But then…so is he.
“You brought her here," I manage to say calmly.
A flicker of impatience crosses his face, but when he speaks, he sounds just as composed asI do. "I didn't plan it?—"
"But it happened,” I interrupt him.
"Si. We have theVendemmiaGala coming up. And, Alessia, I have to work just like you do."
Oh, no, no, no.
He doesn't get to bring that woman to my home, my place of work, and pretend it's the same thing as working in Florence with that bitch.
For months, he pretended that he was screwing her and cheating on me. So, no, he doesn't get to act like I'm being unreasonable.
"This is my home," I continue, my hands steady even as my chest tightens. "My work. Harvest. And you brought along a woman”—I stop myself, swallow—"who has told me in as many words that she and you are fucking."
Nico drags a hand through his hair. "She said something to you at the Palazzo."
I spit out a laugh, all edge and no warmth. "She told me that Florence is unforgiving of women who don't understand how it works."
"Cazzo." Now he tucks his hands in his jeans. I know he does that when he isn't feeling sure of himself.
Slowly but definitely, I have started to learn who my husband is.
"Oh, and then she mentioned"—I pause for effect and also to rein in my tears because I'm close to them, which happens when you don't sleep enough and work all the time—"that I mustn't misunderstand certainarrangements. I assumed that was about how you and she?—"
"Cara,I have not been unfaithful to you." He takes a step toward me. "Not in action and not in thought."
I'm not usually this sensitive.
I am not.
But it's harvest time, and we're all stressed beyond belief. I have to stay controlled for the team, but here with Nico, Iknow I can fall apart, which I think I am. That realization is daunting—that I trust him so much despite his bringingthatwoman to Pietra Alta.
"But you know how I feel," I accuse him, feeling more than a little petulant. "And then…you joke about it. Say, oh,cara,I missed you, too, like I'm a child who needs you to pat her head."
"Oh, for fuck's sake," he snarls.
"You know I don't like her…you know, and yet, you bring her here? And she's taking pictures like she owns you or something."
He flings his hands up in frustration. "She takes pictures of me all the fucking time. She's my head of communications, and I am the Goddamn CEO of the House of Alighieri."
"I am the Goddamn CEO of the House of Alighieri," I repeat to mock him, using his deep pitch.
Anger storms his blue eyes. They go dark. He prowls toward me. I resist taking a step back.
"If you cared about how I felt, you wouldn't have let her step onto that helicopter in Florence," I insist, not sure why the hell I am provoking him.
Yes, we're having our first proper fight as a couple, and at this point, I don't even know clearly what I'm angry about.
Well, yes, Chiara being here is a problem, but is she worth this much consternation? Am I exaggerating my feelings because I'm just tired?
His jaw tightens. "I didn't give her an engraved invitation. It was a meeting. I didn't want her there."
“A meeting?” My eyebrows wiggle as my hands go to my waist in the quintessential Italian gesture of a woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown. “One you couldn’t do with her in Florence? Or couldn’t you finish the damn meeting before you came here?”
I see the storm of fury break on his face. "I was missing you and didn't want to stay away," he shouts.
