Alessia raises an eyebrow. “No offense, Chiara, if it’s my photo, I’m going to decide if it gets printed in a magazine that goes to everyenotecaand vineyard in Italy.”
Chiara clenches her jaw. “Of course,” she mutters and then looks at me, frustrated.
I don’t smooth it over.
I don’t care enough to.
All I can see is my wife—hands stained, voice steady, utterly herself—and the undeniable truth settling deep in my chest:
She doesn’t need anyone to make space for her.
Sheisthe space.
By the time the editor and photographer leave—dust trailing their car down the gravel road—the light has shifted.
Golden hour has burned itself out, replaced by that soft, bruised-blue twilight that settles over Bolgheri when the heat finally loosens its grip.
Chiara waits until they’re gone.
She walks ahead of me toward the line of cypress trees that edge the lower drive, heels sinking slightly into the dirt. The scent of resin and warm bark hangs heavy in the air. It’s quieter here, close to the pergola.
“What the hell was that? You undermined me and letherdo the same,” she says without preamble, arms folding tight across her chest.
I stop beneath one of the cypress trees, its shadow long and narrow. “That wasmepreventing you from trying to sidelinemy wifeon her own estate.”
Her laugh is brittle. “Nico, don’t be dramatic. I was managing optics.”
I tuck my hands in the pockets of my suit pants.
I took my jacket and tie off within the first half hour of getting here.
Unlike Chiara, I don’t enjoy sweating my balls off.
I give her a dry look, barely hiding my irritation. “Really? Is that what you were doing?”
She meets my gaze with quiet, simmering resentment. “I pitched her. I got them here.”
“You pitched her as window dressing,” I remind her, as I look around and let my eyes settle on my wife, who’s sitting under the pergola.
She’s on her laptop, on a call.
The entire time we’ve been here, she’s been working—even as she handled the editor and photographer, she was fielding questions from her team and stepping away to make phone calls.
If I had given it any thought, I’d have known that she’s hardworking, but now I have the evidence of it.
“You introduced Alessia as an estatemanager. You let the editor assume she assisted in the vineyard, and Matteo Rinaldi runs the show. That wasn’t an oversight, Chiara.”
She opens her mouth. Closes it.
Alessia’s voice carries from the pergola then. “No, eight barriques won’t be enough. I need ten—preferably twelve.”
Chiara half turns to look at my wife as if she’s an intrusion, but she’s just doing, I believe, what she does. Works all day in the vines and then works the rest of the time here on her computer, going through data, planning her next day, her next vintage.
“Yes, I know that was our usual allocation,”she continues. “But the Cab Franc parcels performed exceptionally. Thicker skins, longer hang time. I’m not over-oaking—I’m separating lots.”
Another pause, shorter this time.
“I’ll take medium toast, tight grain. Taransaud for the new wood. I want Stockinger for the neutral barrels—same coopers as last year. I’m not compromising on airflow in the cellar.”
