Nico smiled, quick and charming, extending his hand. “A pleasure.”
His grip was firm. I was suddenly aware of everything about myself—my plainness, my lack of sparkle, the fact that I did not know how to perform femininity as currency.
“This is Nico Alarico,” my father continued. “You’ll be seeing a great deal of one another.”
Something in Nico’s expression shifted then. Just a fraction. Calculation sliding neatly into place.
Later—after the photos, after the announcement, after the murmurs began—we stood together near a long table of untouched desserts. People watched us from a distance, already deciding what this pairing meant.
The handsome, sophisticated Nico Alarico.
The plain Alighieri daughter who smelled faintly of earth.
“Let’s go for a walk.” He held out his arm, and I slipped my hand in the crook of his elbow and let him lead me out into the garden.
I was hopeful then, trying to believe that even an arranged marriage could be…something.
He walked me to the far end, and as we did, we heard a man’s voice, “Is he going to put a bag over her head to fuck her?”
Then there was laughter following that. My cheeks burned. They were talking about me.
I looked at him, wanting him to say something to erase thosehorrible words, but he didn’t. Once we reached the fountain at the far end, he sighed, his voice impatient.
“Now that it’s done. Let’s get the ground rules in place.” His Italian was fluent but with a touch of an accent. He was born and raised in America and came to Italy in his mid-twenties, nearly a decade ago. Maybe that’s why there was that tinge of American in his tone and a whole lot of American arrogance in his demeanor.
“I’m not going to change because we’re married.” He was calm and cool. He’d obviously thought this through.
“What does that mean?” I asked even though I had a fairly good idea. But I wanted it to be clear. While I had hope for a real marriage, he had planned for the exact opposite.
He studied me then, really looked at me for the first time—not with desire, not with cruelty, but with a frankness that felt almost clinical.
“It means,” he explained, “I’m not going to suddenly become your husband, Alessia. I’m not going to become a one-woman man.”
My chest tightened. “I see.”
“This is a business arrangement. Let’s not pretend otherwise.”
I nodded.
“You get Tenuta Pietra Alta, I merge Cantina Alarico with the House of Alighieri.”
He didn’t say, and you get an estate, and I get the whole company. Polite of him. Even decent.
He straightened, already done with the conversation.
“If I embarrass you,” he added, as if offering a courtesy, “it won’t be intentional. I’m just not interested in living quietly.”
I guess this is what he meant—if pictures of him and another woman are being paraded around social media, it’s not his intent to humiliate me; he just doesn’t care one way or the other.
You got Pietra Alta, Alessia. That’s enough. That’s more than enough.
But what of love? A real marriage?
Not in the cards.
I can’t divorce Nico. Papà won’t allow it—not if I want to someday become the head winemaker for the House of Alighieri.
So, this is my life now.
