Chapter 9
ALESSIA
I clear my throat. “You’re staying?”
“Yes,” he says casually, as if the words don’t send my pulse skidding off course. “Is that all right?”
“Yes…of course.”
Not at all.
Not when you came with that woman who tried to humiliate me.
I hesitate, then the question escapes anyway. “Is Chiara…all right with that? Or is she staying, too?”
Nico straightens, his expression going cool and precise. “Two things. First, Chiara has nothing to do with my personal life. Second, she and I do not share the kind of relationship your question implies.”
Oh.
Is he not sleeping with her?
Or was he, and it’s now over?
I wish he weren’t so maddeningly opaque. I prefer direct. Even blunt. This half-light drives me insane.
I close my laptop because my hands need something decisive to do.
His gaze softens. “You said you’d cook for me.”
“Oh,” I manage.
Brilliant, Alessia. You’re eloquence itself.
“I’ll be staying the night,” he continues. “So I’ll need somewhere to sleep.”
Technically, he’s my husband, and he should stay in my room, but the problem is that it’s mine and not ours. But I also don’t want to say I’ll set up a guestroom for him because that’s what he did to me in Florence, and that hurt.
“I—yes.” I inhale, then exhale slowly. “Where would you like to sleep?”
“Where would you like me to sleep?” he counters.
I close my eyes for a heartbeat, then open them and decide—enough. I don’t do games. I don’t know how. So, I take the only path I trust.
“I don’t know, Nico. You’re my husband, and as such we should share a bed, but…we’re not a normal couple, so I don’t know what to say.”
His expression softens, surprise melting into warmth. “I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”
I dip my chin, uncertain. “I’ll ask Zoya to put your things in my...the master bedroom.”
I brace myself for rejection. It doesn’t come. Instead, he asks, “You done working for the day?”
He’s confusing me. Entirely. I don’t understand why he’s here now, when he’s been absent for months. I don’t understand what he wants.
Stop lying to yourself, Alessia.
You want him as your husband…for real.
“I’m done,” I tell him.
“Then show me your home.”
“Yes…ah…let’s go inside.” I hold my laptop to my chest like it’s going to protect my heart from myself.
The house isn’t as old as the estate; in fact, it’s less than ten years old, built when the new tasting room was. It’s connected to the tasting area, but only just. Architecturally, it’s part of the same stone structure, yet functionally separate, which was a deliberate choice.
One wing opens to the public-facing tasting room and the chef’s working kitchen, which serves daily visits.
The other turns inward, private, shielded by a low wall and the pergola that wraps around the shared courtyard like a quiet buffer between worlds.
We step through a narrow passage where the sounds of the tasting room and the team closing down for that day fall away, replaced by the softer hush of a lived-in space.
Only I have ever lived here. Before me, it was used for temporary accommodations. Matteo used it sparingly only when he took over the estate in an acting capacity, so he could mentor me properly. The previous winemaker lived in Siena and drove in every day.
This house was used for consultants, visiting executives, corporate overflow—no one’s home, really.
When I came here, it stopped being temporary.
It became mine.
It isn’t large by Alighieri standards. In fact, it’s almost modest.
One master bedroom.
Two guest rooms—Alba’s and Toni’s, though neither of them lives here, but I have made space for their visits so they always feel at home with me.
A wide kitchen that opens directly into a dining space. Beyond that, a living room anchored by low furniture and a long window that frames the vines as if they were artwork.
The light here is filtered by stone and linen curtains rather than by the glass and precision that surrounds me in the cellar and the tasting rooms.
Nico slows, and his gaze moves as he assesses my space. I wonder what he sees and how he lives. What does he put on his walls? I am married to this man, and yet I know so little about him.
I am, however, sharing an important part of me by bringing him home.
“Alessia, I put the suitcase away. I hung his suits in the closet and—” Zoya calls out from inside and freezes when she steps out from the kitchen and sees Nico.
Zoya does the cleaning and maintenance at the tasting room and for me. It includes doing the laundry, cleaning, and apparently, unpacking my husband’s things.
“Zoya, this is Nico Alarico. Nico, this is Zoya. She takes care of things at my place and the tasting room.”
Nico solicitously extends his hand, and Zoya shakes it. She winks at me and makes a “ooh, look at him” face.
My husband doesn’t realize this, but everyone on the estate is curious as hell about the man I married, who also happens to be the new CEO of the House of Alighieri.
They’re aware we live apart, which seems incongruous since we just tied the knot, and everyone knows newlyweds are all over each other.
“Thank you for hanging up my suits,” Nico murmurs.
“I also unpacked your clothes, including underwear…boxers, not briefs, your shoes and toiletries,” Zoya corrects him with a flutter of her eyelashes. She’s young, in her early twenties, and cheeky.
I see a flush rise up onto Nico’s angular cheekbones. I’ve never seen him uncomfortable. It’s cute.
“Ah…well, thanks for that, too.”
He isn’t sure what to do with her. He usually intimidates people, but Zoya is of a different breed.
“By the way, your cologne smells very nice,” she says almost conspiratorially. “Alright, I’m off, Alessia. I have a hot date.”
She swishes away, and Nico turns to me.
“She’s fun,” I tell him.
He laughs. “I believe that.”
So, boxers and not briefs. Good to know.
“Show me your place,” he orders, and I wonder if he realizes that he doesn’t ask but demands. Maybe, someday, when I’m at ease with him, I’ll teach him the virtue of using words like please.
I take him into the living room. He looks around, and I try to see what he does.
The furniture is comfortable, not impressive.
The décor is unmistakably mine. Minimal, but not bare.
No excess, but no austerity either. Original pieces—quiet contemporary art, a woven Tuscan tapestry that once belonged to my mother, ceramics fired by a local artisan I’ve known since childhood.
What’s here is expensive, yes—but only because it’s chosen.
“No television,” he remarks.
I look at him, puzzled. “Ah…no.”
“You don’t watch television?”
I chuckle at that. “I don’t have the time. And if there’s a show or movie my sisters insist I must see, I watch it on my computer or iPad.”
“But lots and lots of books,” he comments, standing in front of my bookshelf.
The shelf itself is an antique that I picked out from the vast Alighieri family storage warehouse in Chianti. The books are a mix of contemporary and classics.
Italian and English.
Fiction and wine.
I don’t know why, but his scrutiny of what I read is intimate. I divert him and walk him to the kitchen.
I love this space.
I had it redone when I moved in. It bears the mark of use: a copper pot hung where it’s easy to grab, olive oil on the counter, a bowl of late figs waiting to be consumed.
I usually eat here—sometimes food sent over from the estate restaurant, sometimes what I cook myself, depending on the day and my energy.
Outside, the pergola connects everything. The house. The tasting room. The courtyard where I drink coffee in the morning and wine in the evening, depending on what the day demanded of me.
“This is yours,” Nico muses quietly. Not a question.
“Yes.”
I’ve lived here for years. Long before I became a wife. Long before anyone cared to notice. This house knows my rhythms—harvest mornings and fermentation nights, silence and exhaustion, and the rare, perfect stillness when the vines sleep.
Nico stands in front of the large window of my kitchen and looks through it past the courtyard at the rows after rows of vines stretching toward the horizon.
“This is the House of Alighieri,” he murmurs.
I smile at that. “This is the Tenuta Pietra Alta.”
He faces me. “Yes, it is. But it’s…this is the heart of what we do, Alessia. I am realizing that you are the heart of the House of Alighieri. I don’t think many people know that.”
I frown, puzzled. “I don’t understand.”
He lets out a soft chuckle and shakes his head. “Neither do I, fully,” he reveals, telling me nothing.
I step back and go behind a kitchen counter as if putting distance between us will tamp down these unfamiliar emotions coursing through me.
“I…should make dinner,” I blurt out.
His eyes gentle as he holds my gaze.
I am mesmerized.
The man is handsome, Adonis handsome.
And, according to Zoya, he smells good.
And…he’s going to sleep in my bed with me tonight.
What does that mean? Will we make love?
I look away because that thought reminds me how long it’s been since I shaved down there.
Oh dio! Oh God! Oh God!
“Do you mind if I take a shower?” he asks suddenly.
“No…ah…I should….”
“I can find my way, I think,” he says indulgently and then adds casually, “I’m making you nervous.”
Yes, you are, and you’re not helping by stating that fact. Actually, you just made it worse.
He steps close to me, the kitchen counter no longer helpful. He puts his hands on my shoulders, and I hope to Cristo I’m not looking at him like a deer caught in headlights.
“I intend to sleep next to you tonight…and that’s all it is. Unless you…until we…decide otherwise.”
Still not helping with my anxiety.
“You should take a shower,” I squeak.
His expression warms with amusement.
I sigh when he’s out of the kitchen and then groan, trying to remember if I left my panties or my vibrator or…anything incriminating out on the bed.
Zoya would have put it away. Right?
Dio!
I start cooking because it always helps me calm down.
I never cook to impress.
It’s always been about comfort—there is a tranquility in knowing exactly how long onions take to soften, how much salt wakes tomatoes without overwhelming them, and how heat can be coaxed rather than forced.
I decide to make a quintessential Tuscan dish, pici, an egg-rolled pasta with a sausage ragù. There are handmade sausages and fresh pasta waiting in the fridge, leftovers from the tasting room kitchen where the chef made too much last week, perfect for a surprise guest.
I chop the onions cautiously, letting the knife find its rhythm against the board. They release their sweetness as they soften in the pan, turning translucent, obedient.
I brown the sausage, breaking it apart with the wooden spoon, listening for that first deep sizzle that means flavor is building.
Tomatoes go in next—just enough—crushed by hand, skins slipping free as they melt into the fat.
I stir.
Taste.
Adjust the salt.
Stir again.
Cooking usually stills my mind. Tonight, it does the opposite.
Does he like simple food? The kind that nourishes but isn’t impressive?
Will he think this is too rustic—like me—not polished enough for a man who eats in boardrooms and Michelin kitchens?
I’ve eaten in my share of Michelin-starred restaurants. After all, I’m an Alighieri, and we make some of the most expensive wines sold in the world. My sister is a restaurateur in her own right. But that’s outside food. At home, I keep it simple. Does he?
I taste again. The sauce is good.
Why am I behaving like an ingenue? This is not me. I’m a grown woman.
Dio! Have I fallen for my husband, who started our arrangement by telling me he’s going to sleep with other women?
I set the spoon down and clasp my face between my hands.
I am, aren’t I, in love with Nico?
I don’t even know him, and here I am like a stupid teenager, falling in love with a man who all of Tuscany knows thinks I am too plain to be interesting to him.
Despair coats my insides. I’m setting myself up to get hurt.
I pick up the spoon and stir slowly.
The ragù is going to need time, at least a good hour before it’s ready, I think absently.
And how long does it take to fall in love? I don’t know. Because I don’t know when I fell for him, or even why.
We eat outside under the pergola.
He does smell incredible—a mixture of some expensive cologne and my rosemary and lavender shampoo.
“You have a lovely home, Alessia.” He opens the bottle of wine I have put next to our place settings.
I decided to go for a 2020 IGT.
Nico pours a small taste for himself and swirls. The wine dances, its ruby core has some garnet at the rim. It’s dense but not opaque.
He pours me a taste, and I pick up the glass, aerate it.
He smells the wine. “Opens with blackcurrant and ripe black cherry. How much Cab Sav is there in it?”
“Seventy-five percent.”
He nods and smells again. “Dried sour cherry. Blood orange peel.” He pauses. “A faint…iron note.”
“Very good,” I comment.
“Obviously, it has some Sangiovese.”
“Twenty percent.”
He smiles, enjoying the game. “And five percent Cab Franc?”
“Yes.”
He sniffs the wine again. “That’s where the herbal tension comes from. Bay leaf. Crushed rosemary. A whisper of graphite.”
For a winemaker, a man who knows his wine is sexy as hell. I wonder if he’s doing it on purpose.
He tastes and groans satisfactorily. “The oak is…disciplined. Vanilla bean, clove, and toasted cedar. I’d say fifteen months in new French barrels?”
“Eighteen,” I correct.
He continues giving me tasting notes. I think it’s his way of saying he appreciates my hospitality and the wine that I made and served.
I did choose one of our impeccable wines. The Primordio, meaning the “original” because it’s made the way the French do it in Bordeaux, following the first principles.
“The tannins are fine-grained.” He sounds surprised at how good the wine is.
He’s the CEO of the company, and he’s not tasted this before? What a shame!
“Leather, tobacco…a hint of espresso. The balance, Alessia, is beautiful.”
“That’s thanks largely to the Sangiovese, which keeps the wine lifted and precise, preventing the Cabernet richness from tipping into excess.” I watch him drink my wine. It’s sensuous, this exploration of his palate. “The finish is long and dry, with lingering notes of cocoa and black tea.”
“And a saline edge that speaks to the coastal influence,” he adds.
We both smile widely as if we’ve passed an exam.
“This is not wine built to charm quickly,” I tell him.
“Then what is it built to do?” he asks huskily.
“To endure, to hold power in check by restraint, to age gracefully over the next decade,” I murmur, unable to look away from his deep blue eyes.
“Thank you for sharing this with me, Alessia.”
The way he says my name. Dio! This is where Toni would remind me to check if I have the good panties on.
“You’re welcome.”
“So…what are we having for dinner?”
If you’re not careful with all that wine talk, Signor, I’ll be having you for dinner.
“Pici with a sausage ragù.”
“Sounds incredible, cara.”
He’s not only talking about the food. I am pretty certain of it. I also have no clue what to do with that knowledge.