alessia turns her head just enough to look at me. Her eyes are wide—not with triumph, but disbelief. As if she’s waiting for the ground to give way.
She can’t believe I’m standing up for her. She’s not used to this.
“Can you tell me what it means to you to be a woman winemaker? We still don’t have too many of those.” Stasia turns her focus on Alessia, aware that I supersede whatever instruction Chiara gave to her.
“Being a woman winemaker is the same as being a male winemaker. You oversee vineyard management parcel by parcel,” she says, amused. “Should we take this to the house? We have arranged for a wine tasting for you, and I know the chef has prepared a light lunch.”
We move toward the Tenuta Pietra Alta tasting room and kitchen, the photographer already trailing Alessia, camera lifting instinctively as if it knows where the gravity is now.
“What was that?” Chiara hisses.
“I think that’s my question to you,” I reply curtly. “Let’s save it for after the wine tasting.” It comes across as a warning, as it’s meant to.
Alessia has set up the tasting in the greenhouse off the main cellar—glass walls thrown open to the afternoon air, long wooden table laid simply. Sunlight filters through climbing jasmine and fig trees trained along the beams. Everything smells green and alive.
She knows what photographs well and how she wants Tenuta Pietra Alta to be presented to the world. She has set it up. Once again, I have to adjust my opinion of her.
She doesn’t want publicity, but she wants it for the estate and her wines.
“This is where we taste when we want to remember why we do this,” Alessia announces with pride.
“It’s perfect,” Eugenio murmurs, taking shots.