Page 8 of The Wrong Vintage
I push back the leather chair and rise. I stand by the windows I was just looking out of, my hands tucked in my pockets.
“We’re not talking about Chiara,” I say, my back to him.
“We are,” he retorts calmly. He doesn’t give a shit that I’m in a bad mood. “Because the whole city is.”
I exhale slowly and face him. “And you want me to care about gossip?”
Renzo doesn’t enjoy this. That’s what makes him annoying and valuable. He tells the truth even when it costs him comfort.
“Your motherandI are worried about the impact of you working so closely with your mistress on?—”
“Chiara is VP of Communications. She works for me.”
“Yes,” he agrees and sets his foot down. “The photos are everywhere. Rome. Dinner…just the two of you, so not entirely work-related,si? A gallery event. You and she are stepping out of hotels together. Your PR team, managed by Chiara, is responsible for half this clusterfuck.”
I’ve told Chiara I don’t want my face plastered all over social media—but the team insists visibility is essential. Cesare agrees. The CEO before me, Dario—now enjoying retirement somewhere in the Caribbean—was excellent at promoting the company, and apparently, I’m expected to be the same.
“That’s the job, Renzo. You know that.”
My friend’s gaze doesn’t flinch. “Chiara’s making it look like she’s your mistress.”
I drag a hand over my jaw, feel the scrape of stubble. “I can’t control what people think or say.”
“That’s not what I said,” he objects. “Shecontrols the narrative, and right now it says that the new CEO of the House of Alighieri, who married the eldest daughter for the job, keeps his ex-girlfriend on his arm like a trophy.”
Heat rises in my chest—anger, irritation, the usual reflex. It’s easier to be annoyed than it is to examine the cause of my feelings.
“Chiara and I dated years ago. We’re now only friends…and colleagues.”
“Don’t be obtuse, Nico.”
“Come on, Renzo, you know the gossipmongers will write whatever they want.”
“They will.” Renzo leans forward, elbows on his knees. “But you don’t have to hand it to them.”
I stalk back to the desk and pick up a pen. Put it down. Pick it up again. My fingers don’t know what to do, which means I’m pissed off by the criticism.
“You’re not sleeping with her,” he states.
It’s not a question.
“No.”
Renzo’s eyes narrow slightly. “Then stop looking like you are.”
A laugh tries to escape me—sharp, humorless. “What, you want me to walk ten feet away from her at all times?”
“I want you to stop giving Florence something to chew on,” he barks. “Because they’re chewing on your wife.”
I know they are.
I hear the rumors, too.
They’ve been there since the day the engagement was announced.
I can still hear my cousin Franco say how I’ll need to put a bag on Alessia’s head to fuck her. I punched him for that. Told him if he ever brings Alessia’s name out of his mouth again, I’ll do worse.
“Alessia can handle herself.” I have no idea what Alessia is capable of. I don’t know her. I haven’t bothered.
