Page 84 of The Wrong Vintage
She ignores Renzo and fixes me with a sharp, venomous stare. "This cannot wait. Your wife can."
I stop walking, and so does Renzo.
I turn to face her fully, making sure my voice stays level while I hold her gaze.
"What you did just now," I reprimand coldly, "was inappropriate."
"I'm doing my job," she hisses.
"Your job is not to talk about my private life."
She huffs out a laugh. "Dio,Nico, I've known you longer than your wife has."
I lean closer to her, nose to nose. "Don't mistake our past friendship and working relationship for permission to mouth off about my personal life."
"Nico," Renzo warns as the lift door opens. "Not here."
I step into the elevator, Renzo and Chiara falling in behind me. As it climbs, I glance at the woman I once slept with, once confused affection for substance with proximity—and I'm struck by how shallow I was. I mistook polish for depth, sheen for character.
Chiara is all surface—well-made, perfectly finished, ready to drink young. Alessia is something else entirely. Only a fool confuses a wine polished for the tasting room with one that survives the cellar.
"We're really late with the presentation, Nico," she implores, her demeanor shifting from bellicose to soft plea.
"I am your boss, Chiara, not your fucking pet. You bring up my marriage, my wife, and my personal life again, and I will fire you. Are we clear?"
She pushes away from me, and her back hits the elevator wall. She's never experienced this Nico—though she has seen me cut the legs off others who cross me. I don't think she ever thought she'd be at the receiving end of my ire, but then neither did I.
She opens her mouth, but I don't give her the space.
"And you will not put me in a position where Alessia has reason to question anything. Ever."
Chiara stares at me, calculating. "So, she told you about our conversation all those months ago at the Palazzo?" she snaps, dropping the professional veneer.
No, she didn't, and now I want to know what the fuck Chiara said to her.
I don't respond. Don't confirm or deny.
She squirms. "I…look…thenthings were different."
"Things between you and me have been the same for five years, Chiara, so what on earth are you talking about?"
She looks at Renzo like he'll help her, but he's looking through his computer. I doubt he's missed a second of our conversation, but I also doubt he hasn't been keeping track of the spreadsheet he's looking at. Renzo can multitask with the best of them.
The elevator stops, and we step out. She licks her lips. "I am sorry."
"Apology accepted," I say, and then add, "It can never happen again."
"Yes." She follows us out to the rooftop. "Nico, we need to work on this presentation. Please, you need to help me domy job." The venom is gone from her tone, and her request is professional.
The helicopter blades are already spinning.
I want to get rid of Chiara, of all my responsibilities, and be where I belong, which I know is with my wife, who is running herself ragged in a vineyard that smells like crushed fruit and promise, waiting for a man who is finally on his way.
"Why don't I come along and we can have a quick meeting, two hours, max," she suggests.
I am loathe to take her to where Alessia is, but if I am demanding professionalism from her, I have to offer it, too. I'm taking Renzo, aren't I? She's no different.
"Fine. But we go now. I'm not waiting." Most women like to pick up a purse or some other crap, so maybe I still have the chance to get rid of her.
