Most of the harvest crew is returning labor—men and women who’ve worked these rows before, who know the difference between ripeness and rot, between a sun-kissed cluster and one that needs to be left behind. New hires go through orientation days before they ever touch a vine. They’re taught what to cut, what to leave, and—more importantly—why.
Apparently, Alessia insists on it.
“She walks them through the vineyard herself. Shows them berry shrivel, unevenveraison, sunburn.” Lucia shows off her boss. “She teaches them to feel for firmness, to look past sugar and notice tannin maturity in the skins. We pair new pickers with veterans and slow the pace on purpose for the first few mornings so they can learn.”
“And we don’t mix teams between parcels,” Hortensio tells us, like it’s the secret sauce. “Cab Franc stays with its own crew. They know what we’re looking for.”
“That is very exacting,” Renzo states. He’s impressed, and so am I.
“A bad decision made in haste can undo a year’s worth of work,” Alessia quips.
I am struck by how much trust runs here between Alessia and her team.
She doesn’t just demand excellence—she teaches it. Expects people to rise to the standard rather than race past it.
This isn’t management or leadership, it’s stewardship.
By the time the discussion moves on to logistics—housing, transport, staggered start times—I realize something quietly, unmistakably true. My wife doesn’t just protect the vines; she also protects the people who tend the estate. And that, more than anything, tells me why Pietra Alta outperforms estates with bigger budgets and flashier names.
Shortly thereafter, Lucia pushes back her chair and says she needs to get back to the vines. Edam follows, and then Hortensio, after he asks Alessia to come by and check some things for him in the cellar.
“That was interesting,” Renzo tells Alessia as we walk back to the courtyard, our impromptu office.
“How come?” she asks.
“You have a very competent team.”
She beams. “They’re great, aren’t they?”
Renzo stops and turns to Alessia. “And,SignoraAlighieri, so are you.”
Color rises up her cheeks, and the smile she gives my friend annoys the hell out of me.
“I’m sure you say that to all the winemakers,” she jokes.
Is she breathless? Does she like Renzo? What the fuck?
She makes her excuses and avoids looking at me as she goes back to work.
“I like her,” Renzo says as we watch Alessia walk back toward the vines, sunlight catching in her hair, her ass firm in those tight jeans of hers.
She’s got one hell of a body—strong and lithe, sexy in a different way than a Botticelli but no less appealing.
I scoff. “You like everyone.”
“True,” he agrees. “But not everyone impresses me with their competence.”
“Are you flirting with my wife?”
He grins widely. “She’s something else, isn’t she?”
“She’s my wife,” I reiterate.
“I know, Nico, but she is…remarkable.” He sighs as Alessia disappears from our view.
“Renzo, cut it out.”
He smirks. “Is someone feeling a little possessive?”
