Chapter 38
ALESSIA
“You’re cooking for me?” I exclaim as I sit at the kitchen island, watching him move around the kitchen.
He flushes. Nico is cute when he’s flustered.
“It’s nothing.”
It’s not nothing. It’s an offering, and I’m charmed.
Twilight has deepened over Florence’s terracotta rooftops as we get ready to share dinner in Nico’s apartment.
He tosses garlic in olive oil from last year’s harvest, its green-gold sheen coating each clove before they hiss against the hot pan.
He adds anchovies that dissolve into molten ribbons of salt and depth, and by the time the pasta slides into the water, their scent has seeped into every corner of the air. He moves with deliberate care—each stir, each flick of his wrist precise, as if he is composing music rather than dinner.
It’s a revelation—a piece of him I didn’t know about. Nico can cook.
“You want to tell me what you three were doing this morning?” he asks.
I break away a piece of focaccia.
He didn’t make that. He told me, and even if he hadn’t, I’d know that it came from the restaurant downstairs.
I dip the bread into the Alighieri olive oil—this one is lemony and spicy.
“I went to the Uffizi today,” I tell him, completely ignoring his question. “Have you ever wondered if Caravaggio was right in the head?”
“Because he painted so many of them chopped off?”
I laugh. “Yes.”
“I think he was brilliant and feral and deeply uninterested in being cured.” Nico shakes the pan to coat the pasta generously with the sauce. “Which is probably why his paintings still breathe.”
I glance at him. “I don’t know about that, considering all those chopped heads.”
He turns off the stove and leans back against the counter. “But he’s not my favorite.”
“No?” I arch a brow. “Let me guess—Botticelli. Every man loves a little idealized beauty.”
He snorts. “Absolutely not. Too much perfection. Too much airbrushing. It’s almost like he photoshopped those damn women.”
I smile despite myself. “So?”
He starts to plate the pasta. There’s something artistic about how he does it, but also casual—like he learned to cook in his mother’s kitchen, as I did. He tears off a few fresh basil leaves and cuts them into a fine chiffonade.
“Artemisia Gentileschi.”
That stops me.
“Judith,” he explains. “I know there are other prettier, more stylized, elegant, and less violent versions of Judith beheading Holofernes, where the artist, like say Klimt or Botticelli, focuses more on her beauty, her ornate dress, and the aftermath rather than the blood-soaked action. But I like Gentileschi—where you can feel the weight of her sword. The strain in her arms. The resolve.”
He scatters the thin strips of basil over the pasta. “Gentileschi painted her with guts. She doesn’t look shocked by what she’s doing. She’s just…decided.”
A beat passes between us.
“She reminds me of you,” he adds as he carries the plates to the small breakfast nook by the windows overlooking the city. “Will you bring the wine?”
I pick up the bottle of Alighieri Vermentino he’s opened and carry it to the table.
“Why does she remind you of me?” I ask. “Because she’s so…violent?”
I hope not.
He pulls out my chair, and when I sit, he kisses my lips softly. “No, cara. Because she doesn’t ask for permission. Because she understands that power is something you take responsibility for—not something you apologize for.”
I bite my lower lip, afraid I’m going to start crying. In this moment, I feel as if no one has ever truly seen me before Nico.
He sits across from me and sips his wine. “When I first met you, I thought you were submissive. Doing what your father asked you to do.”
“I did do what he asked me to do.”
“Eat,” he urges.
I twirl some pasta onto my fork and steady it with a spoon, gathering the strands into a neat bite.
“I did what he asked me to do as well,” he continues. “But then I got to know you, and ever since then I’ve been in awe of you.”
I eat the pasta and nod appreciatively. “This is good.”
“It’s easy to cook well when you have good ingredients.” He takes my hand in his. “I think I fell in love with you that night at the Palazzo, when you held your head high even when I was being an ass…especially about Chiara.”
I tangle my fingers with his. “You say it so easily.”
“What?”
“That you…ah…you know…” I trail off, releasing my hand from his, suddenly feeling extremely self-conscious.
“That I love you?” he asks, amused.
I roll my eyes.
“I do love you, Alessia—deeply, completely.”
“Don’t you sometimes think it’s too soon for us to have confessed that? Felt it?” I wonder aloud because he’s making my heart do that stop and race thing that I’m sure is not good for me.
He gives me an indulgent smile. “No, dolcezza. It’s not, and you know it.” He eats some of his pasta, then lifts his wineglass.
I clink my glass against his.
“When did you fall in love with me?” he asks nonchalantly.
Cheeky bastard.
“Now, that’s presumptuous.”
A playful glint softens his gaze. “Tell me. Per favore.”
I can’t resist his plea. “I think it was when you came for harvest…and….”
“And?” he prompts.
“Right after harvest, everything changed, and now I don’t know how to own what I feel,” I tell him candidly.
His gaze carries the weight of regret. “I am really sorry, Alessia.”
“I know.” I hold his gaze for a moment, and then, because I want to change the subject, I say, “Now, going back to Judith—or rather, Holofernes.”
He waits.
“She seduced him first and then decapitated him.” I lean back in my chair, holding my glass of wine. “That makes her pretty wily.”
He lets me steer us away from the serious, understanding I’m not ready to talk further about us. “I think of her as brave. Holofernes attacked Bethulia and was starving the city into submission.” He pauses. “She risked her life to save her people. That’s not seduction—that’s strategy.”
“Holofernes is a classic archetype of pride—the oppressor brought low,” I remark. “Judith, in a way, becomes the hand of God in the story.”
He looks at me thoughtfully. “I have a feeling we’re no longer talking about the painting.”
I consider telling him what I’m planning. I almost do. It’s not because I don’t trust him—I do, especially when it comes to the House of Alighieri. It’s that I’m not yet certain how to proceed, and whatever decision I make, I want it untainted by outside influence.
“Maybe,” I admit and then because I want to lighten the mood that has once again gotten heavy, I muse, “Who do I remind you of when I’m not cutting off heads?”
“The woman who’s holding the entire composition together,” he tells me, his eyes on me, sincere, loving, lustful. “Without her, the painting collapses.”
So much for wanting to diffuse the space between us. My heart starts to bang hard against my ribs.
“Well…that’s dangerously close to flattery.”
He meets my gaze, unflinching.
“I’m done being subtle with the truth, Alessia.”
“I don’t know what to say,” I whisper, stunned at how he's exposing himself, being vulnerable with me.
He tips his chin in acknowledgment. “Why don’t you tell me about the meeting you had with the winemakers today?”
That’s a much easier question to deal with, so I oblige.
“I met the new winemaker in Umbria,” I tell him. “He said his Sagrantino was behaving like a sulking bride. Apparently, the fermentation’s been…temperamental.”
Nico huffs a laugh. “What’s the real issue?”
“He’s over-punching the cap,” I say, taking a sip of my wine. “Trying to force extraction instead of letting it build. With Sagrantino, that’s a dangerous game.”
“And did he listen?”
“He’s young and very impressed with himself, so probably not.” I shrug. “If he doesn’t call me in two weeks because the tannins are chewing through his palate, I’ll be surprised.”
Nico grins. “Some lessons need a little time in barrel.”
After dinner, he pours us a glass of port each, and we move to the sofa, drawing slightly closer. The upholstery is soft beneath us, the city’s lights winking through the sheer curtains. The space between us feels alive—less a distance than a charged current of awareness.
“Would you go on a date with me?” he asks me out of the blue.
I frown, puzzled. “A date?”
“Yes.”
“To where?”
“That’s a surprise.”
He leans closer. “Come on, Alessia. Let’s both take a break. It’s been a long and hard year. Give me one night.”
I raise both eyebrows. “A whole night.”
“Yes!”
My pulse quickens. “And what happens after the date?”
“Then we come back and keep building us.”
He’s good-looking and smooth—a dangerous combination. But he’s also my husband, and he’s apologized in five hundred different ways for what he did, or rather, didn’t do. I can keep hanging that over his head, or I can admit my truth: I love Nico, and I want a life with him.
“Okay.” I reach for my port glass. “I’d love to go on a date with you.”
He smiles sheepishly. “That’s good. We’re going tomorrow.”
“What?”
“Pack a nice dress or something…you know for a fancy dinner.”
I gape at him, shaking my head. “Anything else?” I ask sarcastically.
“Some good lingerie if you don’t mind.” He winks at me. “Something that will be fun to take off.”
I let out a choked laugh. “You have some big hairy ones, Niccolò Alarico.”
“There’s only one way to find out, cara,” he teases.
I laugh. I can’t help it. “I’ll see what I can do on such short notice.”