Chapter 23 #2
The house isn’t a winery. There are no oak barrels, no verdant vines in view—only weathered stone, wrought iron, and palpable history.
Thick limestone walls stand bleached bone-pale by centuries of merciless Mediterranean sun.
Shuttered windows, painted a faded forest green, sit deep in the imposing facade. It’s a place meant to endure wars and plagues, not to charm casual visitors.
Gravel snaps like brittle bones under our tires as we pull into the courtyard. The sound ricochets off the ancient walls.
This is not a place designed for welcome or comfort; it’s a place built for judgment and correction.
Inside, the air is cool and faintly mineral, carrying the scent of old plaster, beeswax polish, and generations of Alighieri pride.
The salone is spare but imposing—high vaulted ceilings crossed with chestnut beams blackened by centuries of hearth smoke, terracotta floors worn smooth and uneven by endless Alighieri footsteps.
The art is curated to highlight how old the family is and how long we have been acquiring original works that would fetch a very pretty penny at auction.
The housekeeper meets us in the entrance hallway and takes our coats, asks if we’d like something to drink or eat.
We decline.
I want to get done with whatever is supposed to happen and go back to the safe and secure embrace of Pietra Alta.
When we enter the salone, Papà stands propped against a vast mahogany table, indicating that this is going to be a short visit, no need to relax in the antique couches or armchairs.
His posture is loose…like a coiled spring, I think, feeling once again like I’m twelve and Papà is reprimanding me for not having done something he ordered quickly or well enough.
His eyes flick to Nico—thin with irritation. “I invited Alessia.” His voice is flat as stone. “Not you.”
Nico slides an arm around my waist in an overt proprietary gesture. “You knew I was at Pietra Alta, Cesare. You knew I’d come.”
I fight the urge to lean into Nico and let him take this fight, whatever it is.
Papà cocks an eyebrow. “Did I?”
“I’m her husband,” Nico replies, voice calm but firm. “And the House of Alighieri’s CEO. Yes, Cesare, you knew I’d come.”
A single, dismissive wave. “Very well. But don’t mistake presence for power.”
He turns back to me, gaze pinning me in place.
“You’ve been spending company money as if it were yours to burn.”
I frown, keeping my posture neutral. “Can you clarify?”
Cesare exhales noisily—the sound of restrained contempt. “Don’t play coy. This isn’t a tasting room discussion.” He picks up a leather binder on his desk. “This is an audit.”
He flips the binder open, pages whispering like accusations. “You authorized premium French oak—twelve hundred euros per barrel—for a wine that retails at forty.”
“Si.” This decision I’m standing behind.
“Why?”
“Because”—I take a deep breath and release it—"the barrels were for Altèra that we sell for twice as much as forty.”
I keep annoyance out of my tone because I’m very irritated.
Did he just pull me away for this?
“You used the barrels for the blend, too,” he pushes.
I move away from Nico and take two steps forward. I don’t know where this is going. “Papà, these are production decisions. I don’t ever remember you questioning Matteo.”
“You”—he growls—“are not Matteo.”
“Actually, I am the winemaker of Pietra Alta just as he was.”
Papà’s gaze moves to Nico for a beat and then back to me. He snaps the binder shut and drops it onto the table. The crack resonates.
“Altèra or not, you don’t justify that kind of cost structure without approval.”
I’m confused now, very confused. I don’t understand the purpose of this meeting. “I don’t know of Matteo or any other winemaker in any of our estates running such matters by you, Papà.”
“Because they are responsible, and you are not.” He charges at me, and I feel Nico at my back. Something else is going on here, and I don’t know what it is. “You also doubled the hand-sorting labor instead of using the mechanical harvester. Extra shifts. Extra wages. All in the middle of harvest.”
I hold a hand up.
Papà’s lips curl in disdain.
“You know how we work. Machine harvesters bruise the fruit. For our flagship, we sort by hand. Twice. That’s not indulgence—it’s protection.”
A rough laugh escapes him, void of humor. “Protection?” He shakes his head. “This is not Bourgogne. This is a business.”
Heat crawls up my spine. Nico shifts closer, I hear the faint scrape of his shoe against marble.
“You’re not an artist, Alessia,” Papà continues, voice tight with scorn. “You’re a manager. And you’re treating this estate like a personal vanity project. Shareholders don’t sip ideals—they read spreadsheets.”
I’m about to say something because he’s making no sense when I hear Nico.
“I’m sure this won’t happen again. We’ll tighten approval thresholds mid-harvest. Formalize escalation for any premium inputs.”
I turn to look at Nico, certain that he didn’t say what he just did. Then my gaze lands on Papà, who looks victorious. Was this his goal? To see Nico not stand up for me?
“Chiaro. Agreed,” Papà sneers.
“Good,” Nico agrees.
The word settles like dust. I don’t look at Nico now because I’m not sure how to react.
He didn’t defend me. Didn’t say, hey, she’s the winemaker, and yeah, she’s the artist, so back off.
No, he said that he’s in control of me, and with that, he reduced me to a line item on his CFO’s budget spreadsheet.
Nico continues unruffled. “Alessia acted in good faith.”
He gives me a smile, akin to one a parent gives an errant child.
My throat is closing up. Good thing, too, because if I open my mouth now, I’m going to scream.
“Good faith or not, she’s an inexperienced winemaker and must be controlled.”
I wait for Nico to say that I’ve been making wine for a decade and a half now, and under the guidance of Matteo—that I’m not some dilettante. I’m a qualified and essential part of the company, not just because my last name is Alighieri.
“We’ll install some guardrails,” Nico says tightly. His syllables steal the air. My heart stutters.
Cesare nods, eyes gleaming.
Guardrails? Because I’m an out-of-control engine?
That’s when I know that Nico isn’t just not shielding me—he is intentionally preserving the very structure that holds me down.
Cesare’s approval is a nod of cold steel. “Now, isn’t it a good thing you came up here with Alessia?”
I look away from both men as I swallow against the lump in my throat. Was Papà expecting Nico—and all of this was staged by my father to make me feel small? Make my husband treat me like a CEO rather than a husband?
Well, the hell with that.
“I made the best choice for the wine.” I raise my voice. “And for the estate’s future.”
Papà’s gaze doesn’t soften. “The future belongs to those who respect cost.”
Nico remains silent.
“I’m done,” Cesare announces then. “Expect stricter discipline.” With those words, he walks out of the salone where his words hang.
Outside, the evening sun glares off the hills as it gets ready to sink into the sea.
Nico pulls me to him as I walk ahead, his chest against my back. “Cara, we’ll sort this out.”
I stand on loose gravel, its sharp stones biting into my boots. The warmth at my back feels like a question I can’t answer.
“You agree with him?” I ask, my voice surprisingly strong when everything inside me is shaking.
Nico nuzzles his chin on my hair. “No. But he was in a mood. I wanted to defuse him.”
Pain sears through me.
He didn’t choose me.
He didn’t in the beginning either. But then he did, and for a moment, I bloomed under it. I felt seen, wanted, claimed.
But the feeling was like a wine opened too early—heady, promising, gone almost as soon as it touched my tongue. It never had time to breathe, to deepen, to stay. And now all that remains is the ache of having tasted it at all.