“My nonna, bless her, is eighty-five and still driving and scaring people in Alba,” he states proudly, smiling fondly at Toni.
Family, I think happily.
Messy. Complicated. Alive.
Perfectly paired with the night.
“Toni, what are your plans once you graduate?” Nico asks, reaching for his glass.
She straightens, a hint of theatrical pride in the movement. “Caro, I’m going to take Renzo’s job.”
Renzo snorts, amused. “Not immediately…but eventually. You earn that seat. First things first—you design the new House of Alighieri headquarters.”
Toni’s smile shifts—less playful now, more intent. “With production at the core,” she tells us. “Not just offices. Cellars, labs, logistics. Wine moves through a building the way bloodmoves through a body—if the circulation’s wrong, everything fails.”
She’s studying architecture, but not the kind that chases skylines or glossy façades. Toni’s focus is industrial design—factories, gravity-flow wineries, temperature-controlled cellars, automation systems that respect the product instead of brutalizing it.
She talks about load-bearing walls that can handle full fermenters, about airflow, insulation, drainage, vibration control. About buildings that work as hard as the people inside them.
“I want to design places where wine is protected. Not forced.”
Nico nods slowly, impressed.
Alba and I smile. Our youngest sister has always known exactly what she wants to build.
Alba is the only one who orders dessert because she loves it, and, luckily, she has a metabolism that lets her eat whatever she wants and still fit into all her clothes.
A slice ofsfogliatellaappears before Alba, the delicate layers still steaming faintly, sugar dusted like fresh snow.
“Oh my God,” Toni cries out before Alba’s fork strikes the crispy pastry.
“What?” Alba asks, already turning, her napkin sliding to the floor.
Toni leans in, breath hot with urgency. “Alessia. Look. Isn’t that?—”
I follow her gaze.
At the far end of the restaurant, near the wine wall, a man sits alone at a small table, posture immaculate, presence unmistakable. He holds his glass with the easy confidence of someone who expects to be watched. Silver threads his dark hair at the temples, catching the low light. His jacket is tailored within an inch of its life.
“Him,” Toni whispers. “The Barolo legend, right? They say he turned down Antinori and Gaja.”
“Davide Fontana,” I say in recognition.
I’ve met him a handful of times—conferences, tastings, the sort of rooms where reputations are currency and everyone pretends not to count. He’s undeniably talented. Technically brilliant.
As a man, he’s always struck me as insufferable.
Too aware of his own myth. Too fond of the sound of it.
As if summoned by his name, Fontana looks up.
His gaze lands on our table—and sticks.
Recognition flares. He rises—unhurried, assured, like an aged Barolo opening in the glass—and crosses the room with a smile already perfectly decanted into place.
He comes to our table and nods at everyone.
Nico stiffens, as does Renzo. Something dark and ominous crawls up my spine.
