Page 146 of The Wrong Vintage
“Lo Prometto.I promise,” my husband whispers.
“Va bene.That’s good,” he murmurs so softly that we have to lean close to him to hear his words.
Matteo falls asleep after that.
We sit with him for a while, neither of us ready to leave, as we’re both aware that this may be the last time we see him or the next time will be the last time, or the next, because Matteo isn’t going to be with us for long.
33
NICO
My wife only texts me when she wants me to come with her to see Matteo. And even though it's a commute—all the way to Pietra Alta, then driving her to Castagneto Carducci, then straight back to Florence because I'm not invited to stay the night—I say yes every time, much to Renzo's chagrin, since he's the one picking up the slack.
He complains, but there’s no real bite in it. He’s as relieved as I am that Alessia is thawing toward me—even if it’s only by degrees.
But relief isn’t resolution.
We’re not going to get back to where we were—or rather, move forward into something stronger—until I do what needs to be done.
So, I stop circling it. And I get to work.
I call my parents first, because Cantina Alarico isn’t just mine; it’s theirs, too.
My father may not have grown it into the multinational powerhouse that drew the House of Alighieri’s interest—that was my work—but he was a steward, as was his father before him.
“And you think this is the right thing to do?” he asks after I lay it all out.
“Yes.”
“Cesare is sometimes…” he trails off.
“An asshole?” I suggest.
Papà laughs. “Si. When you married her, your mother and I worried you were selling your soul in the name of business.”
“It was just a contract then.”
“And now?”
“Now, she’s my life. I love her. And… she’s more important than the company.”
I hear a sniffle. “Papà?”
“That’s your mother, you’re on speaker,” he explains fondly. “She’s a little emotional that your marriage is turning out to be real.”
“Did you not hear me tell you my wife’s barely talking to me?” I point out.
“But she wants you with her when she’s at her lowest,” Mama reminds me. “She wants you to hold her when she goes to see Matteo. When a woman does that,mio figlio—my son—it means she trusts you.”
“I think you’re reading too much into it. Most of the time she won’t even talk to me.”
My mother laughs softly. “It’s good she’s doing this.”
“You think this is good? I’m heartbroken, Mama.”
“But not as arrogant as you were when you told her your marriage would be in name only,” she retorts.
“You have a point.” I walk to the windows of my office and look out at Florence. “You really don’t mind if I lose everything—the CEO role, my control of Cantina Alarico?”
