Chapter 23
ALESSIA
Harvest doesn’t slip away on silent heels; it bursts forth in a riot of sound—boots pounding on flagstones, voices bright with laughter, and a bone-deep weariness that tastes of triumph.
Once the last stained bins are scrubbed until their metal sides gleam, and stacked neatly against the barn wall, and the fermenters purr in the corner like contented beasts, the entire estate exhales.
Crews who have subsisted on four hours of sleep for weeks at a stretch finally slow their steps.
Heavy leather boots are kicked off, Bluetooth speakers crackle to life and turn up, and someone strikes a match to a fire pit—even though the air still holds the late-afternoon warmth—because here, tradition is law.
The harvest celebration never bows to formality.
Long, rough-hewn oak tables are dragged into the courtyard between the cellar’s cool stone arch and the pergola heavy with dormant vines.
A tangle of fairy lights is strung overhead, their amber glow transforming the deepening twilight into something gilded and jubilant.
Platters materialize as though conjured by sorcery (or the estate chef): porchetta carved in thick, succulent slices; ivory beans swimming in rosemary-scented olive oil; and vegetables kissed by flame until their skins bear the smoky fingerprints of char and earth.
And a whole lot of fresh focaccia to dip into the goodness of all those sauces.
We open precious bottles—not the critic’s allocations polished to showroom perfection, but the vintages that whisper our history. Dusty bottles from hidden corners of the cellar are drawn forth, their labels smudged from decades of handling.
Gentle hands, callused and true, wipe each one clean.
The crews deserve these wines.
They shivered through pre-dawn chills, stood up to the mid-morning sun, shoulders ablaze from endless sorting lines, hands stained purple from fruit handled with reverence.
I drift among them, wine glass in hand, catching each person’s name on my lips.
“Grazie, Sergiu… Salute, Florin.”
I pause to listen, to laugh, to trade gentle jests born of shared toil. This chorus of gratitude is the part I cherish most.
Nico slips in as another cork pops with a celebratory crack.
I spot him near the edge of the courtyard—jacket slung carelessly over his forearm, face warm under the string lights as his gaze sweeps the crowd, searching.
The moment our eyes meet, he smiles and moves toward me, the urgency in his stride matching my own. We meet halfway.
He pulls me into him, and I melt into his embrace, the ease of it telling me how much he’s missed me—how much I’ve missed him.
“Cara,” he murmurs before lowering his mouth to mine.
Someone whistles.
A cheer ripples through the courtyard.
The crew is just drunk enough, just loose enough, to delight in seeing a newly married couple caught in a moment.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t make it in time for dinner,” I admit.
He kisses my nose. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”
“Hey! I’m here, too,” Renzo calls out in mock offense. “Where’s my kiss?”
He steps in, and—still held securely by Nico—I rise onto my toes to brush a kiss against Renzo’s cheek.
Nico promptly pulls me back, a low growl in his throat. “Find your own woman.”
Someone presses wine glasses into Nico and Renzo’s hands—I think it’s Lucia, but I’m too busy looking at my husband to pay attention.
“This is dangerous territory,” Renzo warns, lifting the glass. “I’ve been up since five this morning.”
“Not a reason,” someone shouts back from the table. “That’s an excuse! Bottoms up, Vitale.”
Renzo laughs and tips back the wine.
“Well?” Edam asks as he passes by with a bottle cradled under his arm.
Renzo swirls his glass once more, thoughtful. “It’s like velvet,” he admits.
Edam grins. “One hundred percent Merlot. On its feet, it could compete with Masseto.”
I shake my head, smiling despite myself. “Easy, Edam.”
He lifts a shoulder, unapologetic. “Different paths, same destination.”
I like his enthusiasm, even if it’s misplaced. Masseto is built for power and time with decades of reputation behind it. Ours is younger, still finding its voice.
Renzo says something that makes everyone laugh, but I get distracted when my phone purrs in my jeans. I pull away from Nico to check it.
“Bad news?” Nico murmurs, leaning in.
I shake my head, smiling, and turn the screen toward him.
Alba: I hate that I can’t be there. Take pictures. Drink something spectacular for me.
Toni: Me, too. Renzo says it’s one hell of a party.
I cock an eyebrow and look at Renzo, who’s talking to some of the crew from Senegal, and then at Nico. “Do you get the feeling that Toni and Renzo talk a lot?”
Nico frowns and shrugs. “I know he got to know her at the wedding and helped her get the summer internship in Milan.” He slides a finger down my cheek. “You miss your sisters.” It’s not a question. He knows I do.
“They really wanted to come,” I admit, tucking my phone away. “They wanted to spend time with you. Get to know you.”
Nico’s brow dips with genuine disappointment.
“Soon,” he promises. “We’ll make that happen.”
“Careful what you wish for,” I tease. “They plan to interrogate you. A water hose may or may not be involved.”
Nico laughs—a low, rich sound that settles warmly in my chest like sun on old stone. As night deepens, the wine flows more freely.
Edam bangs on an old barrel for a makeshift drum, and a few of the younger pickers spin between tables, barefoot and lighthearted. Hortensio leans back in his chair, sleeves rolled to the elbow, unleashing a bawdy story that sets everyone roaring.
I rest my head against Nico’s shoulder, eyes half-closed, breathing in the mingled scents of cork, pine smoke, olive oil, earth, and him.
“Now that harvest is done, cara, you need a break,” he tells me.
“Do I?”
“Yes,” he says. “What would you like to do? Tell me…ah…an indulgence.”
I think about it for a moment and then smile. “I’d love to travel on the Orient Express… without any Agatha Christie–style murders.” I tilt my head. “Well, maybe if Johnny Depp were around.”
“You like Johnny Depp?” he growls.
I laugh. It’s a happy sound. “He doesn’t hold a candle to you.”
He smiles, amused. “That’s good, cara. Very good.”
This is a perfect moment, I think, my people, my land, myself anchored by the man at my side.
“I’m proud of you,” Nico murmurs.
His words taste like home.
The summons arrives the next afternoon after lunch.
Nico brings it to the cellar; my father’s man delivered it to him. It’s gotten cooler, but Nico insists on working under the pergola, now with a light wool topcoat.
He kisses me and hands me the letter.
I smile. How can I not? My husband kisses me…a lot. It’s lovely.
I open the envelope and pull out the heavy cream cardstock that bears the weight of my father’s unmistakable authority.
Duca Alighieri requests your presence in Suvereto today at 5 p.m.
He’s angry about something. If he weren’t, the summons would have had a personal touch—he would have signed it. This one was typed by his assistant.
“Well?” Nico asks.
I hand him the note and return to the data on barrel allocations and topping schedules, cross-checking losses against humidity readings in the cellar.
He reads it, his full lips thinning into a bloodless line. “What do you think it’s about?”
“Don’t know, but he’s not happy with me.”
My husband frowns. “How do you know he’s annoyed?”
I let out a dry laugh. “Because he’s being Duca instead of Papà—not that he’s ever been a warm and cuddly Papà.”
A part of me is nervous—I’ve always hated confrontations with my father, and this one will be no exception, judging by his tone. Another part of me is curious, unsettled by the question of what I could possibly have done wrong.
I consider calling Matteo, hoping he might offer insight so I’m not walking in blind—but I don’t. It would feel like weakness.
I can handle my father.
“I’ll drive you,” Nico informs me.
I wave a dismissive hand. “No, you won’t. I can handle my father.”
“I’m coming with you.” There is steel in his tone I haven’t heard in a long time—not since our engagement, when he told me that if he ever embarrassed me with any of his extra-marital exploits, it would be unintentional.
I don’t want him there when my father dresses me down. It would be embarrassing. “Nico, he didn’t ask for you.”
“He doesn’t need to. If he has a problem with you that’s got to do with the company, then as CEO, I should be present. If this is personal, as your husband, I need to be present.”
I tuck a stray lock of chestnut hair behind my ear. It’s obvious he wants to support me—no one has ever done that. I stood in front of my sisters. I fought every battle alone. Now my husband wants to stand with me. My breath catches in my throat like a trapped butterfly at the thought.
“I don’t want you to witness whatever he…” I finally admit.
“Dolcezza, there is no embarrassment between us, okay?” he whispers, cupping my cheek. “He requests your presence, then—”
“It’s not a request he’s making, Nico.”
He chuckles. “Neither am I. We go together.”
The drive north pulls us away from the sun-drenched openness of Bolgheri’s rolling vineyards into tighter, more forbidding terrain.
The roads narrow to ribbons as we climb—ancient paths laid centuries before automobiles were imagined—where tour buses can’t pass and two vehicles meet only by tense negotiation.
Weathered limestone walls press close enough to touch. Gnarled cypress roots buckle the crumbling asphalt like arthritic knuckles, the untamed Tuscan land asserting its terms rather than accommodating human intrusion.
Suvereto appears without spectacle, gathered tightly behind medieval walls the color of burnt honey; its terracotta-roofed buildings stack with the quiet confidence of a town that never needed to expand to matter.
Our ancestral house sits just beyond the historic core, one of the meticulously restored structures that once belonged to the Alighieri family, from a time when titles were earned through land and strategic marriages rather than corporate boards and quarterly balance sheets.