History.
Leverage.
The Alarico and Alighieri families have been allies for more than a century. This marriage isn’t merely strategic—it’s consolidative. A merging of bloodlines and balance sheets, legacies braided together until separating them would cost too much to attempt.
Cesare and my father have been close friends for as longas I have been alive, and remain so. My mother still refers to Cesare’s wife, Giulia, who passed away a decade ago, as her sister in all but name.
My sister, Perla, lives in France with her husband, who runs an IT consultancy, which is as far from the wine business as you can get. When I told her I was marrying Alessia, she’d been one of the few who had said it could be a good match.
She’d met Alessia a few times, and according to her, she has a good head on her shoulders, whatever that means.
Our families have known each other for years—if not intimately, then professionally—through boardrooms, harvest dinners, charity galas, and the quiet spaces where alliances are reinforced.
The daughters have always existed at the edge of my vision.
We were never friends.
Now I don’t think we have that chance.
Alba looks at me like the villain in her sister’s story, her judgment open and unapologetic.
Antonella—the youngest, Toni—is barely aware of me at all, buried in her studies at thePolitecnico di Milano, dreaming of architecture and of one day designing a new modern headquarters for the House of Alighieri. A future I will almost certainly be responsible for approving.
“We’re on track for merging the US sales team of Cantina Alarico with Alighieri,” Lorenzo ‘Renzo’ Vitale, my COO and closest friend since ourUniversità Bocconidays, back when we were both hungry for success, reports.
He sits across from me in my office, his ankle resting on his knee. We’re not formal, not when it’s just us.
I sit behind a desk that is older than me by years, my tie loosened, my sleeves unbuttoned, staring at numbers that refuse to sit still. The merger has been signed, celebrated,and photographed. Now it has to function, which is the part no one claps for. All I get is reports of what the fuck is not working and how to put out yet another fire.
“Let’s hope the teams can actually work together and not step on each other’s toes,” I remark dryly.
Renzo flips through his iPad and then glares at me. “When was the last time you took a day off?”
I shrug.
“You’re grinding yourself down,” he warns.
“I’m winning,” I correct.
Renzo’s mouth twitches. “That’s what men tell themselves when they’re afraid to sleep.”
I lean back in my chair and look past him, past the tall windows. Florence opens below me in terracotta and gold, rooftops stacked like layers of history, the dome in the distance like a watchful god. The Arno glints between buildings.
“By the way, in case you were wondering, your mother is worried about you as well,” he establishes in case I missed it.
I didn’t.
Savina Alarico uses Renzo to get messages to me because, apparently, I am not receptive. I am not, to her meddling in my life. She has a few issues with me right now. The most vital one is how my marriage is being perceived.
“And there’s one more thing.”
I raise both my eyebrows. I can guess what the other thing is.
“Chiara,” he says tersely.
My shoulders lock. “Si?”
“You know what it looks like, don’t you?”
