Page 9 of The Wrong Vintage
Renzo’s expression doesn’t change, but his voice softens a fraction. “Can she handle being publicly humiliated?”
I roll my eyes. “Stop exaggerating.”
Renzo continues, unmerciful. “They’re saying you married her for the company, and you’re keeping a mistressbecause you can’t bring yourself to touch the…undesirable Alighieri sister.”
I toss my shoulders. “Alessia knows what she walked into.”
“Oh, you mean that she’s the price of admission into the corner office.” Renzo lifts his hand, palm open, gesturing toward the frescoed ceiling, the desk, the power embedded in the walls.
I don’t like how what he’s saying is making me feel guilty.
I have no reason to feel this way.
I haven’t seen my wife since we married ninety-one days ago. I haven’t fucked another woman during that time either—that’s a long time for a man like me who’s been single for most of his adult life, except for one serious relationship five years ago with Chiara.
Renzo watches my face like he’s reading a report.
“You need to understand where you are,” he says. “Have you thought about how Cesare is going to react to this?”
I give him a hard look. “Cesare tolerates whatever benefits him.”
Renzo’s mouth twitches. “True. But Alessia is not Cesare.”
“She agreed to my terms. I made it clear when we got engaged.”
Renzo doesn’t hesitate. “Just because you did doesn’t make it right to humiliate her like this, Nico. And…honestly, this isn’t who you are. Stop escorting Chiara like she’s your date. Stop feeding the story. And”—his eyes sharpen—“show your wife off.”
I scoff. “Show her off? Like a product.”
“Like a spouse,” Renzo snaps.
I laugh again, bitterly. “She lives in Bolgheri. She’s happiest with her vines.”
Renzo shrugs. “She’s coming tonight for the Valdoriaanniversary. Spend time with her instead of Chiara. You can do that, right?”
I shoot him a glare brimming with frustration.
“Or is what everyone’s saying true—that you can’t stand looking at your wife because she’s theuglyAlighieri?”
It’s cruel. But it’s what they call her.
Compared to Alba and Antonella, Alessia looks like a child switched at birth. Her sisters inherited their mother’s beauty; Alessia inherited her father’s face. Not ugly—not even close—but plain, in a way society mistakes for failure.
Which is absurd.
My wife has striking hazel-gray eyes, which she never bothers to frame with makeup. Lips that are naturally full, left bare because lipstick would be an affectation she doesn’t seem to care for.
Her skin is darkened and healthy from hours spent outdoors, not curated under lights.
Her hands are rough—rougher than mine—but then I don’t spend my days growing things, pruning them, keeping them alive.
There is an earthiness to Alessia that doesn’t photograph well. It doesn’t beg for attention either. She looks real in a world where it’s increasingly hard to tell whose tits are natural and who got a butt lift.
I press my fingers to the edge of the desk. “Fine.”
“And maybe go to Bolgheri and spend some time with your wife. You may even consider working from the offices there once or twice a week.”
I cock an eyebrow. “Now, why would I do that?”
