Page 26 of The Wrong Vintage
His desk is immaculate. Papers aligned with military precision. A single leather folder centered before him like an offering.
Cesare Alighieri sits behind it like a man who has never needed to raise his voice to be obeyed.
Renzo leans against the wall to my left, jacket already off, coffee in hand. He looks awake in the way men who thrive under pressure always do.
"How was your meeting with the Australian distributors?" Cesare asks without looking up.
"Good." I don't elaborate. He's no longer the CEO, and it's none of his fucking business.
I take the chair opposite him without waiting to be invited.
"Renzo tells me you wanted to discuss expansion plans," I prompt.
Cesare finally lifts his gaze. His eyes are sharp, assessing, uninterested in anything but outcomes.
"Your wife left early last night," he says.
Not a question. And your wife, not his daughter. Asshole!
"Yes."
"It's not a good look."
The son of a bitch says it in front of Renzo on purpose—flattening her, flattening me by association.
"She has responsibilities in Bolgheri. Green harvest doesn't wait." I keep my tone light and casual. I'm supporting my wife, but I'm not going overboard.
I glance at Renzo. He lifts his coffee cup in a mock toast, tacitly acknowledging the familiar maneuver. Yes—he sees it, too
"Matteo spoils her," Cesare continues. "Fills her head with delusions of grandeur."
I don't intend to touch that with a ten-foot pole. I will eventually hire winemakers, but not right now—that is with Cesare as it should be. He has the better eye and experience.
"You didn't attend the event last night…it was quite well planned by Alba."
"No, I didn't attend." He doesn't explain. Doesn't justify. As if the idea of offering to is beneath him. Then he raises an eyebrow. "I hear you haven't been to Tenuta Pietra Alta yet."
"The merger has kept me busy."
What is the old bastard circling?
Cesare turns his attention to Renzo. "Do you have the list?"
Renzo straightens slightly. "The list of what?"
"Winemakers," he bellows. My father-in-law is known for his short temper.
But Renzo doesn't scare easily, and I'm hoping Cesare learns that quickly—otherwise, my friend is going to cross the Duca Alighieri sooner rather than later.
Renzo shakes his head. "Nico and I discussed it. We agreed we need more information before we start reaching out globally. Matteo's departure isn't public knowledge yet. No reason to start a conversation that invites speculation."
Cesare steeples his fingers. "Matteo is nearing retirement."
"Yes," Renzo says calmly. "Eventually."
"And when that happens"—Cesare waves a hand at the case holding the many awards our wines have won—"we will need a successor with international credibility. We need to start vetting the long list now."
I don't ask who's on the list or who isn't. Because at this moment—this exact moment—I don't care. I know of Alessia's ambitions even though they are abstract to me. Academic. Something Matteo indulges because he'ssentimental and aging. Pietra Alta is a contained experiment. Low risk.
