Page 134 of The Wrong Vintage
“You can’t cry. That’s not okay. You know I…. So, no, Alba. You have to know you were wrong and be wrong and not cry.”
She hiccups softly and a laugh tears out of her. “I’m so sorry.”
“Oh!”
I go to her and open my arms. She walks in them. I hug her close.
I can’t stay angry with her. I mean if this was Toni, I’dhave melted as soon as she looked at me. At least with Alba, because she’s older, I have some defenses.
“You can’t not tell me things again,” I chide as I pull away and hold her gaze.
“He…he really….” She takes a deep breath. “You have to hear this, Alessia. I asked him why he hasn’t told you, and he said…. God! He said it's because he doesn’t think he deserves you.”
I narrow my eyes and give her a withering look. “When we got engaged he told me he’d fuck around.”
“But he didn’t,” she points out, sniffling.
“And then he didn’t tell me that Matteo is sick and that asshole Fontana is his choice?”
“I don’t think Davide Fontana is getting anywhere close to the House of Alighieri,” Alba says confidently. She kisses my cheek. “Nico fucked up, too. But he didn’t want to hurt you.”
I laugh once, sharp and humorless. “Kindness by omission. Our family specialty.”
Alba winces. “Yes! And I know better, but in my defense, I only knew for a day.”
My throat tightens. I don’t answer, but I step away from her and pace in my office. “He’s such a…Dio!
“He loves you,” she insists, her eyes unwavering. “That man is undone by you. He watches you like you’re the axis of his world.”
“Matteo is dying, and he didn’t tell me,” I whisper in rage, though the words feel loud.
“Yes,” she agrees, voice faltering. “But he was respecting Matteo. Wouldn’t you do the same?”
Her honesty is heavier than comfort, and I’m in no mood to appreciate it.
I glare at her. “Whose side are you on anyway?”
She arches a brow, amusement flickering in her gaze asshe drops her expensive Chanel tote on my desk. “Alessia! I am always on your side, but Nico is also on your side.”
“No he isn’t!” I feel like a sulky child, but the pain inside of me is so big.
No one’s ever fought for me, protected me, and Nico is just one of many who think I’m great but just not great enough to fight the Duca Alighieri.
“I need air!” I fling up my hands up and walk out of the cellar and onto the cool courtyard.
The post-harvest cold creeps in after dusk and doesn’t quite let go by dawn.
The days still hold a trace of warmth, enough to soften the soil, but the nights bite. Frost is uncommon this close to the sea, though the vines have already begun to brace themselves.
The breeze picks up again, riffing through the courtyard, lifting stray tendrils of grapevine.
Alba follows me and reaches for my hands.
I let her take them—warm, steady, her fingers long and reassuring.
“Love without bravery, isn’t worth much,” I tell her. “It’s admiration. Affection. Desire. But it’s not partnership.”
And that’s what hurts so very much. He says he loves me but he didn’t treat me with respect, as an equal, a partner.
