Page 105 of The Wrong Vintage
When we enter thesalone, Papà stands propped against a vast mahogany table, indicating that this is going to be ashort visit, no need to relax in the antique couches or armchairs.
His posture is loose…like a coiled spring, I think, feeling once again like I’m twelve and Papà is reprimanding me for not having done something he ordered quickly or well enough.
His eyes flick to Nico—thin with irritation. “I invited Alessia.” His voice is flat as stone. “Not you.”
Nico slides an arm around my waist in an overt proprietary gesture. “You knew I was at Pietra Alta, Cesare. You knew I’d come.”
I fight the urge to lean into Nico and let him take this fight, whatever it is.
Papà cocks an eyebrow. “Did I?”
“I’m her husband,” Nico replies, voice calm but firm. “And the House of Alighieri’s CEO. Yes, Cesare, you knew I’d come.”
A single, dismissive wave. “Very well. But don’t mistake presence for power.”
He turns back to me, gaze pinning me in place.
“You’ve been spending company money as if it were yours to burn.”
I frown, keeping my posture neutral. “Can you clarify?”
Cesare exhales noisily—the sound of restrained contempt. “Don’t play coy. This isn’t a tasting room discussion.” He picks up a leather binder on his desk. “This is an audit.”
He flips the binder open, pages whispering like accusations. “You authorized premium French oak—twelve hundred euros per barrel—for a wine that retails at forty.”
“Si.” This decision I’m standing behind.
“Why?”
“Because”—I take a deep breath and release it—"thebarrels were for Altèra that we sell for twice as much as forty.”
I keep annoyance out of my tone because I’m very irritated.
Did he just pull me away for this?
“You used the barrels for the blend, too,” he pushes.
I move away from Nico and take two steps forward. I don’t know where this is going. “Papà, these are production decisions. I don’t ever remember you questioning Matteo.”
“You”—he growls—“are not Matteo.”
“Actually, I am the winemaker of Pietra Alta just as he was.”
Papà’s gaze moves to Nico for a beat and then back to me. He snaps the binder shut and drops it onto the table. The crack resonates.
“Altèra or not, you don’t justify that kind of cost structure without approval.”
I’m confused now,veryconfused. I don’t understand the purpose of this meeting. “I don’t know of Matteo or any other winemaker in any of our estates running such matters by you, Papà.”
“Because they are responsible, and you are not.” He charges at me, and I feel Nico at my back. Something else is going on here, and I don’t know what it is. “You also doubled the hand-sorting labor instead of using the mechanical harvester. Extra shifts. Extra wages. All in the middle of harvest.”
I hold a hand up.
Papà’s lips curl in disdain.
“You know how we work. Machine harvesters bruise the fruit. For our flagship, we sort by hand. Twice. That’s not indulgence—it’s protection.”
A rough laugh escapes him, void of humor. “Protection?”He shakes his head. “This is not Bourgogne. This is a business.”
