“Or maybe you’ve been running?” Renzo suggests.
I don’t argue.
“He’s trying to force your hand,” Renzo continues. “And sow doubt about Alessia’s capabilities while he’s at it.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” His voice sharpens. “Or do you like the doubt because it gives you cover?”
“I like the cover,” I confess.
“You think Alessia isn’t ready?” Renzo presses.
“No.”
Pause.
“Yes.”
Longer pause.
“I don’t know.”
“Matteo thinks she is,” he reminds me. “And he’s forgotten more about wine than most people ever learn.”
I grip the steering wheel. “I’m trying to protect her.”
“By letting her father define her?” Renzo counters. “That’s containment, not protection.”
“Renzo, schedule the fucking interviews, and you can play pop psychologist when we have a bottle of wine between us.”
He lets out a brittle laugh. “I guess Cesare wins this round.”
“Yes, he does.”
No two ways about that.
Cesare showed me, I guess Alessia as well, that I will choose the company over her—choose strategy over us.
As Florence rises to meet me, I realize—with a sick, settling certainty—that by trying to shield her from the fire, I may have taught her that she’s standing in it alone.
26
NICO
While Alessia is a silent storm, her sister Alba is anything but.
I’m in the lobby when she enters the Palazzo Alighieri.
I’ve seen Alba before—many times, in fact—but almost always through a screen.
She’s been traveling a lot these past few years—Tokyo, Hong Kong, Milan—while I’ve been tethered to Florence and the boardroom grind.
She reports to Renzo, yet she’s presented directly to me on several occasions, confident and incisive.
I’ve seen her in person, too, but only in passing, during the chaos of the wedding.
This is the first time I am truly seeing her face-to-face—unhurried and fully present.
