I never worried about how I looked until…Nico.
You see, shine doesn’t keep vineyards alive; talent, skill, and dedication do.
Matteo tells me I’m not naïve about wine, only about power. He says that one day I’ll succeed him as head winemaker, but that it will require me not to allowthem—by which he means my father and his kind, a group that now includes Nico—to make me small.
The truth is, I don’t need their help. I make myself small perfectly well on my own.
4
NICO
The gardens of Palazzo Alighieri were designed to impress people who believe beauty should remind them who owns it.
They stretch along the back of the palazzo in layered terraces—formal hedges trimmed to obedience, lemon trees heavy with fruit, stone balustrades opening to a view of the Arno curling through Florence like a private indulgence.
Lanterns glow low and golden as dusk settles, casting light against ancient walls and turning the river into a ribbon of molten copper below.
This is where the House of Alighieri entertains when it wants to show off.
The air smells of citrus and crushed herbs and money spent carefully.
Waiters move silently with trays of crystal flutes and Burgundy stems.
Valdoria is being poured—older vintages, decanted properly, labels turned just enough to be seen without shouting. This is all by design…Alba’s design. She’s the invisible hand behind all of the House of Alighieri’s hospitality efforts. Cesare doesn’t appreciate it, but I do. I see what she does, and I’m grateful for it.
Cesare is old-school and believes a man is superior to a woman—I don’t agree.
I can’t make the changes I want to make, eliminate the gender inequality that exists in the company, but I will when I have secured the power to do so. Until then, I bide my time.
I look around the crowd, and my eyes fall on Chiara.
Once, I thought I loved her and that we’d marry. She wanted that, but I never felt the spark one should feel for the person they intend to marry. And now the irony is that I’m in a marriage of convenience.
I am not attracted to Chiara, regardless of what she thinks or what the tabloids do. She is familiar, and we work well together. She’s a damn good communications and PR professional.
She’s at the far end of the terrace, holding court without appearing to.
Her laugh rises and falls with skill.
She touches an arm here, tilts her head there, knows precisely when to listen and when to speak.
She’s in a dress that skims her body—gold-threaded, backless, daring just enough to be admired but never questioned.
Chiara Jossa is excellent arm candy.
Smart. Fluent. Strategic.
She’s the kind of woman you’re proud to stand beside because she understands how power circulates in a room. Because she knows how to make you look effortless by association.
Maybe I should’ve married her, I think absently, and that’s when I see my wife.
She’s near a balustrade, her back half-turned to the crowd,deep in conversation with Matteo Rinaldi. The head winemaker leans in slightly, animated in a way I don’t normally see. He’s her mentor, and I know that Cesare believes Matteo merely indulges Alessia’s dreams of being a winemaker—but I know better. He trusts her. He didn’t give her Tenuto Pietra Alta because it’s the smallest of the Alighieri estates—he gave it to her because he believes it’s the one with the most potential.
She’s wearing a dark green dress, severe by Florence’s standards. No sparkle. No embroidery. The cut is clean, the fabric heavy enough to hold its shape. Her hair is simply pulled back, exposing the line of her neck. No necklace. Minimal makeup—if any at all.
She looks…plain…yes, but also…capable.
She’s not performing—I doubt she’s capable of that kind of pretense. Maybe she and I are alike in that way. We’re more comfortable with authenticity than with catering to society’s expectations.
