I raise an eyebrow. “You know what will happen.”
“What will happen, Niccolò?”
“I’ll be fired.”
“And?”
I sigh in frustration. “And, he won’t let you keep the job.”
“Will we be destitute if you and I don’t have our jobs?”
I give her a puzzled look. “What?”
“Can you afford not to have a job, Nico?”
“Of course.”
“So, I’ll ask you again, what are you afraid of?”
My temper rises. “Alessia, you married me so you could have your job at Pietra Alta. Don’t pretend that you’re above your father’s manipulations.”
“But I didn’t love you then, Nico.” Her soft words slice through me. “If my father asked me to give you up or my job at Pietra Alta, I’d give it up in a heartbeat.”
“It’s not the same thing, Alessia. I sold my family’s legacy for this,” I throw at her.
“You combined two wine houses to make something bigger, more sustainable—like a red blend. And you and your family got paid handsomely for it.” She exhales and shakes her head. “Look, we’ll go back to having a marriage on paper. You fuck all the Chiaras and whomever and?—”
“No! I love you. And I know you love me.” I grab her shoulders. “Did I make a mistake? Yes. But I did it because I thought I was protecting you…and yes, me as well.”
She pushes me away, “That isnotprotection.”
“I can’t live without you, Alessia. I don’t know what magic you’ve done but you’ve become my life.”
“Stop lying.” She pushes my hands away, sobbing.
My heart breaks. I can’t stand this. I can’t. I pull her into my arms and hold her as she weeps. I don’t know how to comfort her.
“You know what hurts the most?” she moans. “That you didn’t trust me. If you had, we could’ve worked together to help each other and taken care of Matteo.”
“I know.”
I take her to bed. We lie there holding each other. Ihaven’t cried since I was a child—but I do now in her arms with her.
I pretend that this is us working things out and not Alessia saying goodbye.
Morning arrives as a cruel mockery, all golden light and birdsong.
She’s not in bed with me.
The walls breathe around me with their familiar creaks and settling sighs.
I listen for Alessia's movements—the soft pad of her feet across the terracotta tiles, the gentle clink of a spoon against porcelain—but the Palazzo remains unnaturally quiet.
I go to the kitchen and discover only the ghost of her presence: a single cup in the sink, the coffee pot still warm, and scrawled on a yellow Post-it note:Gone home to Pietra Alta.
PART IV
BARRICATO
