Chapter 42
NICO
Rio Russo calls as I’m getting ready to leave my office—possibly for the last time.
Tomorrow, at an emergency board meeting Cesare thinks I don’t know he’s called, I will lose my job—and with it, my place at the Palazzo.
I almost let the phone ring out. I’m in a hurry to get back to my apartment.
My wife just texted to let me know she’s there, and I want to get to her. I want to tell her about the storm that’s coming.
I need to pack up my place, figure out where I’m going to live, and decide what comes next. There’s a lot to dismantle. A lot to rebuild. And somewhere in the middle of all that, I’m hoping I’ll get to make love to her.
If someone had told me I’d be smiling at the prospect of being fired from my coveted role as CEO of the House of Alighieri, I wouldn’t have believed them.
Then again, that was before I fell madly in love with Alessia Alighieri.
“You packed up your office, yet?” Rio asks.
“Si.” I look at the two boxes. Both contain books. The rest, they can throw out for all I care.
“I suggest you unpack.”
I short-circuit for a second. “Come again.”
“She went to him. Threatened to revoke her and her sisters’ proxies.”
I swallow. “She?”
I don’t have to ask, but I do anyway.
“Your wife.”
Right!
I close my eyes and draw in a slow breath, tasting the faint tang of paper and ink in my office.
“And?” I ask, though the answer simmers beneath my ribs.
He waits a heartbeat. “Cesare will announce it tomorrow at the board meeting. You remain CEO. Alessia is being appointed Head Winemaker across all estates.”
Nothing moves inside me; my thoughts have frozen like frost on a windowpane.
He continues, “The press release will call it strategic succession and modernization. First female winemaker for a large winehouse, blah blah. Renzo will have to brief Chiara.”
Or fucking fire her!
“When…when did she do this?”
“Yesterday.”
This is why she insisted on leaving me in Florence. “I…I’m speechless,” I admit.
“I want you to know that you would not have lost your job tomorrow. I was not going to side with Cesare on this.”
I smile at that. “You can’t take credit for things you may have done. I owe you no favors…yet.”
Rio lets out a bark of laughter. “Congratulazioni, Nico, on marrying well.”
“You can say that again.”
When I hang up, the city hums beyond my window.
Vespas buzz like busy bees, church bells toll in the distance, and voices drift up from cobbled streets—Florence alive with its own rhythms, reminding me how often I mistook proximity to power for power itself.
I leave the boxes where they are and with a pep in my step walk up to Renzo’s office.
“Don’t pack,” I warn him.
He looks up from his computer, puzzled. “What? Why?”
“And you need to brief Chiara on getting a press release out.”
Renzo frowns and then as it clicks for him, his face unfolds into a smile. “How the fuck did this happen?”
“According to Rio, it’s because I married well.”
Renzo leans back in his office chair and laughs. “What did she—”
“I’ll have to tell you another time because right now I need to go see my wife.”
Renzo nods. “Got it, boss.”
I all but run to my apartment with an exuberance I haven’t experienced in years.
I find her in our living room, backlit by the golden glow of lanterns outside.
She stands before a tall arched window, its iron tracery a dark lace against the dying light.
Her hair tumbles loose over her shoulders, catching every ray like copper threads.
A half-empty glass of white wine rests on the sill, condensation beading on the cool stone.
I wrap my arms around her and rest my head in the crook of her neck.
“You didn’t tell me,” I whisper, each word gentle as dusk.
She leans into me. “I needed to do this on my own.”
The quiet sting of that truth presses against my chest. “I would’ve supported you.”
She turns to face me, puts her hands on my chest. “I needed to this on my own,” she repeats. “Tell me you understand and respect that.”
“I understand and respect that,” I parrot and then add, “Doesn’t mean I have to fucking like it.”
She lets out a short laugh. It’s a happy sound. “Niccolò Alarico, I love you, hairy balls and all.”
I rest my hands on her waist, pull her close. “Did you say that because you mean it or because you know nothing diffuses me faster than hearing you say those words.”
“Both.”
I let out a long shaky breath. “I am sorry about what—"
“The past is done,” she tells me right before she puts her lips to mine.
A dozen apologies clamor on my tongue, gratitude so vast it would echo like a cathedral, pride that could bruise.
I slide my tongue between her lips. She makes a small sound as she touches the tip of her tongue against mine, tasting me, delicately, hungrily.
When I raise my head, more than a little breathless, I see a pulse beating visibly in her throat.
“I’m not going to apologize again. You don’t need more remorse. You need something else.”
Her brow arches delicately. “Which is?”
I want to make a joke about sex or something else but I can’t. This moment is precious.
“Teach me,” I plead, my voice rough with hope. “Teach me how to stand beside you—not in front, not behind, but beside.”
Tears fill her eyes and she puts her hands on my face. “That, caro, is something we will have to teach each other.”
My wife always says the right things—in just the right way. Her perfection amazes me.
“I can’t wait to get started, mia cara moglie, my dear wife.”
She beams at me, bubbling with excitement. “Me, too.”
We stay in that night. She cooks. I clean. It’s almost absurdly domestic.
After dinner, she calls her sisters to tell them what happened, and I debrief with Renzo. Back to business—just as seamlessly.
After, I start a fire and she pours Amaro for us as a nightcap. A faint curl of citrus and herbs rises from the glass as she hands it to me.
We sit close, knees brushing. Our closeness feels deliberate now—wanting, intimate in a way that is both emotional and physical, no longer tentative or restrained.
The fire crackles softly, sending warmth across the room.
Flames lick at the hearth, and firelight dances across shelves bowed with leather-bound tomes, gilding their spines, softening the sharp lines of the space.
The scent of burning wood mingles with the bittersweet edge of the Amaro, grounding me completely in the moment.
She’s been here a moment, and my life, even my apartment, is forever changed. It’s no longer a sterile place I simply sleep in, but a living space—warmed, claimed, and finally awakened to truth.
We make plans as husband and wife first, and then CEO and head winemaker.
“But you love Pietra Alta,” I protest when she says we should live at the Palazzo.
“And we can go back whenever we want,” she assures me. “But for now, we need to be here, both of us. I always dreamed of having this job, and now that it’s mine, I’m going to be honest, Nico, I’m more than a little intimidated.”
I kiss her then because her honesty is refreshing. “When I took over Cantina Alarico and gave Renzo his job, we were both scared, sure that we were going to mess it up. Even now, so many times, when we deal with a problem, some so big I’m sure the company will collapse, we are anxious as fuck.”
“But you make it work?” she prompts.
“Yes.” I cup her cheek. “We do by learning. You’ll learn as you go. But there are things you already know, which means you will guide every vineyard with a light hand and a fierce eye, shaping strategy and nurturing talent just as Matteo did for you.”
She convinces me that living at the Palazzo makes sense—and is the right thing for our marriage, because it’s no longer a careful edifice we fear to crack—it’s a deliberate choice.
She leans into me, her forehead resting against my shoulder. I kiss her softly and then with intent. The heat rises between us as it always does. I can’t keep my hands off my wife.
“Hey, we’re having a meeting,” she protests.
I press my lips to her hair, breathing in her spice and warmth. “And I’m technically your boss, so do as I say.”
“And what do you say?” she asks, laughter in her eyes as she tugs me down for a kiss.
“I’ll give you proper direction shortly.”
I pick her up in my arms, bridal style, and take her to bed in the bedroom that is now ours.
As night drapes Florence in velvet blue, my beautiful wife and I seal a fracture—like a barrel bunged at precisely the right moment, the wine safe within, ready to become its truest self.