“That’s thanks largely to the Sangiovese, which keeps the wine lifted and precise, preventing the Cabernet richness from tipping into excess.” I watch him drink my wine. It’s sensuous, this exploration of his palate. “The finish is long and dry, with lingering notes of cocoa and black tea.”
“And a saline edge that speaks to the coastal influence,” he adds.
We both smile widely as if we’ve passed an exam.
“This is not wine built to charm quickly,” I tell him.
“Then what is it built to do?” he asks huskily.
“To endure, to hold power in check by restraint, to age gracefully over the next decade,” I murmur, unable to look away from his deep blue eyes.
“Thank you for sharing this with me, Alessia.”
The way he says my name.Dio! This is where Toni would remind me to check if I have the good panties on.
“You’re welcome.”
“So…what are we having for dinner?”
If you’re not careful with all that wine talk,Signor,I’ll be having you for dinner.
“Piciwith a sausage ragù.”
“Sounds incredible,cara.”
He’s notonlytalking about the food. I am pretty certain of it. I also have no clue what to do with that knowledge.
10
NICO
My wife is a good cook and an excellent conversationalist.
We start the evening by talking about safe things—vineyard logistics, the weather turning earlier than expected, and my travel schedule for the next month.
Neutral ground. Business-adjacent. Topics that don’t require vulnerability.
But the longer we sit under the pergola, the more the night loosens its grip on formality.
“So why did you come back to Italy from California?” she asks after I tell her how much I loved studying in the States, working in wine country where nobody cared about my last name.
“My father wasn’t well,” I explain. “And my sister and her husband are not part of the business; they don’t want to be. So, it fell to me.”
She takes a measured sip of wine. “You didn’t want it?”
I lift a shoulder. “I did. Just not like this. I wanted something that was mine first. That’s why I bought vineyards in Chile.”
“I spent a season there,” she tells me, surprising me.
“In Colchagua Valley?”
“Yes.” She smiles faintly as if recollecting fond memories. “Matteo sent me. I’d just turned eighteen. It was a small operation. Old bush vines. They were working with irrigation stress and canopy management because the heat kept pushing sugar faster than phenolics.”
I don’t know a lot about my wife—and maybe if I’d bothered to find out, I wouldn’t have been under the misconception that she’s dull or plain or even unsophisticated.
“You worked there?”
She sets her wine glass down and smiles fondly at a memory. “I cleaned tanks, tracked ferments, and slept in a room that smelled like dust and yeast. I learned more there than I did in any classroom.”
